On highway #39
I met Mr. Hemingway
he just got down from the Great hills of Africa
and he was tired and wanted a ride in my car
so we gunned the car through the darkness
he lit a cigarette and and pulled out a bottle of whiskey
like a cowboy in those western movies
we had shots, he kept talking 'bout Africa
and I asked about his poem on America
he asked me "Hey! what's happening now in America?
who is that Obama?
In Africa they played Caribbean music
and danced all night in front of his huge pictures
Is he an African god of poverty or blackness?
my nights were disturbed
by the sounds of bongos they played.
I woke up one night and climbed their mountains
and waited for the sun to rise.
I know only one afro-American
have you heard of James Baldwin?"
I told him it doesn't matter
whether i know Baldwin or Obama.
I asked him how come he popped up
on this highway of Ghost
i warned him about the things that may lay ahead of us
he said it doesn't matter too
he said, "if they have gun i have a soul to die facing their bullet
if they have a question i have experience of a life time to answer it
and yes i am here for the booze that i heard my grave diggers talking about."