This ground is mine.

I sweat it into growing.

My eyes water the sound

while my hands grasp

the dirt,

holding its generations

of dust and stone

with a blending of blood

curing the colors

making it good and right

with sweet aroma

passing through my hair

rich with oils

thick with black,

the standard of then

and the fuel of now

as my tongue licks at fire

I breathe a river,

filling my veins

with grit and sand

and the run off of man

hot and speaking

and smacking life

into ears that hear

that this place is my


my altar, my place of rest,

the jazz I see

and the jazz I own.

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