Valéry as Dictator 
by Amiri Baraka 

Sad. And it comes  
tomorrow. Again, gray, the streaks 
of work 
shredding the stone 
of the pavement, dissolving 
with the idea 
of singular endeavor.  Herds, the 
herds 
of suffering intelligences 
bunched, 
and out of  
hearing. Though the day 
come to us 
                    in waves, 

                                       sun, air, the beat 
of the clock. 
                       Though I stare at the radical  
world, 
              wishing it would stand still. 
                                                                 Tell me, 
and I gain at the telling. 
Of the lie, and the waking 
against the heavy breathing 
of new light, dawn, shattering 
the naive cluck 
of feeling. 
                   What is tomorrow   
that it cannot come  
                                    today? 


—