Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note

Lately, I've been accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for the bus...

Things have come to that

And now, each night I count the stars,
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.

Nobody sings anymore.

And then last night, I tiptoed up
To my daughter's room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there...
Only she on her knees peeking into

Her own clasped hands.

~Amiri Baraka
March 1957

(If memory serves, I saw this taped on Cerpts' locker back in our days at The Hellmouth. I read it and immediatedly copied it down, cause it's so damn good.)