"Bum stiggedy bum stiggedy bum, hon, I got the old pa-rum-pum-pum-pum
But I can fe-fi-fo-fum, diddly-bum, here I come"
- das efx, they want efx
"....in spite all of the bullshit we on our back starin at the stars above
Talkin bout what we gonna be when we grow up
I said what you wanna be, she said, Alive
It made me think for a minute, then looked in her eyes"
- outkast, da art of story telling pt. 1
imacs are buried in the backyard
covered in the composts of childhood:
evel knievel action figures, 4 x-men
comic books (issues 135 - 138), one
of daddy's rusty ass pocketknives, a torn
tape of brother malcolm's "i was in
the house last night when the bomb
went off" speech stored in P.E.'s
"it takes a nation of millions to hold
us back" clear cassette case - ancient
analogs, all catalogued during my mid-
to late-teens; each one an heirloom for
ascension. an atari joystick broken
after joining the boy scouts; a red, black,
and green african medallion purchased
from alphonso's head shop at 15th and
broadway; my entire elementary school
hot wheels collection re-coated in mama's
maybelline fingernail polish / plum red.
i am primed for power; 100% anabiotical.
exegeses marks the spot: the knick-knacks
of an ex-colored/negro/black/afro'd african
boy born and raised on the soils of america;
these spoils of war. the homes of my great-
great-(great?)-grandfather were looted; legacies,
languages, and the learning of familial
trades - all lost. i've lived my whole life as
the industrial pollution of hate, a hard history
to cope with. "shit, nigga, get over it." was
stamped on birth certificate. but if jack kevorkian
was black they would have sat back in stereotypical
understanding, the way he "devalues life" chalked
up to the flowcharts of his nature; blame it on
phrenology, not as the after effects of racism.
patty hearst would have never made it to folklore
as an african. too bad 'symbiosis' wasnt invented
i packed all the compost down, $3000 imac
included; disgusted drawing circles around
myself picking a peck of pixels out of concentric
philosophies. a pack of cmyk-colored hellhounds
nipping at my heels; candy-colored crayons
in my cigarette box as a self-appointed samo©
substitute anointing african spirits at 72dpi. my
desktop apple a bag of beans growing totems
instead of beanstalks. this is how a 21st century
houngan connects to the ethernet. we transmogrify
technology or we die. but pass or fail, we still
come out the 'other side' in much better shape
than how we arrived.
examinations in the spiritual side
has always been our science;
"thank god i was born a smart-ass."
is an african-american slogan.
my poems hide behind Poro masks, "africadabra"
written in reams on lumumba carson's mythical
shroud hidden beneath the tongue, an ndebele temple.
words have a torso of driftwood, orbital bones cast
in cowries, words with afros carved from soapstone
standing tall like an afrocentric skyscraper in shell-toes,
no shoestrings (all poem lacks is 8 square feet of
linoleum and a jvc boombox strapped to its shoulder).
i am a god of life; a walking / talking ossuary. not
"hidden" as in you're not allowed to see but "hidden"
as in get up off your ass / come and find me.
i'm johnnie conqueroo growing guedes from
an apple seed. i pray at the knee of forgotten
equations, but i'm not an atheist... ...this is
amethysticism - a purple reign empowered
from a borrowed bandwidth. "rich?" no.
i am witch, bitch. damballah wedo hazed me
as a rookie; baron saturday sat and watched
over me as goddess asase spun gospel on
the ones and twos...
my merit badge is earned. i've join'd the club.
i'm in the guild. the written word pays my dues;
my voice drifts up from the vévés drawn in cornstarch
on the kitchen floor. there is hip hop and polynomials
in my poetry. i'm a psychopomp with kentucky
tendencies... lean unto my shoulder, my collarbone
is keystone for a bucolic cosmology, my portmanteau
is neon, Chukwu is common denominator for nommo
and numen and there is rainbow to my gravitational
collapse. Petey Wheatstraw breaks bread with Unoka
in prose... Achebe and Octavia hold congress to my
confessions / in poems i am Roy G. Biv in dreadlocks;
i'm polychromatic with my caul and response. in black
words i am supernal, a supernumerarian and there is
nympholepsy in my black-on-black praise-songs.
pawpaw has you now. allow me to
induce nutation; it wont hurt you.
i am paregoric - i taste bad; but you'll
learn to like it. my vespers rubbed
into your chest and my hooks in your
nose, your eyes open / your eyes close.
a camphoric ghost-story my words.
it's all about the blowing of smoke;
the way a writer purses his lips and
makes a bottle bellow, his breath
breaking wind in passing, releasing
the djinn from the jug, birthing
laureates from mush-fakers and
dervish-fakirs, every word an ovary,
every thought an opening.
i stumbled into black lit / fell into
insemination; this composite poem
a pimp and a parable - this is the part
you pay the fee and enter / enter;
pretentious or extra-celestial, there
is no winter here. here be dragons -
i'm houngan from a black cocoon.
the babalawo in a b-boy stance.