1.

 

ephemeral voices float to me

in union, disembodied cadences

from the corners of the used

bookstore in which i work;

i wait here at the register,

the cashier for colluvial languages.

for 7.25 an hour i sell you the bind

off my back; my spine spent, tongue

bent into infinity shapes & adinkra

signs. i'm a shaman whose black

brogue is a dark spectrum speaking

of bantu knots standing atop

soapboxes.

 

2.

 

my anonymity is indivisible;

that's nothing but the Ile-Ifé in me,

like a gen x-george clinton-conqueroo

chasing chants. i'm member #325

of the Ky Poro Guild, a son of Eshu

in a store-clerk cloak. i've learned

that invisibility is advantageous when

there is blood in your brogue;

the liturgies etched in my canon

are decisively conclusive: achebe and

dandicat, soyinka, clifton, brooks and

reed; my inner-voice is well-read.

i was born to have voodoo doowop

through poetry where culturally

broken words chisel the facade, erode

the misperception that black culture,

in order to commune with nature, passes

every movement through concrete.

in the past, ghost-stories would engrave

slave-words into skin; but where snakes

shred themselves of scales, i’ve learned

to shed shrapnel. in dreams, Sweet Harriet

swings low,

carries me from rome.

 

 

3.

 

anyway, Orishas are origami

for crepuscule with college-rule;

newsprint folds into a paper crown

covering the Ori of this living orator.

language is as lawn-chair for the living

dead and southern pidjin is my grateful

Egun; black poems parade our ashes

in a natural state of ashé. like a Queen

Mother, Black Memory pulls a halo

from a 3rd world pelvis, so (by portent),

i indulge in a self-induced patina: the

policy stamping the null and the void

on every one-sided transaction where

all sales were said final; the merchandise

from trans-atlantic trades relinquished,

refurbished, refinished & returned home

(or wherever.)

 

 

 

welcome

to my Cult of Thutmose:

where black bodies split

and become of single breath;

ancient lovers with postmodern

analog in auras; we become

brass-age with glaciers of black skin.

this

is heritage.

 

...

 

in extrasensory science i orbit

you, a sensual satellite; stalagmites

in my voice; panther and mouse

in the chase until i catch you and

become as Anubis. i fetch you falling

a million miles from inner-space

my brown face a red giant

on the horizon, my oath to you a moist

mothership.

we are Thebes In The Night.

my inclusions crash at your feet;

my hubris a hybrid with debris licking

at your heels, digging into black digital

earth, cruising into the beautiful burn

bracing for impact - my brain-cells

shattering / anti-gray-matters embrace

the hyena-god’s head; a transmogrified

sound shifting shape. mind blown. mouth

agape.

 

...

 

i’m such the lascivious man. been so

since Olodumare told monkeys to

walk up straight. language congeals

around skin, accepts gravity, becomes

ink and glyphs with ligatures sinking...

is this alkebulan? or kaleidoscope?

contents scatter

upon impact; reprising

rainbows / leaking new

gods from the umbra. from

stellar bedrooms a budget plan

is grown...

 

...

 

and after the backstage pass,

dehydrated acts sparkle on thighs

rate gyro assemblies remain functional

as we face frustum and saturn returns.

this is sigh-fi in the flesh;

not lascivious.

luxuriant.

a billion stars are probed,

a trillion planets explored, many

comets mapped, dark matter disrobed,

blackholes / our space stations built

atop perturbation theories, Octavia’s

ashes replace Orion’s belt, and yet

there is still much debris

to sift through / Keplerian ellipses

for us to drift into and all the while:

Our Hands.

what else

is needed?

 

 

 

i know spells to turn the solid breath and 4 syllables into a syringe.

dont cringe, its only voice. dont fear, i’m a shaman. my palms

are up and my hands are clean, but underneath the nails is another

story; shit, it aint like i asked you to look. i am figment of skin,

the pigment of imagination. i pick a peck of pixels turning long lost

steles into stick-action-figures for the gods. i’m the son of shango

and simone, sunra and mahalia; my fictional mama is a wicked witch

woman with every inch of her titties spilling over into church sermon.

“sistacoldsweat” was her screen name talk’n shit to neighbors through

meshed-in back-porches. but my birth mama is a saint, woes be to the

dead man to fix his mouth wrong stirring up shit; my short-story mama

is a nativity scene in stilettos, but talk about my birth mama and im not

a righteous man; i eat white bread; there is a cup of sugar in my koolaid

and my diabetes is to die for. when not asleep at the wheel, i can feel

death's head in my shadow laughin & a-laughin. but death can kiss my

fat ass; I’m full of bliss, even if reality is reneged on in all my poems.