Soul Gone Home

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Oh, I was down on the corner and heard this young brother deliver a wonderful prophecy…

I.

(Speaking in tongues,
transliterated from ebonic
music languages into
the language of Earths and Gods)

Out circles 9 of ashes
my soul climb
from blackvine to blackvine.

I’m eatin on watermelons with light in the rinds
young buck
standin on a mountain at the edge of rhyme.

I stared into the face of time
painting slum planets and black bodies
preparing to go on mass exodus back to starry coasts.

ways home
we used to know.
drinkin gourds, followed.

II.

i be a brother from another motherworld
my galaxy signify a trickster bag of gris gris
fully equipped to teach loose lips to guide slave ships
into rocks ‘pon mami wata hips, y’dig
nickel slick, spit tarbaby rhetoric,
get minds caught up in the finer bliss
of post-death consciousness, mysteries unravelin
as i summon divine horsemen.

Bryan Stevenson: We need to talk about an injustice

Concepts in Africana Metaphysics - The Soul as Ore(From the book, Commodities of the Black Body-Land: Useful Goods for a Commodified People by Dr. Sun E. Black, Ph. D)

I.

the enemy of my enemy is my friend
my frenemy
because he battled me over 40 acres
and told me my weaknesses
i read between the lines in his forehead
my strength.

II.

my ma and pops were blacksmiths.
i melted down my enemies’ logic in my parents forge
and cast it into a sledge hammer.

my cousins were carpenters and taught me how to
gut a flooded home like a fish
then repair it
equal parts destruction and creation
for the purpose of re-creatin’
a new home from a lost one.

my step-mother was necessity for survival.
my biological father was needed
for strong DNA—mandingo genes
fieldworker seed.

half-Tubman, Half-John Henry
equal parts legendary and mounds of fishbones
my blood is revealed, Blues veins sing from my greasy brown skin
that commits academic suicide at the Paper Bag Test
(‘cause the culture of testing don’t test my culture).

III.

will not just use Massa tools.

am making my own from memory,
remembered Africanisms
in the days of Post-Traumatic Slavery Syndrome epidemics.

Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man (Or, For Africans who have considered homicide when the Plantation was not Enough(for us or Massa))

I.

My Grandmomma was a cream-skinned Black
house-servant to an immigrant success story.
She sold roots part-time for reparations
she bought me stock in the Emancipation Reclamation
when I was born
but it got lost in mud from Katrina.

II.

So I’ve learned from ghosts
on the corners and spirits in my Uncle’s
pipe smoke
how to free myself from wage slavery:

I concocted a memory
reminding myself that my people was always free.
remembered we was kidnapped.
remembered I was of that BaKongo, Bamana, Mande Hausa, Yoruba, Mulatta,
Creole, Crayola Box Mixed Black White Red High Yellow stock
both bred to die and bred to survive
hell.

I took a path less traveled by
and that has made all the difference.

So not only is my “I” free
My “I” is demanding reparations.

III.

Freedom is
having to remember how
to spell the old-new name
you have given yourself.

IV.

“You cannot destroy the Master’s house with his tools.”

I don’t intend to.
I built his house.
I intend to kill Massa and live in his house(my house) with my family.
I intend to rebirth Massa as a freed, liberated human from red clay and my Grandmomma’s rib.
I will help him build his own house.

We will teach each other how to live with the land the way we used too.

Born Free, a poem Chanted from Calabar to New Orleans (Or A Drum Rhythm to summon The Maroons)

I.

Born from a slave industry factory(ship or plantation)
like birds some of we thought
the first Dominator we saw was Father.
Him was the Creator of broken masses born on the last day
him fences circled the earth and put a chastity belt on her spreadeagle
legs. Him East India(Brittish or Dutch) Companies put a blood tap and a milk sap
on her heart and breasts.

II.

Yet and still
some of we
looked into
the face of
Eden’s Snake
vowed to cut
the head off
crush him skull
under we heels
and pour strange fruit juice
from the tree of knowledge good and bad
into what remain of him.

III.

Them of we who think this
be them Maroons and Cimarrons—now gone
ghetto santeras and then suburban houngans—
refugees exiled from unwanted blocks to unwanted farm-land.

now free from dem closed-in concrete pens
them begin to grow roots to heal the
birthwounds.

them Maroons teach the rest of we
how to give birth to the true New World.

Blues Koans - Finding A Praxis for Survival of the Black Psyche I

i sit in the garden
the plants soak up the blues.
where would I be if there was only
concrete to reflect the gunshots
in my head?