Social Commentary: I Know Not Of Revolution

We bleed into each other.

Cold infusions of the Diaspora

Mixed with unyielding affirmations of inequity,

While coveting the placation of resolution

So deeply rooted in the color of our ancestors’ blood.

Convincing ourselves that the one thing that will come to fruition

Is the one thing that the struggle comprised of

So we accept the conundrum,

And live our lives internally

Careful not to disturb the turmoil

That existed before we ever learned of the revolution.

News hits hard when it falls upon deaf ears

So we criticize the mouth piece

And ignore the fact that we are the revolutionists

That tore us apart and set the rules to become lesser:

Principles that dictate who to love but how to hate,

When to fight but how to acquiesce,

And how to change into the same thing to ensure uniqueness.

So no, I know not of revolution

But I will poise my pen to save us,

Make my lexis contagious,

Deem myself a savior:

For I am product, cause and cure.

Paperless Poets

We are…

Paperless poets,

Clichés fighting for the spotlight,

Fragmented sentences defying oratory paradigms,

Torn pages from ancient handwritten manuscripts

That the gods themselves penned in hopes of saving humanity.

We are…

Synonyms of odium,

Undetected misfits of similitude,

Proud allegories of our fathers,

Unheard exclamations of our mothers

Silenced only by the passive voices of their children.

We are…

The unforgiving slur,

Dialectical by default,

The idiomatic demise of reason,

The primordial language of extinction

Enunciated through cracked lips and plagiarized sound. 

New surroundings may breed new understanding, but never will I forget the old beginnings that have bred this standing rhetoric...

Never a love poem has been written.

Never beauty magnified as she.

Never a man will ever plunder,

As she has plundered me.

Never a sun has ever burnished.

Never a sky so blue.

Never my heart will beat in rhythm,

As rhythm was born in you.

Never will never become her fate

Never will tears be spared

Never will mind defeat the matter

That my Africa stands to bare.

Musical Protagonist

They listened to music prescribed especially for lovers/ Little did she know, he only listened because he loved her/ The beat of each bar and each empirical lyric/ was his music, his vibe, his movement, his spirit/ She was strong in her stance as she flowed to the rhythm/ of a song that was built on abjection for women/ The lines that she drew with her hips made him wonder/ if she knew that her beauty was something to be discovered/ His stance was quite different, more menacing, more threatening/ convinced that his posture read, “I am strong black man.”/ In an attempt to introduce himself as, “Strong Black Uhuru”/ he fell back, like a soldier in fear would do/ As she mimicked the words her lips slightly quivered/ he watched, now attentive to the fullness of her figure/ she wiped sweat from her chest, breasts slightly exposed/ heavy breathing, body heaving and stuck to her clothes/ When the beat came to close and her body was still/ her dress rejected composure and danced at will/ With all of the courage that his heart could muster/ he breathed deep with intention to introduce to a sistah/ a warrior like visage, with impeccable spirit/ trying to find words of flattery even though she didn't need it/ he approached her with avidity, when he was interjected/ by the beat of a song that he never expected/ he fell back once again like a small child, dejected/ his glass full of whiskey and his manhood...affected.

Genesis

I should have ringed you up,
Sealed and clamped you,
Pampered and stuffed you up,
Watched you bulge and subside,
Cocooned you:

The product bound and packed with love.

I owe your soul: 

untouched.
You snatched mine

It was mutual.
The stain: etched on the mind, the linen, the soul,
That loss: a step into an age
The hurt and delight, clipped to memories.
I treasured the genesis.

Should you journey back to that era;
Perhaps lose yourself in these arms,
Maybe feel the tactile spasms
Rippling through my spine.

Paralyzing.
If that was sin, consider another plunge.

This is for My People...

The long arm of the law turned into the tight fist of oppression/ I remember hanging on to that arm, but that was way back then/ I now reside in the land of free speech and liberty/ while maintaining close ties to the ones left struggling/ as I try to keep the faith and ink spills from my pen/ I cry rivers across oceans and say a prayer for them/ fragments of me float away with the breeze/ “Amandla ngawethu!” we must believe/ Umkhonto weSizwe buried deep in our hearts/ Thandanani bantu bam’, uThixo uzas’sindisa.

Unmeasured Words

My perception shapes your intentions and 
your attention evokes my affection. 
Shifting sands of impulse transform into rock hard emotions
no longer worn away by the falsities of uneven tempers. 
We are rooted in organic nature.

My heart breeds fruit that contains sustenance 
to keep this dream alive. 
We dance behind conspicuous lines but our lips never meet, 
although our minds collide with alchemic intensity:
always on the verge of something bigger than us, 
bigger than me.

Although I am taken by photography, 
pictures don’t incite me to the point of this revelry. 
I crave the muscle without the flesh; 
there’s no going deeper without depth. 
My lens stays focused on my tangible efforts:

To reach you, to read you. 

The fourth time’s a charm for a misconception so deeply rooted in scars 
and anguish and angst and aggressiveness 
that once had dominion over my consciousness. 
The bitter fruit of my heart is made nectarous 
by your loving hands. 

Since our form of communication is unspoken, but related, 

we make music that makes sense. 
Blues notes flow willingly from my soul to yours 
where they are translated into complicated melodies.
Untitled tracks float around us until we create the perfect beat. 

But until the point of acquiescence, 
my truth is quietly dissolved in this ink and through my hands. 
Cold and dark, I hold your shadow’s hand 
until I dare risk reality for a dream. 
Sparring with time and levels of comfort, 
my blues lay heavy on my shoulder; 
but such is the burden of being in love.

African Foreplay

Last night,
I tried to fight myself.
Mind over feeling;
mind didn't win.
This morning,
 I smelled of you.
Golden imprints of your hands
pressed against mine.
Last night,
 I saw the silhouette of your lips,
you kissed the Africa in me.
Did you taste my Sun?
Like wine I dance in your glass,
rouge face flushed.
My spine-

we divine-

multiplied.
I want to drown in this,
the this-ness of this:
this vast continent of emotional interplay
that has my mind orgasmically inebriated.
I am open wide like the vowels you wished your name had more of...
maybe you can have mine.

Chalice of Thought

Dress me in honor. 
Paint me in colors of the character I am; 

for my pen sings dear in the eyes of billions.

Roof me golden in voices of my readers; 

for the crown has championed my title.


I am a word-sewer.
These waves of twisted hope inject my

Veins with inks of philosophy,

Yet sustain my poetry with carats of melted diamonds.


Pilot me higher
Without any account of events.

I desire to stand tall.

Before I close the wealthy eyes of my last page,

Sing me not, let the world sing me better;
For my words are pasted on your lips
That kiss my poems in verses.

If I'm in miles of touching your heart,

Let my poems, in magnet, adhere to your spirit.

Esoteric

It’s hard to think of you in this light

because when I lie down and close my eyes at night

I’m vulnerable to senses that leave me senseless

and maybe since this life is sin-kissed

I should care less about the questions

that plague my consciousness.

In this syntax of mental contact

pernicious acts bring us back to the fact that

love is twisted so we reject it and then expect it

to be electric and travel forth with 

righteous content and spiritual conflict

when we raise stakes and then we forfeit.

But then your soul sends vibes that transcend

Truth and deepen my understanding of this love thing.

I surrender to heightened pleasure and weekend ventures

That take forever and make love better while we bet her

That we’ll outlast her by making her slower

We will grow her to no measure and just let her make us over.