The black man, dark and shinning,
shining so bright like a piece of
china ware.
The black man, dark in the body but plain in
the mind, yes! It is not black magic, but a
personal choice to be plain hearted, like
saint Peter and other saints.
For a black man can also be dark hearted
if he chooses.

Colour is not a barrier, because if you call
me a black monkey and I call you a white
pig, we will both be dark hearted. I the relation
of the slaves taken across the Atlantic , is now a
black president, it is not colour, so if you are a kunta kinte,
don’t call your brother a white maggot .
A real Kunta Kinte has forgotten the slavery encounter
,he has forgiven too, it is a world for humanity as one
,yes it is.Am proud to be a Kunta Kinte.

Empty tears that fall from empty eyes
Silenced lips that speak no life
Darkened heart crushed by man’s defeat
Search for truth and vow
Clear as shadow water
Your hope, the silver string of time
Your spirit, the phoenix of decline

This is how we are:
Ignorant of Midas’ error,
Stubbornly, naturally dedicated to these bodies
And these minds
Of ours.

A white patron,
A black amasser,
And with such eyes,
It must be
Adept to see
Everything;
The past, the present, the coming, it ought to see
How it has risen from your dead flesh,
How it triumphs,
How it will turn to gold.

With those eyes,
It’s probably seen
A distinct mosaic portrait of the Holy Amalgamation
That could turn us all to gold.

We can ask the fly, of course,
But it is either dead
or gone.

But we know it knew,
As it had previously been, itself,
A fashion of philosopher’s stone
That is lost,
And needs our carrion
To surface.

These fingers
Under
Go
Metamorphosis
into a chrysalis
see how the tip of the index
pushes back the hour pointer
removing yesterday

these fingers
go
under
metamorphosing
into a chrysalis
as they crawl into the very likeness
of cocoon from which they came

withdrawing from the cacophony
of orphaned voices
and engines
and war
these fingers claim sanctuary
inside the moist church
the warm church
the snug church
the cradle of allthatiskind

these butterflies
flutter by
migrating to amphibian grounds
of precious pearl
and nirvana’s lips
wanting to kiss

and this
nomadic tongue
however lyric
longs to speak
no more
which is why
it winds its way down
and back in time
to visit
that to which it owes
life.

I look to the Sky.
As the blood rain falls.
And washes over me.
On my knees,
Hands raised in screaming question.

I look to the Sky.
Begging for answers.
On deaf ears fall my plea.
With gut wrenching,soul devouring sobs.
My shoulders slump in defeat.

I look to the Sky.
Finally understanding why he cannot speak.
The rain of blood is tears.
When he looks down upon me.
The God of creation weeps.