this poem: 2o17

pencil fist

this poem is the product of a sharp no.2 black

keeps remixing itself

refuses to die

learned of neccesity to multiply

this poem wants air

wants to breathe deep

for those who

cant wants wings

so it can fly over the hurdles

set for brown eyed babies

riding home

on the way to school

in that world out there

where the killing ground is the corner by the store

in front of your house

on your front porch

this poem is a fierce spirit animal

a special Obeah speaks fluent

Hoodoo Vodun Ifa & Ras

sacraficing to

set the table for those

making life in the valley of death

off scraps sewn together our coat of many colors

old made new hidden everliving a new identity

not fixed quicksilver quick

always rising never eclisped

this poem is strapped

100 rounds and one in

the chamber this

poem is dangerous

like drunk poets mad prophets

preaching on milk cartons

praying a revival of sight

looking for third eyed purple babies

with bags of breadcrumbs

this poem came to play

hard ball in boardrooms

all in your face like an

aggressive forward

it will drive wont backdown movement is life

this poem wants to be saved

from forks in the road

& rocks on the path

wants to be lifted up

wants you to know its worth

to write it down on the paper

make it imortal

wants it to be known that it

wants to be paid in full

for bales of cotton

chain gang songs

muddied waters

the clang of prison gates

insist on being paid

like slavers got /get paid

this poem is turning up

for everybody that’s

been turned down

pressed to the brink

waiting for the rope

to be thrown

into the dark place they make slim patience in

this poem is a knife fighter

it cuts through bullshit

like a street sweeper

in a gang fight on a hot summer night

like a hot straight razor

slicing butter from Auntie’s freezer

this poem is singing

for those who have been silenced

it is loud full of bass & attitude

if it ain’t your tune you gonna have to dance anyway

this poem has a memory

it knows whose shoulders it stands upon

how long the night

how steep the climb

this poem is hungry

it wants land and solidarity

prosperity after hardtimes

to no chance on

rocky hillsides

on swamp land

on cracked concrete

this poem thirsts

for freedom  justice

& equity

after cotton

the lynching tree

this poem has three

eyes it never sleeps

this poem dreams of peace

while sharpening its sword

tying its camel

& promising reciprocity

About Ayodele Nzinga, MFA, PhD

I create; therefore I am.
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