i remember to remember
i remember born knowing
i remember knowing
before knowing
i remember
sankofa bird on my doorstep
singing the ocean for me
every step i take
every breath i take
wind and dirt instruct me
i remember the language
it is the language of creation
it is my first language
i remember to know i know
the dead refuse to let me forget
my gifts are their presence
in the present flowing freely
whirling in the whirlwind
making a path for i in the storm
creating vision in the valley of
the blind so space may
be cleared for
the lame to dance the invisible
to be made visible
i remember the reason
for the rhymes the ways
the means out of no way
without means i count
abundance in the valley of
shadow gifted overflowing
prosperity all that’s required
of me is stay the path
remember to remember
chart the way
tell the story
trust in the godz
but tie your camel
keep your powder dry
your machetes sharp
hands open
like heart open
one direction
forward
i remember
to bide time
to bank fire
to stoke embers
to cut cleanly
to bleed for myself
that i was born
with dignity & everything
that my path is cleared
that i am blessed
not with perfection
but potential overflowing
running over cups full
no empty plates
praying with hands moving
manifesting what’s
been promised at the
end of the day full of
honest labor unafraid of
work i am rewarded
i manifest
clearing roads
like they were cleared for me
i remember to remember
to burn brightly
uphill is a direction
i am here til it’s done
i got instructions
i been here before
that’s why it looks easy
but it took generations
to stand in self again
seeing clearly the way
the roads been barred
how to jump the hurdles
how to say the truth
& maybe live to see the
sun rise knowing is not
just the destination it is
also the journey there
is a duty to life
you owe it living
you owe it memory
forgetting is a drug
enjoyed by those who
refuse to see the paint
does not go up to the ceiling
the emperor is naked
the deadly effects of
invisible nooses over
hidden pits
the smell
of cotton laced with a taste
for sugar wafting in the wake
of chasing the empty
things destined for landfills
amnesisa is not on the menu
for those anchored to north
stars and dreams of movement
much older than locomotives
not the place of those
in brick houses
with Calalilies growing in
the yard filled with
the smell of fried chicken
harboring
hope and fresh fruit
both kept in
brown bags
