2 Flew To New York City

We flew like birds into NYC
By way of Chicago
Chillin’
With not a worry in the world
Other than our next
Meal, like
Those pigeons we saw
When we
Landed in Manhattan, then
Spread

Our wings across Time’s Square to Central Park
West & Columbus Circle, all the way down
To Ground Zero, and Chinatown —
Right below Little Italy
& Soho directly west
Of Manhattan’s
Lower East
Side, not
Too far
From the Brooklyn Bridge as it
Looms over East River – to wind up in Strand
With its 18 miles of books
Right in the heart and soul of Union Square.

Needless to say
Old New York
Stamped
Its imprint
On the bottoms
Of our soles. & now
By way of the ATL
Like new bohemians
On a wanderlust
For stardust, we must

Find our way back home.

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The Creators of Now! (“Black Heroes” Revisited)

i. “if not us, who?”

“Ain’t even much a matter what happens tomorrow, ’cause we men, ain’t we?”
–Trip (from the movie Glory)

There
Is
No time
To fake, front
Or ride the fence, when
It comes to doing the right thing.
Born in the margins of the melting pot, I’m made real

By
The
Ideal
That we are
Begotten by God–
To rise up…& be free! once we
Counted only as
Three-fifths a
Human
&
All

The
World’s
Wealth can’t
Compensate
For the vestiges
Of the peculiar institution
That ended one-hundred fifty years ago. & it

Would
Seem
As though
Old Jim Crow
& hate that hate made
Never left
Instead
Just
Stayed.

Manifest Destiny is now:

Time
To
Take back
Our future
As the descendants
Of those black heroes surviving
The Middle Passage. time to rise & shine on frontlines

Of
A
New day
For the sake
Of Malcolm, Martin,
Biko & the sea of unsung
Martyrs who perished
& perchance
To dream
For
Whom

The bells toll over & again.

ii. “liberating the language of legacy”

“Long live the black rose that grew from concrete when no one else even cared.”
— Tupac Shakur

All ebony & saxish
like the bouquet
Of black roses called the cosmos

The shimmery Shadow
Of my wandering spiritsong
Sprouts

From shrouds of traveling souls
Battered & tattered & left behind
To be pieced back together
By epitaphs of our talking paths
Through eternal moments
Giving sound to silence, and life
To everything, even the excerpts

Undefined by time
but improvised
In music of our minds. long live

The black rose
As it grows
Beneath the black light (& its
Ultraviolet

Scope of hope) with wisdom
To understand the gravity
That draws us back–even
When we are forced apart.
We are one blood, Humanity–

Why can’t hue see?
ain’t it ’bout
time we take
Heed
of our own
history. Time
To unlearn the lies
& revive our legacy.

iii. “For His eye is on the sparrow…”

If
Only the random
Rants
Of our candidly

Disillusioned minds
Could pry the eyes of a world
Consuming itself

Still: so much hatred,
War & poverty. Police
Taking innocent lives

Without a regret,
Committing acts of Black
Genocide as though

We are not suppose
To react. But, silence is
The betrayal that gives

Consent to violence
Silence is a sin that makes
Cowards of men
& women & their children–
Because now is the time, when

We should be shoutin’:
Pharaoh, let my people go!
Let my people go!!
“For His eye is on the sparrow”
& the truth we already know.

Time flies, yet all that
Changes is our beloved
Heroes, more than just
Ashes to dust, more
Than just dirt to be

Swept under the rug
Or put back into the ground.
We are soul children:
The future light of the world
The all in all, speaking love

Into existence…this
We need to heed & believe
Until it’s written
Within, on the mystic walls
Of our own innervisions.

©2019, A Conscious Matter Collective

Songs for My Father

the session began

strictly instrumental

or so i thought

till the tandem

of Jefferson

& Taylor arrived

followed by a menagerie

of midnight marauders

masquerading as righteous reeds

around a crescent moon

that boogaloos like a burning boomerang

of amani na mapenzi

sending smoke signals

from the soul station

in panacean patterns of aural alchemy
falling like summer soft

contusions of one shine
playing ping pong

off of my brain.

(2018)

Legacy (this is us)

This sea of souls deep
With dreams despite the darkness
Will be the beacon…

for

We
Drink up
The beauty

With trust in the translation
To be the epitome of our inspiration;

We
Are
Mortal
But our verse
Is left to live on

©2018

Ars Poetica: The Langston Hughes Redux