under the rattling breaths of gazelles

  after their throats are caught in vice gripping jaws

  of cheetahs, lions, leopards, imagining the terror

  stirring in people before silt settles over their bodies

  entombed, before flesh falls away from their bones

  on the bottom of the atlantic, rivers, lakes,

  history is a ticking time bomb

  of human follies wheezing hard through centuries

  sticky with close, furnace heat, incinerating

  summers, leading to autumn’s browning leaves,

  before they start fluttering down like dead bees

  when landscapes turn white as time, &

  lungs gasp for air in sealed tombs of winter

  there are moments we can look up, see open skies,

  our imaginations spreading over meadows,

  finding a path shooting straight up as an arrow

  to enter mountains, clean air, then we might follow

  a premonition to seek out a quiet place

  a space to step into a dream, leading us to ponder

  where we have come from—a terrible journey

  filled with death deep in the dark atlantic salt water—

  we might go carrying peace, love

  in the words we speak as a love offering,

  as we move stealthily as secrets crossing

  this strange new land seeking the future,

  we take one road that leading to another, perhaps

  opening a place filled with exhortations of liberty,

  spoken in a rainbow gathering of people singing

  hand in hand under the sun in a moment

  dazzling with clarity

  now we might recognize It as a state

  existing in hearts & minds, we might know

  its gifts are sacred as beauty, as breath,    sacrosanct

  now we might believe the invocation

  of ghost spirit crabs was worth the journey here,

  is essential to two different hands shaking,

  sealing an idea, like wings connected to the body

  of an eagle allowing it to soar—itself an ideal—

  into space searching for a place to view the world,

  is perhaps like us looking to launch ourselves—

  blackamoors—into the sky, flying (soaring) all the way

  back home to africa in our hearts & minds as an act

  of discovery, then flying back to this space again

  knowing our language is launched from here now

  XII.

  THINKING OF FUSING SPIRITUAL AND CULTURAL IDENTITIES NOT LOST

  surviving in us are secrets, identity,

  cultural glue locking us one to another,

  spiritual essences, mysteries time cannot finger,

  riddles, perhaps, the tuning forks of cadences

  in speech, language, music, particular sounds,

  timbres of voice, inflections, nuances,

  the way vowels roll off tongues in rhythms

  forming sentences, familiar or unfamiliar

  is what courses through blood stone deep

  in the marrow of bones sharing cultures fused

  inside fingers playing harmony, melody

  in certain songs ears know, recognize in hearts,

  truth, as is the scaffolding architecture

  language laces through lines of poetry,

  evoking a sense of recognition,

  something ears can pass on to hearts,

  brains, echoing familiarity, foreign or local,

  idioms anchored in geographic places

  as seeds blooming in the ways people speak,

  growing together, sharing ethos, values—

  twin tuning forks serving as harmony,

  locking into what eyes translate to hearts, brains,

  visuals, outlines of faces, the shapes of eyes,

  round with surprise, or oval with joy,

  soft as flower petals—the breath from lips,

  open or closed, fires the imagination

  to feel desire, kiss the pillowing softness, licking,

  engaging the tongue, sucking the fire passion

  lying dormant in someone’s heart,

  pulled inside seduction of open lips

  revealing pearls of white teeth, perfect

  in their symmetry, cultural, as is

  the resonant grace of a woman’s feline

  elegant stride, traces an antelope’s

  undulating rhythms in the sway of her hips,

  is signaling hearts to beat wildly

  for what is being promised here

  in this moment of delirious fervor,

  is remembrance, emanating from deep

  inside cultural transferal, a secret,

  knowable through rhythms music creates,

  shoots arrows into hearts,

  as brains comprehend hearing time

  beating as hearts, thumping as one

  in a bass line unifying the pulsating music,

  fused inside a knowable feeling—a mystery

  only disciples, initiates know the codes to

  XIII.

  THE ENLIGHTENED AWAKENING

  “Should God die. I would die,” an Akan Proverb

  seven throw eleven wins

  the game of dice, seven throw eleven, wins

  eye am reaching back my fingers through these words

  to touch your spirits, your heart’s ancestors,

  in this moment of reconciliation, joy,

  before the obliterating journey,

  every indicator informing us

  all was lost in the bones dissolving into silt,

  before we knew ancestors could fly back

  to the homeland, then wing forward through time

  into the present, the future too,

  as the caressing spirit seducing me

  through love as eye slept, dreaming during hours

  after midnight, ghosts voices come serenading me here

  inside memories, alchemy rooted inside blood—

  DNA chromosones, where miracles anchor

  inside mystery, magic rising here

  sacred, in this moment eye feel your ancient spirit

  fusing with mine through space, across time—

  through the distorting of words, languages,

  syllables, sounds

  sluicing from our tongues—to forming connecting tissues

  infusing our languages rooted in blood,

  no matter we have become strangers again—

  as we were back then when tribalism, greed,

  the lust for power

  separated our connection to each other—

  were reasons my ancestors were thrown to sharks,

  the horrible bloodletting passage through waters of the atlantic,

  while yours, dear ancestors, stayed where you were,

  living through other forms of bloodletting,

  enslavement, in the space you banished me from,

  now eye am telling you, you are forgiven

  in this poem—now you must forgive yourself also,

  love this stranger—myself, a blackamoor, before you now,

  is your blood gene chromosome linking back

  a rod-shaped arm, extending a handshake

  across time, space, embracing you, ancient spirit,

  here in this poem, eye give to you now

  this provenance of unconditional love,

  take it, embrace it—me—now, grasp my hand

  extended here, in this moment of reconciliation,

  receive my invitation, dear spirit,

    brother, sister,

  accept my love, forgiveness, now, recognize

  this new language coursing through my poem,

  speaking for us now, in my voice influenced by yours,

  speaking in shared blood, scaffolded in shared horror

  inflicted on both of us—my dreaming down through time—

  knowing these crimes will be redressed through

  reconciliation, knowing our metamorphosis is a gift,

  a metaphor of sacred love

  eye extend to you now through this poem, brother,

  sister, knowing recompenses of this journey will be shared

  as we move together into a future with our voices—

  not theirs, not voices of our slavers—

  writing histories of our own blood shed

  throughout the length of this passage,

  knowing we are recreating new history now—call it myth,

  call it whatever, but it is our remembrance—

  with our imaginations flying

  as a breathing, living testimony, we are creating, evoking

  in living language full of new metaphors

  sluicing off our own tongues

  in the musical jambalaya we are speaking now

  in this poem breaking multilayered rhythms

  filled with neologisms, the model we stand with here,

  reborn, secure in this voice we are speaking now—

  reader, listener—our multilingual poetic voices

  deep in new world vocabularies

  galvanizing power in invented forms

  here, now, on display in the creative forces we move

  as blackamoors forward into an unknown future renewing

  through fecund imagination with an impregnating language

  in our voices, we are breaking through linguistic paralysis,

  raising up magic, mystery in this moment,

  we create new poetic forms,

  seven throw eleven wins

  the game of dice, seven throw eleven, wins,

  free of terror we are here

  reborn, we breathe in the moment creating,

  speaking the future in song

  unafraid of madness of the past we are

  syncopating duke’s magic,

  the train whistle rambunctious in basie’s song

  inventive, driving music,

  the voodoo laced trumpet voice of shango riffs

  nailing satchmo’s gumbo voice,

  the kansas city rooster sound of bird’s hot

  pepper soaring solo horn,

  shooting white girl nodding sickness through his veins,

  a sign of the times coming,

  speaking through bud powell’s catatonic words,

  though one can see in his eyes

  genius, slant of notes, riffs run off blurring wings

  of his hummingbird fingers

  flying over piano keys, tickling chords

  seven throw eleven wins

  the game of dice, seven throw eleven, wins

  high priest of hipness, monk, block

  chording mysterioso’s black & white keys,

  shuffling his feet back & forth

  under the piano, the fleet, high-flying

  rat-tat-tat speedo brash licks

  dizzy blows spitting bebop with a cuban

  flash up in his attitude

  the president of hipness wearing a badge

  saying ividivi sweet

  jammin’ soul bending syllables blown wailing

  through saxophone speak bop cool

  as the prince of darkness styled too hip for clues

  to express through metaphors,

  so he whispers muted kind of blue trumpet

  licks creating new language

  in music five times—so-called cool jazz, road-house

  funk—rock ’n roll, bitches brew,

  on the corner with them hip deep bass, drum grooves,

  seven throw eleven wins

  the game of life, seven throw eleven, wins

  leontyne price, black diva

  from mississippi, soaring sonic hoodoo

  voice breaking through barriers

  bringing ezulie to bach, beethoven, sounds

  ella scatting way down deep

  neologic word plays, ignoring dull ways

  to phrase hoary song lyrics

  new takes on black spinning vinyl lady day,

  sarah, dinah, abby, bold

  carmen slick styling mccrae, cold blooded vamp,

  no nonsense nina simone

  dropping spells on those who hear her voice phrase

  her mysterious elan,

  oral language word playing in blues poets

  like muddy waters hoochie

  coochie rollin’, tumbling forty days, forty

  nights stroking smoke stack lightnin’

  got my mojo workin’, cause my love strikes quick

  seven throw eleven wins

  the game of dice, seven throw eleven wins,

  like lightning, howling wolf’s song,

  mr. highway man at your back door moanin’

  for his baby, a spoonful

  of evil going down slow built for comfort out

  on the killin’ floor, night

  crawlin’ king snake wang dang doodling, boogie-in’

  chuck berry’s song, maybelline

  pulsing in the wee wee hours thirty days

  you can’t catch me, roll over

  beethoven tell tchaikovsky the news, there’s this

  new music we call rhythm

  & blues cause there’s too much monkey

  bizness reelin’ and rockin’,

  little queenie, my ding a ling my own bizness,

  johnny b good, sweet baby,

  talkin’ bout the queen of soul aretha’s words

  hey hey hey hallelujah

  shoutin’ inside fabric of gospel respect

  seven throw eleven wins,

  the game of dice, seven throw eleven wins,

  in vowels, blind deep singing ray

  charles stevie wonder took their voice gymnastics

  way cross town where god-father

  of funky soul was gettin’ up on the good foot

  of rhythmic black language

  while the king of world music moon walked backwards

  up on tippy toes waving

  one sequined glove hat cocked breaking syllables

  in a million different ways,

  all handed down through african cultural

  metamorphosis brought,

  transmogrified in the west into sun ra’s space

  travels, voodoo child jimi

  hendrix dropping bombs from his guitar blasting

  at woodstock, thrilling millions,

  whitney houston, living color, cameo

  naughty by nature. fugees,

  arrested development, a tribe called quest,

  seven throw eleven, wins

  the game of life, seven throw eleven wins,

  rappers public enemy,

  tupac & biggie, snoop doggie dogg, gangsters

  rapping to the core, now comes

  singers macy gray, beyoncé, new rappers

  dr. dre, jz, kanye

  west, kendrick lamar, j.cole, all this power,

  transcendent human beauty—

  adding mystery, ugliness to all of this—

  after african ghost spirit crabs, transformed themselves

  from voodoo spirit loas, legba, erzulie, agwe

  on a beach in haiti, carried from guadeloupe,

  their seduction of me in my sleep, dreaming, into hoodoo,

  to harlem, where eye sit now in my study

  writing it all down into this living, breathing poem

  chronicling a long tortuous journey of miracles,

  resurrection, redemptive legacy of blackamoors,

  knowing you, reader/listener, are listening to me now,

  knowing you do hear them speaking through this poem

  seven throw eleven wins

  the game of dice, seven throw eleven, wins,

  seven throw eleven wins

  the game of life, seven throw eleven, wins

  love, holiness, FREEDOM, It,

  seven throw eleven wins

  the game of life,

  seven throw eleven wins

  games of life seven throw eleven

  wins, It

  from

  SEDUCTION

  NEW POEMS, 2013–2018

  I.

  GHOST VOICES WHISPERING FROM THE NEAR PAST

  they call from the near past whispering

  seducing through ether, they call

  fragmented, disembodied, their meaning

  climbing from silence, shapes emerge transparent,

  seek a form to enter

  silhouettes looking like amoebas

  they float into our vision blooming flowers,

  voices whispering at the edge of our ears

  CATCHING SHADOWS

  it was a simple wish to touch an elusive enigma—

  a mysterious shadow crawling behind me

  when a toddler, eye reached out my tiny fingers

  to stroke the wavy figure, undulating wildly

  across the concrete sidewalk, before it stamped

  its inky paradox on my flummoxed eyeballs,

  eye remember trying to figure out the mystery

  the riddle imposed—like words my mother sought

  to pull from her brain, or snatch from the air

  when she vexed over the daily crossword puzzles

  she was addicted to, before entering the looping,

  cobwebbed mode of dementia—it was illusory

  alluring, for a young boy like me to think through

  where did the miracle of breathing came from,

  or the weather, or if the sun, moon & stars were round

  as marbles eye saw packed into drawn circles on dirt,

  or concrete back when big boys shot steel shooters—

  like lead entering bodies—into silhouetted rings,

  looping cores, scattering them like roaches

  fleeing for cover when hot lights came on

  in empty kitchens, after white people sold their homes,

  moved on after black folks bought into their leave it to beaver,

  archie bunker neighborhoods, back in the day

  & marbles scattered quick when hit —like white folks did—

  or time, or birds flushed out of trees after hunters’ shots

  rang out sharp, cracking the chilled fall air, piercing

  as bullets whistling sick past ears, winter slicing clean

  came sharp as razor blades whipping around corners,

  ripping through clothes, menacing as icicle daggers

  hanging over heads so cold, made us lose our senses

  as eye grew older my eyeballs popped bigger than

  steel shooter marbles too, trying to catch the idea why

  eye had to grow up around so many people—

  black & white—who hated me for no reason

  except difference—the way eye looked, talked, lived