an’

dere is another Black man dead. dere is always another Black man dead. always another Brown stained trauma to be swallowed. always fire and destruction and always rape. always bullets flyin at targets marked for death before spirit gave them melanin an mother gave them life.

in an attempt to not seem completely obvious there is a turn- a narrative of charity. somethin wid children. and fund raisin.

and always ah find it necessary to find time to remind mahself dat dey news is lies- dangerous ones

an babylon is castin spells ‘gainst us constantly an dats mighty tough

but we ain’t all ugly, water dry, and without patterns.

we love patterns

an royal colors

an sewing

an sowing

an Black is de color of folk who have moved galaxies wid our mind and hold anecdotes for stress in de smiles we so lovingly exchange

Africa is our sacred womb. she calls and inspires. waters our minds and she is de only thing close to a God we has.

our higher mother- ah wish ta find mahself enamored over an over

she chants us out of babylon an reminds us dat all things queer, Black, natural an otherwise was born of her

lies, convincing as they can be, cannot cast any shade on what creation is- on wat we is

ancestors,

mule bone,

rivers tellin horses

diaspora.

emancipation an jubilee.

an so Black is also de color of power and endurance. it is de color of those unmoved by the supposedly impressive. it is a love song an war cry. it is community tone an spirit an it can never be painted wicked by a few capitalist seeking profit from sensation. 

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