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COMPOSITE OF A KING


Brothaman,
a sistah god gave you birth.
From the womb, you emerged the color of earth —
a be-locked divinity anointed in glistening perfume
and immersed in history.
A sensual Shango-son emitting the
voodoo of heaven upon which you were baptized
and sanctified with spotlights that shine
through the black of your eyes,
that are accented with gleams of white-hot suns.
When you enter a room, you are able to
come in peace to make your own power audible
under a marquee made by Orisha and
comprised of stars — oozing masculinity and
thriving in the presence of female potency.

Because you are blessed by super-nature,
you don\’t have to walk, you glide
fat lips, slim hips you carry knowledge of your ancestry
and armed with your wisdom,
you\’re the perfect brotha for me.

Nu-Afrikan King you breathe poetry from the lungs;
tenets of justice flow from your tongue;
musical, magical vocals slide from your throat;
you carry laws of righteousness in
the pockets of your coat.
It is imprinted on your mind to
abide by the laws that gods wrote.
On this frigid frightening planet exists
versatile you and you represent
in any situation you choose.
You can vibe those who
choose ordinary pursuits
and guide your brothas
without lecturing condescendingly,
or ever having to cower on street corners
smoking your legacy in clouds of trees.
And though the world on a daily beats you down
you address your own shortcomings and
never wear your Afrikan-ness as a crutch,
but always a crown.
Because you are blessed by super-nature,
you don\’t have to walk, you glide
fat lips, slim hips you carry knowledge of your ancestry
and armed with your wisdom,
you\’re the perfect brotha for me.

Spirit-being, cheetah-quick you jump in to correct
the missteps of those who serve to oppress;
and alone in your home you deprogram from stress.
You commune with your creators as a ritual,
grateful for your daily bread —
evoking spirits through a lighting of
seven scented candles on your altar;
reciting blessings in the names of your ancestors --
allowing from this plane you
to momentarily depart and
wade beyond slavery and the middle passage
to the motherland\’s heart.

Because you are blessed by super-nature,
you don\’t have to walk, you glide
fat lips, slim hips you carry knowledge of your ancestry
and armed with your wisdom,
you\’re the perfect brotha for me.

Sugar-god, you are the inspiration of hymns,
with the aroma of nutmeg and clove
rising from your onyx limbs.
I meander in your arms as we kick back discussing:
The Black Panthers and the Ten Point Program\’s rise;
how the Mirabal sisters became butterflies;
the Black Liberation Army and Assata\’s fight;
reparations and human rights;
the meaning of revolution and Malcolm X;
how Black self-love gets taken out of context;
and making babies and educating them for liberation\’s future.
And while we lay in our symbiotic structure
I know it\’s me for you and you for me
\’til oppression fades away and is dismissed;
\’til the world of injustice cease to exist;
\’til the current class system is dilapidated;
\’til the words “let freedom ring!”
are worth celebrating.

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