Intro

Have we not programmed our lives to a haven of black boxes and loudspeakers

Connected to the knowledge bases of our infertile minds

Have we not washed from birth as you idolized and worshipped men of color

Not our black and white Moshoeshoe figures?

We soul-subtract the soul-survivors in the fourth world war of the soul-destruction.

We navigate our vision with a northern star and trace the path between

Adam and Eve back to the point where the Lord made Jesus his son

And put him down on earth to lead us.

See, this is the return of the dragon.

I'm not talking about Bruce Lee; I'm talking about true heat.

And it's either you've got cold feet, or you've got some poetry.

They say the good die young, the crackheads live long

So we crack open our heads to poetry and process it

Through the thousand convertible engines in the back room

The top shelves of our medulla oblongata.

And we stroke the marinated chocolate skin of this fine rhymes

The sweet sounds, the diversion of deep speech of this

White, pink, gray, black mixed-race queen as we use our pen to rip our panties off.

Lie in bed and cover ourselves with an A4 blanket and move and groove

As we engage in coitus to produce that fetus that when fully grown, we call it poetry.