the 'Religion of Beautiful' is something I realized not long ago - the ritual of rawness of self and self's questioning. This is black people. We religiously worship and curse God, Life. Everything about black people is religious, in the devotion, in the diligence, in the faith sense of religious. And, it's the honesty of our actions that make us beautiful. Yes, black as a people is the duality of being the most masterful warrior battling an equally masterful warrior - self. And, yes black as a people is a love-hate relationship with the world. Still, the African-African American-Afro American-Negro-Black contribution to this world is amazing. So, please do not only give thanks, receive thanks. You are due . . .

(listen to La's Spoken Word: 'Black Snow'

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how beautiful it would be, if black snow fell from the sky
i see myself running through it to catch every drop

To the right, the Ebony Blaze of Black Rose
Swelled with majestic petals, whose mystic equal the moon's
Inhale her until dew moistens your consciousness,
crystallizing each thought into a flake of Black Snow

each flake falls in my heart, an essential drop of my soul
each flake the fate of a brother or sister, who has come or gone

To the left is not what is left at all
But what is more
Shimmering shadows of boundless men, whose eyes
tell more stories than each thread of the finest linen

the men I love,they have soiled their garb, they scorn their crowns
and, my sisters, they don't recognize the true fabric of their gowns

Overwhelmed is all that can come from this Divine Union

we are so strong, yet we don’t know
Nah - I mean, no

outside conscious possibility/in the realm of unknown possibility/energy is infinite. blindness is its kissing cousin. shut your eyes, pawn your mouth + all will be known + achievable

life is hard. every day i wonder why one mo’again. life + i are twins. when i walk, my heel meets the dirth. my frame muzzles through light. my head bows only 2 the natural, unexpected smiles; eyes, pulling; a child passionate 4 quenched curiosity. this is when i bow, relieved. good peppers my path. i need only notice

shift

call upon the earth + she honors presence with one-seventh her lot

call on the wind + he carries with him

call out 2 fire + chaotic poetry of the universe sautees a heated discussion with my pen

energy leisures, waiting 4 a sign. say it, simply. think it, clearly. wish it, in prayer. it hears. i hear. it has sought my request longer than i will ever know. point is, now I know

searching 4 it, i remained chained at the back of the bus. didn’t even walk on – was dragged on, chained + left 2 soak. strangers stop awhile, visually inquiring. water bubbles bounce from my towel. doors held from the moment i noted my intent 2 enter, exit – 2, 3, a couple bodies later. my towel is damp. midgets + munchkins; old folks + pom poms, watching a while, smiling, some sharing her or his view. my towel crawls from water. ticking meters, extra helpings, designed designs. Another towel please. it has always been with me, dipping your view in seven air

spiritual

i use 2 skip. my father would walk straight. he knew i saw him + i would follow, but in my own way. i would skip along, wait awhile, skip some more. cartwheels. hop scotch. the path was little fun without some twist

i was spiritual by conception. my energy a visual cue of everything. orange, yellow, both in shades of mahogony, illuminating from my skin. flesh is no longer my spiritual house. some pass spliffs 2 reach a level of being spiritual. my mind, my body intertwine 2 create me

destiny

one day i couldn’t skip any more. skinned my knee

no more leading by example. role models, alternate. we traded walks 4 talks. mincing words until the spirit of the conversation is less + less pre-meditated, my time. poured from the inside, a large craft of sappy vinegrette. no organs, just over-well done potential

but then, well done is the objective



Sunday? No, I don’t work on Sunday. Hell, I won’t keep company who is too business-inclined on Sunday

‘Come Day
Go Day
God Send Sunday’

Sunday was the only day slaves could look forward to. Otherwise, the field stretched from one end of the earth to the other, day in and day out, season after season with a half-day off saturday – perhaps

A whole day off Sunday

‘Cept fo Sunday, the day never really ended. Twenty-four hours is a whole lot’a time to tangle with keeping ones distance from ‘impudence.’ On the other, it is a whole lot’a time to be taking from the management – more properly pronounced 'surviving'

yes, lord

Hell, I don’t like using a broom. Be down on my hands and knees, fingers plucking up crumbs of this and bits of that. Brooms seem too sacred for sweeping. They more like tools for union than means for separation

I lack answers to a heep of questions – asked and not

But I know not to work on Sunday