Spoken Word: Wicked

While dancing around the fire, you aspire for the demise of roots, and dreadlocks. Flocking to the nearest barbershop with scapula in hand. Your plan, make them blonde with blue eyes. Make them unaware of themselves, straiten these nigga’s out…straiten their hair…make them the symbols of your dominion, and in them place the need to be like you…the wicked. Chanting hymns and booty songs, with perm kits and hot-combs, you create witches inflicted with your sick twisted thoughts for your brew.

You put roots on them, now their roots are thin from a chemical imbalance in the brain and the forgotten names of ancestral tribes. But they still jump high… So put a ball in their hand. They run fast… Put a ball in their hand. Breeder of Negro athletes. who you praise in the coliseum but when you see them on the streets you hide your cowardly hide…you pay these created goons to entertain you…not mingle where you reside. And the blind one-eye Cyclops thinks he’s not like the rest of them, but he forgot…he’s a nigga too…drinking from the same witches brew.

The recipe of Belle Curves define the id as indecent, illogical, immoral, insane, irrational, and ill-equipped. So you brand 6-6-6 on their existence, and convince them that their only power lie in their magic wand and crystal balls……… So they make babies. Haunting gargoyles, embroiled in ghetto séances. Looking past subtle nuances of death laying before them. And they swim in the fiery pit called projects. Attached to a demons umbilical cord called government checks. collecting bottles of the witches brew…death becomes you in a tightly woven six-pack of ghetto seeds. Intoxicated, ghetto breeds… the life of a witches deed.

The wicked witches of the wandering…who am I. Wondering… who am I…beyond the defined pillaged nature of the natural. Adulterated mind, captured soul cast into the brew. Hoping to keep them blind…but I see the witches and I name them. Like Salem… I am Abigail and I accuse them of witchcraft. In the forest of false freedom and Pharisees, I see them demonically calling the fall Jeremiah, Abraham, Saul, and their seeds.

I see White men holding the hands of Black leaders, who are in collusion with the intrusive justice system. And the apocalyptic pentagon preying on young minds to fight the front lines of lands that are foreign, to keep them apart from their daughters, who hold the hands of CEO’s, who know that Affirmative Action is the maxim for white women, who hold the hands of Uncle Sam as his taxes that act as an ax on my slave income, and in the middle of the circle was this dancing, prancing, dumb…nigga. Converted cohort of the chameleons.

But I speak a million phrases to be, witches brew does not phase me because I have God on my side. so I pray with eyes open, and slay the nigga as the witches hope that demise is swift. My fist, is of God and I cry for his help. Then rains of knowledge of me to know me come…and I see all the witches melt.

And Black is left standing


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