Southern trees, fallen leaves, strange fruit, bitter seeds sewn into the scorched earth. Witnesses at my birth said I should’ve been aborted, propaganda they reported. Taught that I was prone to violence so they liked to draw me wild’n, eating watermelon in a cage on monkey island. The self-portrait is of suffering and smiling. Raised on table scraps. White cotton, bent blacks, overseer ridin by whip in hand horseback. Read between the lines and see the centuries of blood dripping to the soil makin Alabama mud. And California love can’t erase these thoughts, so I’m sittin here writin out my pain in a park, feelin like I just passed through the darkest of darks. The humble mockingbird awaitin now the song of the lark. Been wadin in the water and prayin for dawn’s light. Baptized in the fire so my eyes shine bright. 

Singin a song called bruised in the key of blues. Dark berries, bittersweet, rockin dirty shoes. Worn out souls from marchin towards freedom. Feet blistered for the victory of sittin & eatin. Complex now, the struggle can’t explain how it’s black face on television sellin dope with a smile. The blood of former slaves around my way pitchin powder to the flock that followed MLK. And hey, we still cattle gettin herded by the gentry. Lookin for the promised land at best you get deferred entry. Last poet, my mouth is an african drum. Find the rhythm in the silence, beat it out with my tongue. And my cast iron, got the heart of a lion, the blood of the lamb, the scriptures in the palm of my hand. You can read it when I lay my Ms across your chest. I be the final revelation of that gospel text.