work experience:

i am spirit-machine; 3 centuries of soapstone and cowrie shell and 
post-modern mythical technology. mine’s is a digital rasp; i’m a son 
of shango and not a son of shaft nor the mr. bojangles iphone app
many of you want me to be.

7 generations removed, i am an ashanti king-wannabe in dada sneakers
shooting dice for ramens money between the black muslims’ mosque
and the used bookstore that was once a whites-only museum.

only my tongue is temple. a collection plate of black consciousness;
séance as equally sacred as science.

according to a long-lost voodoo calendar
i was borne in the year of the zombie.

i am spirit-machine…

machine-gun-runner-supreme; there is afro-sheen in my circuitry;
my nano-sciences glow and they gleam; my motherboard teems 
with songs-to-honor-the-dead-by… the shoes of the fisherman’s wife
is some jive ass slippers is my theme-song / the entire junior kimbrough
discography is a rotating ringtone, and elegba beatboxes in my voicemail. 

i’m forever rhyming under rubble, squeezing blood from the blues
(and when lucky, its titties). i live on and on; the living loop sample 
for the ancestors. but even Don Cornelius ages… and i have yet to have 
The Sons and Daughters of Nat Turner follow back when i heart-thingie 
their posts on instagram, i’m really distraught over it. i may need therapy.

or in the very least, a sincere hug… or a good cry over black coffee.

i am spirit-machine. a ghost of malcolm x-mas past. egungun ex machina.

but i work well with others and need zero supervision to complete a task.

things about myself i can improve:

i harbor a grudge. and would like to remove
the elmer fudd tramp stamp tattooed on my back… 
and brussels sprouts – i’d like to eat a fuckin’ brussel,
just once, like a goddamn adult. and hotwire a police car
after robbing a bank. maybe die cinematically in a hail of gunfire
after kidnapping the banker’s daughter and maybe not be
bludgeoned to death for eating a bag of skittles. 
be remembered as a poet. another black assed fuckin’ poet.
and marry for good credit instead of all this tiring love.