(after ishmael reed’s “i’m a cowboy in the boat of ra”)

like prometheus in adidas,
i spew askew / a lyrical backfire,
a black, elemental mist that is
pumpernickel, periwinkle, amethyst:
the thesis for a pickled pig-footed
prose; the placebo and the poison;
1 part geronimo, 9 parts geronimo
ji-jaga pratt. lean into my curb-side
sonnet / a pan-africanism on
metformin and psilocybin. so now,
all i need is a red, black, and green
liberation jumpsuit, a horn section,
and half a dozen background singers
accompanying me as i walk to work,
gone to catch up on a week’s worth
of freeverse / flashbacking into
old stanzas and cold phrases
panning for gold / a sold sign
unfurling from my tongue; my lungs
a black matter alive and thriving,
my ginsu upgraded to machete
and all this confetti made of my
opposers; the pile is riled up and
me left holding the bag…

and a box of matches.