in his review of Butterfly Voyage, 
a book of poems, the author professes:

“the opportunity to follow the poet 
at every turn into her natural world 
drifting supernaturally in fuid narrative”

such poet, obviously, is not black
for who ever floats headfirst
into black whimsy, from concrete 
towards the arcane, expecting
anything less than anger or
orgasm or a bucket of chicken?

ali was, himself, a floater
a black butterfly with
a lubricated jawline and
a muscular lip dripping of rhyme
he could also, of course, beat
the shit out you if your thought
was to deny him his wings
so i guess that’s a wash

they love to see us rumble but
take flight when we mumble spells
and i guess that’s a magic, right?
turning the bee’s thorn
into a mystic baton, the black voice
into a vaccinating sting.