Bold collard green skies with neckbone clouds and pigfeet adornment held up high. I am in the soul world as seen through the eyes of a manumitted slave off west African shores beheld by the cold grasp of time and earth made into manacles to hold back power in blackness that is unrelated to the shadow of the other that dares to think that a creation of God is 3/5th of what God intended it be, to castrate his captives true identity with the undulating waves of the middle passage. Can the human in his brain get over hills and not let his reach exceed his grasp and turn dirt into hoppin john, turn hay into pot ash pie and eke meat out of darkness to season the sinew in his loins with the porcine sweetness of savory thick as his lips black pepper corn bacon.
He aint got no missus or wife. ‘Cause he aint no man. He just a turbine unfixed from his motherland and unhinged from his past like a woke workin mushroom, a crying spore. Caught in the musty scent of the present and in the angles of his back sores. His work weren’t never enough and the over seer was blind in both eyes, didn’t have a third so he was not able to see the light to disabuse the truth of its shade.
I’s a man and I work but ain’t got no man powers. My sweetest part I done lost once the slavers sucked me up in a cane straw. I been worn to where I ain’t got no shout. I been torn to pieces asunder in eyes that know nothing but fear and doubt. I can’t plow or tend nothing because nothing is mine except my skin and my scars. And I’s ain’t unbreakable but broke broke. Wounded till aint no more of me but chunks of old dry blood and hope that I done had but can’t have no more cause time is done. I can’t change into the substance of night; that’s the reason my skin, lips and ass know only blight.