ugandabeinsanfrancisco

I sank my teeth, Into a delicious slice of cake, It melted more than broke, Down in my mouth. The dough and water, Sugar and butter, Form from fire, And a cake is made. To stretch one's minds, To reach for the heights, To bend and dig deeper, Then discover what is hidden. Put all pieces together, Collect and gather, Make new parts, To be whole again.

It is a prayer, May 25 heal, George Floyd you are on my mind, I see you as a martyr, In you a Black collective is at the crossroads, Asia, Europe and Africa meet around you, A revolution rose from your prone body, No more lies about who suffers, Your life clarified the expectation, To which a Black life, Was held by many, Your death gauged our measure of sanctity to life, I cried, I was sorrowful, No more again, Shall we treat, Any human with indignity. May 25 heal all of us, We are equally guilty, But collectively,  We are healers, to each other.

 Dark puffed swirls of clouds, gathered as if to tell, of a glorious future, these are shoots on the lips and tongues, of the cotton plantation slaves, the plantationers, you may think of an engine, and you will be forgiven, for your idea of a motor, I speak of another engine, bent and painstakingly sore, picking and cleaning cotton, you may think of autonomous machines, and you will be forgiven, for your idea of automated robots, I speak of a primo automaton, for the plantations had them first, picking and cleaning cotton, a self-driving and self-repairing engine, a self-guiding beast of burden, lagging heavy cotton-filled baskets, if the pangs of child-birth, sent pin-pricks of painful reminders, this bent expectant mother, most likely nauseated but energetic, with the heartburn searing the chest, waves of Braxton Hicks contractions, a shriek of pain, birth rivulets flow, knees bended and the woman lies prostate, on firm solid terra, this is Mother Nature's Temple, The burning bu

Daunte Wright, perhaps the previous night, must have written a text message, filled with youthful hope and excitement, of looking forward, to a time when COVID-19 is gone, to a day enjoying a ride, to a future when the DMV will open, In a car whose tags had expired, this fond son met his death, this car at one time, could have been,  a kitchen table pep-talk subject, a mother giving the talk, policing; use of brutal force and race, Kimberley Potter, another mother, a well trained Police officer, could not tell which side, the gun or taser was pouched, nor tell the feel of the gun grip,  police-work due diligence aside, after all this is a Black driver, half the work is done by gunning, then contemplate or ask questions later, and so in that tradition. a 20 year old Black male is gunned down, by a 26 year veteran of the Police, dedicated and loyal to the force, a member of an honor guard, the quintessential law enforcer, 'accidentally discharged a fire-arm,' and Daunte Wright wa

A Slave of Love Love overwhelms, presses you down, first is the sensation,  of a heart sinking then rising up or moving sideways, it is not a material gift, nor inane whispers, that stir the tempests, out of which warmth, escapes to bathe, the body with dizziness, and a cold elixir, to dole out sobriety

  Mandela’s Tie-and-Dye Fabric   ‘Your Worship I hold you in high esteem,’ Mandela addressed the White Court, A stern Drakensberg, Oversees vast vista’d plains, Of shrubs; gorges; rivers; flora and fauna, A beautiful homeland, To the tongue clickers, Gravity defying leapers, Fleet of feeters, Boers and Anglo settlers, All and others, It was such a time, To expose the violence, That apartheid unleashes, To those labelled non-white or Africans, Violence begets violence, A churning Charybdis, Devouring pleas for clemency, Drowning reason and decency, Tentacles of diabolical hubris, Bind both African and White, In a tumbling tackle, Of justice; love; wrath; hate; war; plunder, With no side victorious, Until at Ithaca, All attacking and war-weary sides, With bloodied swords and smoking guns, Which they would have used, To wipe down each other, Letting loose copious blood, Flowing over plains, Forming bloated and grotesque naumachiae Cringing on banks left soggy, With ripped arms and legs, S