ugandabeinsanfrancisco

 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