Slapboxin fa memory/
come quilombo!
Mosi Ighzebier
i sat across
from our enemy yesterday.
and experienced their enflamed breath manifest in your grammar(s)
An ancestral response, i stepped away. And helped work on your place in the hills
You of so much harm and impunity, my brother.
You of too much acceptance in desolate desires, my sister
Deserve a space amongst us in the hills.
Free to bare nakedness in the coming together of new order(s).
To my siblings and family in struggle, however, you present. Let rhythms of grandguiders hum.
"This mmooovement willl heal youu." Too.
Let footsteps on this earth, puncture withered armors of our enemies. Planted steps drumming "What we have always known..known..known"
Should mothers' descendants acquire all memory/
\And stretch her hands
Remnants of your exhaust could never asphyxiate.
Our spaces in ruin, wail for our own bias. So yes, i left you in that moment and left the sadism.
Only to return with your train ticket to the hills.
Maybe i am not a revolutionary/should i go
yet/in my time
Inclined to write of that True half of life,
i
garnered all of the unmanifested salt of mine imaginary
The water flows. still. Losing its perfect memory.
Soaked by jagged steel corrupting and corroborating this pain and the
despair. Life's True Half.
Until a star of change hit, illuminating. i must be a revolutionary. There are
no alternatives for ini.
The people of the sun.
RAHHHH, wailing. As we thrust the life force of our imaginary upon the (dark
spirit) warriors of mourn and to-mourn.
To Imani, our born-unborn: Child, should i go before life–this iteration–grants your
beauty to its companions. Be still in that we battled fiercely that first step of the
revolution.
The corrupted individual: those cursed elements of spirit due for purge.
Change! Before implosion. Before the inward consumption of thought. Vacuums
Vacuums.
Selah.