My Black Agenda is to connect a lacking genealogy to a falsely advertised history,
For our tree has been pruned and truncated before full bloom.
Tell our story less insinuations that we are missing-
A tree has never been anything but vaultingly present.
We are wholly here in the now, beautifully seeping love from our cauterized limbs.
The white man told my eldest grandmother that she is an animal,
Unworthy of reason; capable of no more than manual labor; childbearing.
Confined to a birthing stable, greatgrandma forgot with age the tumbling seas that first led her to the stable.
With the passing of time greatgrandma forgot the black faces, hot clay, and rare gems of her birthplace, for the birthing stable of 4 closely kept walls lined with hay for comfort, had become her only sight.
Chattleminded we here are not beyond slavery.
Now our plight is larger than the other.
My black agenda is to bellow from my lungs that we are not equal, we are separate and distinct.
For we are formidable in stance, boulder-like and more lasting than Greek figures.
Be not afraid to bellow and boast of:
-The enduring of entrapment, exile, and disenfranchisement.
-The witnessing of collapse due to stagnation fiscal and mora.l
-The autonomous battling, asking whether your lips really are too wide, or your hair too thick or accent too ethnic.
Be not afraid to boast of woe, for they have been able to love while we have not yet lived.
Spirits have flown from bodies and flesh is animated no longer.
My black men and women are dying.
My neighborhood is dying.
My children are dying.
I refuse to die passively just because we have a black president.