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So What! (for the white dude who said dis ain’t poetry) (1997) a dripping arrogance in [|sycophantic] half steps a literary [|tarzan] trying to save the natives from they own ignorance short on knowledge, long on knowing he instructs without reference

“no [|dialectics] needed [|sambo], your thing just is not poetry” Said the representative Never been in the mines Never sweated riches but ‘[|bwana] knows best’

a minute man wit a culture 30 seconds old ain’t poetry? mmmmm……. maybe if I throwed [|soup cans] in it or something obscure dark & cryptic alluded to hackneyed over hyped dead writers & avoided references to [|the dark continent] of my origin this work could be saved

ain’t poetry minute rice analysis cracker instant oats pour in europe and stir; a cold water recipe …meanwhile my village dances to simmering rhythms spiced by intellectual development measured in tens of thousands of years

homer, his lips stuck to the chilly nipple

of his mother’s frozen breast,

could only dream civilizations

as dark men & women built pyramids

& shaped words to fit eternity

poets retired & came back as ancestor spirits

while greece contemplated a working alphabet & gods

but this shit ain’t poetry cause johnny come lately say so

…and he should know ain’t poetry? our systems were a mystery alexander burned all that he & aristotle couldn’t understand the ensuing blaze warmed the icecapade continent as the pillaging plagiarizers worked their un magic in the fire’s light

ain’t poetry? the sails on your scholar ship are bloody you scribble death upon the pages on the world persecuting your brightest stars, preferring whoring scribes who search for insignificance to entertain the inane …so dis ain’t poetry…so you dis’n me?

ain’t poetry, huh? ain’t india either ! what is round, rotating and will never fit into a box marked trite poetric conventions: the world and its inhabitants you are trying to fold the world in half to place it neatly into your square mind

ain’t poetry?\ ain’t dat a bitch! a new jack dis half empty memory banks culture validated by gun powder your qualifications are shaky like a bamboo bridge stretched across the white supremacist of waters of your existence you are still preaching the missionary position as the native re-read the karma sutra

a day late, a dollar short always missing the bus you are peeing in the snow while we design a papyrus for the living a patronizing peeping tom seeing in but unable to decipher without an oxford interpreter

we are a black fire burning across the pages of your random house guide to modern American poetry where you cannot find references to shine or even [|signifying monkeys] we have left your meter in shambles as we laugh at you tripping over lemons piled on the steps

the drumming you hear coming from the hills ain’t poetry either (but of course it is!) it is the maroons planning your demise it is ritual music and david walker’s appeal it is brown hips dancing verses it is what it feels like to be kissed by full lips

it is natural like sun ra returning in a Charlie parker space ship from wit’ no names while europe sails the wrong way in search of a short cut to imperialism

damn clumbus, you are lost and desperate and denying the only music you really hear you riggin’ with a trumpet that plays one note while the planet be’s and bops like cotrane start hopping through the theloniosphere as a white boy from downbeat points to the heavens & screams, “that ain’t music, that ain’t music!”

we are like miles

a black whirlwind

wit a red trumpet,

blowing blue stanzas

saying, so what!

yeah goddamn it

SO WHAT!!