Written by:
Towana Pierre
About:
Thomas Covington Dent
Honey coated lies slip seamlessly through time's decrepit hands.
Great poets writhe in the void of the gospel, or history, as we know it.
Tom's night dreams flit in the shadow of broken lessons.
His incantations fall hollowly, skimming the bourbon-coated streets of his Danny Barker haunted fantasies.
Enchanted calls of capitalism beckon chocolate hearts, drowning Etheridge's belly song in the silence of a private prison bar slam.
Green grass browns in the shade of yellow balloons. Nothing to phone home about. Just another broken spirit.
Asha Bandele's prayer for the living falls on deaf ears of long-locked warriors whose eyes are glazed over by nature's painkillers. They gaze in blank adoration on token items of the revolution. Kente cloth, How to Get Dreaded Fast manuals, on sale now.
Chancellor Williams reflects on the vision of sun-kissed warriors bathing in the glow of ceremonial fires. Sand invades palatial civilizations with blood-hungry conquerors intent on plundering the earth's womb.
Yet, behind feathered masks of nonchalance, the ancestors live on,
crouching in the crevices of glass-strewn avenues, watching from seemingly sinister skies over neighborhoods set on self-destruction.
The spirits of the old rise in a deafening mantra, trailing silky strands of pride and confidence into our sub consciousness.
And, on the breeze lingers the lone whisper, "Legacy."