by Rob Gibsun
Alright class, I’ll be giving a quick demo
on how to rewrite history! How, you ask?
First, by reversing the hearses, then rehearsing the verses
And last, by crafting a new zoom lens for the literary Canon—
BACK to black and white history: Freeze the shutter speed
and see we’ve been overexposed by our own photonegativity.
Though, I’m positive, if you juxtapose pyramids with plantations,
you’ll see we all waded in water for salvation then caught a case of PTSD:
Post-Triangular Slave Disorder—Whip/Lash/Back/FLASH!
When Africans were planted in New England’s land
and plowed so hard they could not stand—
I rose rolling with Paul Robeson and Moses ninasimoaaaanin’
“Pharao, Let my people GROW! Let my people KNOW!”
Instead, he said “NO.”
So I borrowed a rod from my homie Yah,
hitch-hiked a ride to the top the shrine,
broke into the prism, whipped him with wisdom,
stripped him naked and made it rain eyes on the blind
YOU SEE—Once upon a time, our chains started breaking.
Then once upon a time, cocaine met Ron Regan: NEWS FLASH!
Contra-crooks posing as Merry Men robbed the hood of all its good
and sparked the fusefor the crack/baby/BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
Dear whomever, Remember, Remember!
I was born in 1990, precisely 3 months past the 5th of November.
You may call me V with a Vendetta. Nonetheless, Peace is my berretta
and this Scarlet Letter is a medal reminder that in the name of audre,
I flew the Black Unicorn to the Battle of Wall Street
charging to withdraw my green from the PAY/TREE/ARCHY.
And when they denied, I spit flames at its gasoline vines, dyin’
to set THE ROOTS, THE ROOTS, THE ROOTS ON FIRE!
In the name of alliance, cents/less foes sell a nice game
but they lyin’—I ain’t buyin’; I’m slyer
than Icarus divin’ from Mount Olympus
on a stealth mission to stab Poseidon
with his trident—‘til silence!
Gad-zukes! I said “My-my bad Zeus,
‘twas a terrible triumph but I’m but a Parable Pirate
who seized the seas with unbearable riots;
so that the seized would be freed from America’s bias.”
He opened my treasure chest, sighed and said
“My God, your heart was touched by Midas—here’s a constellation prize!”
Behold, a Kodak smile!
Class, according to the Mayans it’s half past 20:12 and we’re running out of time
so let me fast-forward this flash-fictional poem into scripture:
Mix the logical rhythms with mythological figures (not the narrow-minded convictions of misguided religions) divine rhyme intervention inhibits suspicion from inflicting sublime intuition, look inside and just listen to envision the wildest inventions this side of the Missis-sip on the finest elixir, no serving time in this sentence so graphite for your rights to write a timeless description!
Whether his/story or her/story, this story is ours to edit. But check it—
Beware of your futures; life is a class you might pass—tuh!
So you’ve got to be more than “PRESENT!”