Black Lives …

We do not reach enough readers as Black writers. The potential readers we write for and about are hardly interested in hearing about their wretchedness, our collective soci0-economic death. The Black women we wail for and worship at our altars of poetry, lyrical supplications and tearful prayers, are not there to listen to our cries for forgiveness, for understanding for making a revolution together. They are at the plantation, at the grinding stone, the marketplace and at the streetlight crossing the streets with our babies in their bellies, their backs and in both their hands, while heavy loads are on their heads …

Of course some are driving their hard earned sedans and SUV’s to ad from that hard earned job or business where they spend their hard earned time evading Black-Tax and the perennial toxic Black man …

Others are happily thriving while barely surviving the madness called the New Dawn, since they survived the Africanist Renaissance and its perils …our collective mortgaged lives spiralling on an anvil of hope, greed and antitrust while love languishes somewhere between the sacred silence and sleep …