Language Art

She said, “we don’t play Ackee, we eat it”.
See…language is fun-ny like that we all
speak some sort of it but those who speak through
language like a Blue Mountain breeze floating
through window screens and inhale aromas
of the land, understand that “language is…
the only homeland” and native tongues are
not split but together. Dialectic
rhythmic measurements of past events scribed
by hands motivated by past movements
that hit hearts, my words…middle passage(s),
my hands are enslaved by inner rhythm
that drums as ores row…sailing…on my way
to destiny that I know is not in
any way promised but to be honest
the art is what keeps it alive. I…live
in a prism of the deepest hues and catch
cues that though we may not know it I speak
for you, not your thoughts—…your vibes shake me
and shaped me and taught me that we are more
alike than we would like to think. I…see
a renaissance coming where actors die
and thinkers fly, while they scribe the next few
chapters of history, clutching pens fueled
by fury that spew ink of blood ‘cause this
is me but also you, if you opened
your eyes maybe you’d see that too. My words
are the last mutterings of dead poets
breathing their last breaths staring through window
screens catching that last breeze before it’s all
gone for good, and ab-use of language is
what you consider art—all in façade.
Where is poetry today?...In the clutch
of know-it-alls and networking masters,
organizers, attention seekers. Me—
I’m an exception, I am a bleeder
and a healer, an exception to your
scene. You build Acts but I’d rather build
my own Globe ‘cause Rome wasn’t built in a day
but damn sure fell in one in the name of
Greed.