Spare me the fan fiction.
Spare me the counterfeit
morality. Spare me the
bankrupted hymns of
polluted country. Allow
me to dig into my black
crate for liberation music,
for the perfect anti-system
record to make sense
of America’s guttural blues.
Dead Prez. Public Enemy.
Fela Kuti. Kendrick Lamar.
This is S-Dot scripture,
a black fist raised over
piggish culture. Place
the pot on low heat. Let
the gumbo simmer. Let
me sip a bold brew and
gamble with ambitions.
You can’t make “traitors
into saints and racists into
patriots.” American pathology
is sick. Wounded. Conservative
talking heads vomit red
waves of child-like narcissism.
Gas lighting liberals shuck
and jive for conformity
and the status quo, tap
dancing above the fray,
avoiding conflict, and righteous
rhythm. They ain’t got rhythm.
Press the gas pedal, leave
behind them ideas, walking
on cracked trotters. Them
three-piece suits don’t hang
right on slimy bodies. I blend
into the metallic belly of East
Virginia Beach Boulevard,
inhaling Hot 91’s vibes, and
laughing at the Far Right’s
attempt to control the feelings
of an unkempt morning,
turning up my nose at
liberal smears and fears,
too busy inhaling levels,
liberating the God within.
The Official Website of Synnika A. Lofton 