They stopped me in my tracks, those words.
But those are words of they who fall madly with books and then go mad with thoughts on the human condition.

 

How now could they find grace – manifest,
in the utterance of this Many-festation?

 

How now?

 

Why not me, who six years,
four-eyed and blistered finger,
flit in shinny halls where such
utterance were to be peed-on
me for to down-press The Harlem’s' many-festations?

 

How now?

 

Why not me?

 

With these words I'd be rich.

 

Ah, these words are to be a book at $15.

 

There are a million copies to be sold.

 

I am rich, RICH.

 

I am a leader.

 

I am a leader.

 

Media seek my words,

and I masturbate to them those words of Harlem,

those words of ‘ignorant men’ spoken to enlighten my ignorance.

 

I pay no royalties.

 

See the laurels adorning me.

 

I am rich beyond imagining.

 

’Now sir author, tell me of your people,
will this be a long hot summer?’

 

The cracker said your people.

 

I have a people now.

 

The media seek my words.

 

I am a leader.

 

See the laurels adorning me.

 

I am your leader.

 

Cramp, cramp, my people;

 

I am your leader, you know.

 

Sir leader to you.

 

Do I not coffee with David Hartman,
change seats on Ed McMahon,
and do I not" Stepen Phetchit in the Rose Garden?

 

My people, like I’ve been to the Mountain Top.

 

“Mark now my words”, many-festation said,
“Your knees ain’t black enough.”

 

Father of my fathers,
fratricidal blood taints your promise hand.

 

Hear now mothers of my fathers,
hear now my recompense:
'Till now I was Argus to the promise.

Asuer, Kronkron Tano Asuer, by my redeemer now.
I slew my brother.

 

I slew him.

 

I as much as slew him when I took his words.

Those words I fancied to make me rich, a leader, you know.

 

(Long pause)

 

He said, “ you're a young man,
and this I care you understand:
‘The mind is a mother;
the mind is a mother’.

 

With these words he returned
me from my fancy to a second
chance to listen and away the fratricidal blood.

 

Ragged and stink he is beyond the capacity of water.
But he is my redeemer.

Ragged and stink he is beyond the capacity of water.

AND HE IS MY REDEEMER.

He stood on my path,
a light too strong for my eyes.

 

He opened his lips.

 

And must they not have
longed to be kissed.

 

But who would.
When is a fortune in a sewer is a fortune lost!

 

His lips opened wider.

 

The stench sat on my face.

 

Then he said, while my feet was still groping for its swiftness:
“The mind is a mother”. “The mind is dangerous.”
“It can run you over as easy as the cars on the street.
The mind is not for thinking. You're a young man,
and I am begging you,
DON'T THINK.
Look at you, you are thinking and thinking,
and you will never solve this, every answer begs another question.
It is hopeless young man.
Don't think.
But when you think,
and I know you can't stop thinking,
STAY IN Y OUR OWN MIND.
GET OUT OF MY HEAD”.

 

I wanted to go but why did I stay.

 

I would have dismissed him.

But I was convinced that he was mad I wanted to go.

And why did I stay.

 

As for riches he's not rich.

As for literacy, he's not literate.

How then, if not by fraud did he obtain such healthy words in such an unhealthy being?

How else?

 

Who did he mug?

 

I shall not overlook them.

I shall remember them for a reward I know will be posted.

He stopped me in my tracks.

My misinformation he ajarred,
opening to be uninformed.

He erased me, my mind.

 

Push the red button.

 

I record me the uninformation:
“STAY IN YOUR OWN MIND”.

And I a latent thief now has the good bag of the samfi-man,
the misfortuned sailor.

I'll be rich.

A leader, you know.

 

The media will seek my words.

 

But how did he obtain these words,
this wisdom?
And why not me?

Why not me, who six years, four-eyed and blister fingered, flit in shinny halls where such utterance were to be pissed on me for to down-press the Harlem’s' many-festations.

 

How now?

 

Why not me?

 

I'd be a leader, you know.

Moving on up to the East Side.

 

By Kwasi Akyeampong ~ ~