Particular and Wavy Blackness (Cosmic Soup)

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 29, 2018

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Submitted: July 29, 2018

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I can hear the voices in your head asking me "what are you going to write me today?", to which I reply well, do you want poetic prose or prosaic poetry? Settling for an option in between I try to put it all together and begin the task of a primordial, pre-natal and post-traumatic mathematics; an arithmetic that has something to do with white people saying we are none, Allah saying he is one, Dubois saying he is two, Mingus saying he is three, Oshun saying she is befour, and Dani saying she is fire. The numerology initiates its guerrilla campaign against the understanding with a nightmare of questions;

What is Black?:

Black is joy and pain and possibility. Gloriously fallacious, salacious, Thelonious, with a side of Mac and Cheese. Black is the breaking of the chain, not just the chain to slavery but the chain to a war for freedom. Black is less of a blackout, the absence of illumination, than it is a black light, which offers a means of illuminating differently. Black inhabits a quantum field of unknowing, between that which takes form and who that makes formulation. Black is less geographical than it is political, less temporal than it is historical. It transcends space and time and thus is fitting of the label of a truth. Its the subject of eternal contemplation within the mind of the immortal entanglement, the bad/glad/sad scientist, the theoretical socialist. You may look at me and ask, "well what are you gonna do with that major?" but you forget that dark matter vastly eclipses its so-called enlightened counterpart, that every galaxy literally revolves around Blackness. Like clockwork, the kabala around the metaphysical kabaa is the ceremony of the universe. You might call it prayer, but I call it study.

From within the orbit of the opaque and omniscient obsidian, the Soul Train, the Get Down, the Bey Hive, I take Afro-Atlantic flight upon a tangential path to acquaint myself with the trajectory of the gunflower. In the dream that is the future, or maybe its cousin, I tell her that I know I told her I would write her a book someday but right now I would rather just say sorry, acknowledge and surrender to the kinesthetic hapticality of her erotic power, maybe even call her Lorde, or King, or X. Never letting go of the past that is not past I, teary and starry eyed, depart from watching God and return to her mother, who tells me to be quiet, to stay still, to come home.

And so when Pac says "the ground is gonna open up and swallow the evil" I feel myself surrender to a fall 2 grace, which is less of a descent than it is an arrival, a survival. In my return to the source, amorphous viscous transitory, I take refuge in the fact that the death of "me" is the birth of "we" in an attempt at the disavowal of radical lonliness, the cutting short of a solipsist solo soliloquy. On the way, which is to say all the time, I turn around to look at my oppressor and tell them/it/whatever, "just to be clear, I do not want what you have. I do not want to want what you have. I do not want your government, or your religion or your language or your money, though I would like my money back. I want to wholly and totally refuse what you have, and I want you to refuse it too.

Away from the brutal inequations of your racial calculus, away from your counting and your lack of counting and your need to be held accountable, I rest in peaces and close my I's in consent to be more plus less than one. And when you ask "who killed me?", we will say "nobodies"


© Copyright 2018 Jabril Muhammad. All rights reserved.

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