Amaretto Sour | Black Agenda Report

Kemet Mawakana

07 May 2008

by Kemet Mawakana (aka “The Seven-Foot Poet”)

This week the poet signs a hymn in praise to someone who never knew her own greatness back in the day, and hopes that she is rising now.

Click the link below to hear or to read

Amaretto Sour

(The audio for this poem is temporarily unavailable.)

I saw

what she could be

before she ever imagined

that she was more -- than a whore – to hormonal – desires.

Wish that she could have been then what she probably

– hopefully is now.

But I’m not certain because I haven’t seen her in 5 years

since Waaay back when cause I been workin

like eli whitney never invented the cottin gin -- he didn’t.

She told me

she was going to the Motherland

had some fancy fellowship or was it – the Peace Corps

It doesn’t matter

I just hope that she sought

to address the demons that arrest and detain

her Sande Society ascension to a higher plane dimension existence.

Did I mention

She’s what’s called in the streets a cheap nut or slut

like the lotto – Powerball!

No pun intended any number could win

and there was a different winner winner winner winner win-her

eeeairy weekend.

Smile and spend some conversation and wink

just buy her a drink of AMARETTO SOUR

and at the end of the hour

she was yours for that night.

See she tricked misedjamacated into claimin’ she a feminist

and white women was her sis?

Hence her plight in life filled with confusion strife

that she denied.

Damage done

by father

figure

she could never trust any man

so she trusted them all

and the all lived down to her ex-pect-ta-shuns.

She had issues like plan-tay-shuns

have histories of un-tolled horrors.

Look at the exterior there’s exquisite beauty but

dig deep beneath and there’s a crustaceous contorted aura.

Here’s a rusty laser razor blade to castrate the low self-esteem

internalized oppression and self-hate.

They hinder her from being more that a disappointing mediocre.

Boy if I could yoke her and yell at her soul:

DARE TO BE GREAT!

But she would rather rollerblade

or ice-skate on the thin ice that separates

her fragile psyche from actualizing a higher African reality.

HEY!

I - don’t - blame - her

and I certainly couldn’t claim or tame her.

Well? Maybe I could

but I’ve got my own issues and although they allow me to see hers

they burn me up like the Hindenburg

airship

so I switch back to AMARETTO SOUR.

And wonder at this

moment hour

is she sexin some strange man

an enemy white jewish arab asian

or has she ejaculated her frailties to become more than an easy lay?

Is she rising up on the bay of the Ivory Coast bringin hope like

tomorrow?

Or is she still a slave to the ghost that haunt her head

and drive her to finding AMARETTO SOUR

another man and or woman and Satan

smiles

because instead of Obatala’s or Yemoja’s child

realizing her perfect potential to obliterate to smithereens

any and eeairy obstacle and emerge a Queen

I shed a tear because only I have seen

what she could be

before she ever imagined

that she was more

much more

than a whore

to hormonal desires.

And I write this poem not to tear down

but to inspire

some sister

unbeknownst to me

sittin at the bar about to drink AMARETTO SOUR

meet the next cute guy

she hasn’t met yet

give him sex

and continue to suppress her greatness.

You are the holiest of holies since before KMT.

It’s not too late miss

I will love you hug you protect you

non-sexually

like you was my big sis!

Wish

I knew what AMARETTO SOUR

was up to now at this moment hour.

She don’t know that I still pray on my knees at night

that she become great in an unfathomable fashion

but she don’t have my passion for

herself

or the emancipation of her apex.

She lets

laytex condom confetti corrode in the crevices of the handcuffs

on her vision constricting further

her myopic ambitions

and she wishin for a single calm breathe but

rest

because she lets

her lonely spirit articulate entrapped echoes at night

in empty liquor glasses of

AMARETTO SOUR

on ice.

And I write

this miss not to tear down but to uplift.

Yet I learned the hard way to let go

or get a herniated disc

in my back

but will she track like Jackie Joyner Kersey

or Marion Jones

those pains that give no mercy to the core of the bones

of AMARETTO SOUR.

She’s just a seed

but I see that she can be a

great great great flower.

Indeed indeed indeed

she don’t know

that I still pray on my knees at night

and pour libation to ase-sa yaa wearin all white

askin

that she become great great great

in an unfathomable way

fashion and save -- herself -- a nation.

I’m askin

the bartender for some help

advice

for free

if he don’t send her another AMARETTO SOUR drink

will she think

about what she

could really be

if she is more than a whore to hormonal desires

and overcame the smoke inhalation

fumes flames and pains of human development

from livin in an anti-African society

that socializes her to hate her melanin?

Will she begin again to walk in her ancestors’ footprints

instead of focusin in on gettin’ bent?

She got ta walk on the earth.

She got ta walk on the water.

She got ta walk on the air.

She got ta walk on the clouds.

She got ta walk on the sky.

She got ta walk on the moon.

She got ta walk on the stars.

She got ta walk on the sun.

Then let her take one more step to mark the fact that

her journey has just begun.

AMARETTO SOUR.

By Kemit Mawakana (aka The Seven-Foot Poet)

Peace (when appropriate) War (when necessary)

Kemet Mawakana (aka “The Seven-Foot Poet”) is a highly acclaimed spoken-word artist, and has published two books A . . . Z . . . Infinity and Crucifixion of My Soul. The collective body of his works presented weekly in BAR are in tribute to Listervelt Middleton, Dr. John Henrik Clarke, and “For The People”. Currently, he is a facilitator at AYA Educational Institute (www.ayaed.com) and can be reached at [email protected].

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