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
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
no
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)
Copyright 1999.
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 sevenfootpoet@gmail.com.
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