tell my momma i’m up before 9am

plottin escape from the empire again

throwin rocks at a man-made sun

gathering firewood for the pentagon

practicin my slingshot stance

tryna play dominoes wit giants

tryna topple puppet governments

i’m two decades off my rocker

third generation off the plantation

got a bad habit of Maroon conspiracies

got an attraction to New Afrikan landscapes

got a mean two step for the after party

tell the law nothin of substance

tell the people everything you can

tell no lies cuz it’s raining pig tongues

claim no easy way out cuz backdoors are faulty

it’s a whole lot of textbook revolutionaries

it’s a whole lot of part-time freedom fighters

makin full-time money off surviving the 60s

my father told me to keep my head down

i keep that in mind behind sandbag barricades

my poems mean nothin if you don’t see me

outside is callin for a different kind of artist

one who knows the importance of spare mags

one who don’t back down from defense

one who knows there’s a time for canvas

and a time to make political art out of a jaw line.