"i'm not black. i'm a man of the soil. identity intact. ribs caging a heart free of toil. last name comes first. Mother, i know you are following. watching every tread on these words. footsteps threading the needles of grass. on; Your mark. death sets off as the presence of a living tree's path. so as You read this, know that these scribbles of mitishamba have always been for You to clear and grub. as a farmer of storied dirt, i plow nouns. so Your harvest will for ever be spoken in verb. the fullness of Your land speaks loud. timely actions make Your speed sound. light on Your feet, You bear a bounce. first name heart. You saw me in your strides and identified Your sturdiest in print, thumb. the last to attend to grabbing because balance is its thirst. listening hand. the axis of centering thought similar to what an ear does. hearing cut, so my being is filled with ideas stuck. frozen time akin money utilized to mirror articles of seance psalms. my Mother at work, facing kilns with a confident strut. protecting me, the one and only Ishmael,with Miti in my Shamba so as the blind only see the gorilla and not farm."
mitishamba ~ the conscious canal