"The Procreation of Blak Joy"

20220103_184003-01.jpeg

40x30

acrylic on canvas

$2,000

My assumption as to why america still hates us is black folks ability to educe joy from all things, synthesize the pain that was betrothed us by america, create beauty; then divorce ourselves from america's intent and still sing our song. We do and show it everyday. We shine on purpose, "we be" diligent in being dope. If the world could feel the weight of our history it could place carbon dust beneath its feet and give birth to diamond rainbows while dancing after the storm. Albeit some of us are still seeking the courage to create technicolor on this bloody blanco background, they feel it and the unknown at times drives them to do adolescent things. But fear is natural when you don't recognize the dominion to create your life's art. Your power. For those of us who get it we must continue and keep procreating our joy until we are all enveloped in the reach.

The Procreation of Blak Joy

 

Search…you will not find that here…the pain/

The sounds of upset ocean water…not here

Gavel drops…not here

Mother

Brother

Father

Sister cries

Of family not seen again…not here

Wind suffocating from bodies stuffed in its mouth

While hanging out before blue eyes…not here.

No dogs barking while looking for that “nigger” ready to die

To be free while he flees/

Not here.

No pounding water from hoses to sweep you

Off your feet into the matrimony of america.

Not here…no knees wringing out the urine from a human as he screams “mama”/before his

last word is “burn this motherfucker up, you’ll see me in the smoke”

Not here.

 

What you’ll see is the joy in blak children’s tone as

They sing beneath their skipping feet because the world Is “just” for them/you’ll see the sun and the moon looking at each other in their starry eyes and fall in love with each other

Night after day after night

while intoning each other’s name in a

multitude of tongues,

a patois of promise

keeping them strong while ruling the universe…. together.

You’ll see blak folks void of the poison from uncle sams textbook and the beauty of the beginning explodes into technicolor notes painting themselves on the aural canals of our soul.

Filling us up.

Making us whole.