“He opens his mouth, and the words pour out like a river, coils of rhymes that crash into each other while carrying the whole room in their current. With the wordiness of Allen Ginsberg channeled through the urgent, cool cadences of slam poetry and rap, Black lets loose for half an hour without looking at a piece of paper, coaxing the audience members until they grunt and laugh and shout in unison.” – SF Weekly

Holding Space

The Homie Cecil

A wounded lion in a jungle concrete
Chanting in to stay on his feet
Songs in Shona to maintain his heat
Rhythmic lips in his box of beat
Coat color of coal
African eyes of soul
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Do You Know

Do you know
In your heart
That you are
That which is called “God”?
If you do not
Please allow me to jog your memory
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Coffee Daydreams

Looking out the window of my favorite café
Imagining she would just walk in
Her hair blown out big and sexy
A halo framing her soft chocolate face
Or maybe caramel or butterscotch
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From the chalice of constant change
I sip bittersweet sensations of solitude

Drunk with introspection
My stagger is more balanced than it has ever been
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