Ahmos ZuBolton Poet
Mississippi Mandingo Man
__________________
“Spiritism roamed
Carib’s plate until…”
—Alden Reimonenq,
Hoodoo Headrag
The young Mississippi Man had his own Loa—slithering down there along his leg & then up along his hard flat stomach…to his Voice.
He was just a young poet—but he had an extremely wise, manly, dark, veiny Old Man River mind—it kept pulling me down deeper & deeper into the Mississippi darkness—down there along the levee & then out into the swamp there in the bayous….
Wherever he went, I followed him like a dog—I couldn’t help myself—he was just so sullen & hard-to-figure-out—it must’ve been that ole Black Magic that made me do it—because all I could feel was just his long lanky Mississippi Muse—and my down-low instinctual falling, falling, falling…
The curving, winding, meandering Mississippi—bringing with it the sacred mud and industrial poisons of the Northern cities above. All the way down to the fertile crescent of the Mississippi delta—where Jesus and Ogoun found plenty of room to fight and get bitchy with each other.
Maybe it was the Devil that made me wanna do him—all I know is that when I was around him—all I could think about was one thing—wanting to feel him blow the back of my brains out—with that sleek black Luger of his—down to the last excruciating dinge babypaste jizzy squirt…
The sultry, moody look on his face—his young manhood quivering like a dead bird, a chicken with its head rung off, gone spaz in the backseat of my black Cadillac—my nostrils engorged with the smell of his young male pubes—parked in the cane field south of campus—knowing I couldn’t get enough…
__________________
“Spiritism roamed
Carib’s plate until…”
—Alden Reimonenq,
Hoodoo Headrag
The young Mississippi Man had his own Loa—slithering down there along his leg & then up along his hard flat stomach…to his Voice.
He was just a young poet—but he had an extremely wise, manly, dark, veiny Old Man River mind—it kept pulling me down deeper & deeper into the Mississippi darkness—down there along the levee & then out into the swamp there in the bayous….
Wherever he went, I followed him like a dog—I couldn’t help myself—he was just so sullen & hard-to-figure-out—it must’ve been that ole Black Magic that made me do it—because all I could feel was just his long lanky Mississippi Muse—and my down-low instinctual falling, falling, falling…
The curving, winding, meandering Mississippi—bringing with it the sacred mud and industrial poisons of the Northern cities above. All the way down to the fertile crescent of the Mississippi delta—where Jesus and Ogoun found plenty of room to fight and get bitchy with each other.
Maybe it was the Devil that made me wanna do him—all I know is that when I was around him—all I could think about was one thing—wanting to feel him blow the back of my brains out—with that sleek black Luger of his—down to the last excruciating dinge babypaste jizzy squirt…
The sultry, moody look on his face—his young manhood quivering like a dead bird, a chicken with its head rung off, gone spaz in the backseat of my black Cadillac—my nostrils engorged with the smell of his young male pubes—parked in the cane field south of campus—knowing I couldn’t get enough…
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