Folklore in a Crawlspace (Futurist Masculine Grammar or How We Win)

i.

Whatever the shape of swamp water,
how do we sketch it’s lines?
With what tools?
Those sister such and such,
before having been martyred for her recipes,
used to mix the beets with morning dew to clear 
the blood?
Or are we meant to smell the track,
like my Grandmother’s macaroni and cheese
which suffers the belly
as Jordan John  —  in the gullet.
But how do we think of John the Baptist,
and the schemes of messiah/s?
I’d sing it, if it weren’t stolen.
Steal away
Steal away
Steal away to Jesus
And be sure to show the other cheek.
No, this isn’t another protest song!
At least that’s what the other man told me when he wrote it down.
With that $200 he gave me, I thought I’d buy my daddy a truck
to carry all that oak wood, coon root and pepper grass.
Old man spat at my shoes and told me I didn’t have enough mud
on my boot to carry that weight.

ii.

Had I listened, might I’d pack lighter before boarding?
How do you pack, when you fit the description
of the fugitive and Will Smith.
Maybe I would have memorized the coordinates and subtracted the difference.
14.5994° S, 28.6731° W
—
25.0000° N, 71.0000° W
______________________
Jumped out and landed along the rescue boats,
to help navigate a six faced triangle.
May you keep a tight line….Ashe.
Hell, if you look at the front of a ship long enough, you begin to see….
And there I go again, with my big mouth.

iii.

Same lips ⬛⬛⬛⬛ kissed ⬛⬛⬛ with,
which mapped a moss covered route to a cave, which might do.
“A tomb, if you forget the trap door.”
But please, omit that….
as a matter of fact, burn whatever you found this in.
Those in need of passage have already memorized 
that constellation.
The one ushering windborne nomads above
Nightriders and the NSA.
Burn it.
Keep only the CLASSIFIED. 
‘Cause fay learn quick.
Scare quicker.
So pass it on, but only in the bedroom.
On the streets, if you’re smart. 
In the jailhouse, the schoolyard and the surgeon’s waiting room if it’s a soul session.
Bury whatever’s left over!
Think it the secret shared between the stone and the femur of that maroon beside
Interstate 10. 
It won’t be heard at Carnegie Hall.
Auctioned at Christie’s.
Or taped together as a social studies assignment for some third grade class in Boston or Berlin.
I made that mistake, one time too many.
And hush up those feet, when you get back….
….unless you dancing in the sandbox. 
That’s close enough to mud to pass below.  

Donnie Denkins Moreland Jr is a Houston based health educator and multi-disciplinary artist. Donnie holds a Master’s Degree in Film Studies from National University and a Bachelor’s Degree in Sociology from Prairie View A&M University. Donnie’s work centers on cultural healing, black masculinities and film criticism. Donnie has contributed to Black Youth Project, Brown Sugar Literary Magazine, RaceBaitr, Root Work Journal, A Gathering of the Tribes and Sage Group Publishing.