And The Word Was

Don’t ask me
from where it comes…
Iouno
Can it be created?

You can’t bake it because
Sometimes I don’t even know
where it comes from
or why I ate it
It’s a mistake… but wait
Maybe it’s music
It moves in loops
among clefts and trebles
An abused child with a passion
for life sittin up on
heroes wings
Reaching for the golden ring
to make it through
Filled up with pride
Instead of living racked with crime
Heartache accrues

Sistah’s who don’t take themselves
so seriously but knows
her reputation needs to be in effect
Brotha’s who don’t except
the myth
Stolen monkey’s unfit
Destined to pleasure two God’s
Do a little dance
Make a little love
Authored the notion
of putting it on you
Way above those stories
So they struggle and they strive
go out and they hit it
Stayin alive
Erupting with the good stuff thats left
Channeling and fermenting
in the brain
Travels to the fingers and toes
untainted
Coming to a head
Representing like theft
Only those chosen ones can comprehend
special
They see it in effigy

Where does it come from?
Iouno but it can’t be demanded

Secretly it’s branded
Cause it's biggah than smooth
Right sized if you accept the facts
Without tryin to change
it’s waking form
because it had no beginning
Operates like osmosis
So what is it?
Old as an ancient craft
Can’t be identified as street rap
Got it’s own type of respect
Answer’s to a spiritual consciousness
and many benefit from it
It’s women tapping their breast
to hear the birth of an internal roar
We are people ya'll
Ain’t takin yo junk no more
A legacy and a gift to each other
The sister’s and the brotha’s
Who understand it’s a culmination
of desperation to be loved
We all came here with that button
To be loved...

Treated as if a contributing member
Equal of humanity
It’s the wails of souls who have
been snuffed and contained
Beggin to be heeded
Written with fresh ink on
antiquated critiquing
Culmination of the body’s
first broken
Re-opened and spackled spirit …
A negro prophets verbalized
praise and lament
Many, plenty of sentiments

Culminated verses
A movement of sensibilities
The homeless child’s present
The widower’s manner
of feeding her seed
A down Father’s essential meaning
Maybe it’s the
common heart transferring
elated song into bare naked words
Maybe that’s it…
Iouno
Tell me...ya heard?



Mandika Plate 2008