Polestar Books, 2006

Read by Lateef Martin

George jargon makes you better, wetter, sweating blood. You’re not equipped for this type of English. Elliot English kicks and cracks the skull, heaving vivid vernacular, over-spectacular, into the swamps of the cerebral cortex (wear Gortex) to slosh thru the slush of once fit, firm grey matter, pitter pattered by the rain dance, vain prance of what you thought you could mandle, that is, man handle; man the steering handle it, man oh man you can’t, you’re a starship hurtling through space at warp thirteen when you know you’re only built to mandle, ten on ten on ubiquity and creativity. Clarke creativity, more mysterious than The Nativity: None alive were there to tell you what showed up and how, on black time or overtime or covered in secreted rhyme. None but the originator of the scene can glean what was dirty truth or lie polished clean to gleam through the ages stages of construction, obstruction false supports entrench in the consciousness put a little faith in and see where the raunch is blessed. Black is reflections on life in the key of displaced African in Canada, photography of black in black, grainy and raw, poems and pieces and speeches without leashes swim the pages in stages of thought wrought in sections to keep you from exploding. Black is a rhythm mixed into a rhythm by rhythm, for rhythm. Schisms of the human psyche, down to the blackest pit. Give it to Mikey… he likes it, he likes it. Reading Black might make you smack the slacking mess in you, the nerve to believe that reading this makes you better. Hologram matrix pattern put forth on the brain stem to sing you the lullaby that you just might be bright enough to take Black in and believe that just by reading it you’re better.