Orishacore

"Had it not been for the drum our culture would never have survived" - Felipe Luciano

sticky summers we would melt into the concrete jungle
bantu brown and black, brothers, boricuas
brandishing barrio batas and bongos
djembes and congas, cocolos
shit talkin’ and banging on garbage cans and graffitti drenched benches
beating back babylon
and the sirens blare
with sweet spiritual sound
worthy of obatala, yemaya, and mi mama
magic mixed with memories of africa
over oceans, oshun, ogun
minus the chains on our legs and brains
no radios violating the vibe
zulu zen to zion
ghetto soweto to god damn, man
no televisions that we couldn’t tell ourselves
’cept a stolen zenith owned by liberation loan
plugged into a zone, then smashed against the asphalt
when trinidad lost in seven
fuck, so close to heaven
we coulda lost ourselves
but we found what we weren’t looking for
by a patch of dead grass
that wouldn’t have even filled a nickel bag in ‘82
but me and you were already the most natural high
no lie, do or die was the cancer
but you and I found another answer
rapped tighter than lambs bread
and we smoked with fire in our fingertips
spics, shanty santos spitting bacardi
into open wounds and worshiping warriors wombs
while we cooked culture and made medicinal musica,
melodies llamando, llamando, llamando a afrika
riddims that uprise
and sound designed to blow the white man’s mind
it was all mine, and yours, because I was we and I was I
and I was looking for the perfect beat
down crack calles that called me nigga
until I found something bigga
in a botanica that dispensed bombas and plans
guns and helping hands
and we made our last stand
on the corners of the corners
of crack houses and churches
ellegua bembe, barrio, baby
benin blessed buddhas
Rising high like spirits sealed in slum sparrows
With broken wings and rusted arrows
and not a prayer
but we was almost there
mounted and moaning
dancing and dangerous
like a double-edged ax
with chango strapped to our backs
nearly there, oh yeah, oya
’til some cracker called the cops
to cart our orishas away
but by then we were long gone
…ache

(not4)Prophet