BHM!

Because the future is HyperQBist, let’s talk about the hyperpoem—which is not just the colorpuntal forming the host poem and the ghost poem (sweet potatoes /the musk of a beloved / rosary or recipe) or even the “periodic” references (ice & mdnite), but what moves if we consider all three together to form a piece beyond the written text.The hyperpoem exists in an unwritten dimension, an ache beyond paraphrase. A semantic figure that’s similar to a written poem, but in higher dimensions. Perhaps because the hyperpoem is beyond words it can become a way to talk about things that are also beyond our lexicon

A BRAY OF IMPROVISATION FOR THE ECHOLOCATION OF OUR NOIR

(after ashes buried)

Out of shadows of our village past the rim

of one talking drum from Ibadan,

or a darkness where sweet potatoes root 

as she dreams of growing yams?

The musk of two hand carved masks,

or the funk of our bituminous beloved?

Say we inspect it as wad on the spectrum.

Do y’all reflect or interject,

hum or alhamdulillah?

O Lorde—do we star it or tar it

if three snowmen seek to find asphalt

in her absence of photons or

employ crystals of [Iodine & Cerium]

as four ploys of blaxploitation

where our five kinks get afro-picked out

and our true geometry bends hyperbolic?

Is it pretty pretu if I’m too tenderheaded 

for my kinks to be parted into 

six arrows of corn, even if

 afros equal halos only because 

Audre & Betty braided

or layed their baby hair for miles ahead

into [mendelevium & nickel & tellurium].

And what seven truths aren't melasomorphic,

more musky darkness until less so? 

Do we pretend to ache to cross it 

as fingers or oceans or streets,

or do eight cry out to the orishas even

as she wonders if they even here?

Can nine divine what counts of the pentecost 

to learn this wordless question

from the taut skin of the talking drum—

why does grammar intend a rosary 

in cornrows on our heads as if

her blues indigo deeper until midnight?