From Imhotep's Kundalini

what thoughts I have of you tonight, Du Bois of bodies rocked and minds embalmed in bark our blanched arrival—seethin with scandal's mark nowadays I peep you in the bean-pie seller's poise with that silhouette fit for bust or cameo I can't always divine your debonair birth or your boocoo brain laborin like an earth in hallelujah's ether, somehow duckin death's blow sure sprung from Imhotep's kundalini stitchin white reconstruction's funeral shroud scriptin Philly dirges for the cryin out loud cussin Garvey's name over martinis sometimes I wonder if you double agent on the page or mastermind of our ordered rage