from the fervent haze of the high school hall…
on the way(s) to their hallowed hashish,
clashed against the fascists’ maniacal formation,
of federally-mandated facilitation,
of malignant indoctrination and militant administration,
these young Black boys of our nation’s neighborhoods,
already recognizing in their adolescence,
their own academic obsolescence,
still exercise the quintessence of questioning.
for the leaf and for The Lord,
The Most High God,
it was a superluminary pleasure,
a true treasure to lend such luminosity,
a kind of cannabis-cultivated curiosity to the dudes of dank,
who had already ditched class by dawn,
skipping their fourth to smoke an eighth,
who found faith in the fine-tuned feelings,
beyond the hums of horror,
the thrums of brothas behind bars
and pulled over cars,
for the sake of carnal colonial craving.
now, mindful of the need for a more discreet mode of misbehaving,
they warily yet so merrily meet with Mari,
and Maria and Mary,
the Magi and Mt. Sinai where Moses stood High,
and there and then do them boys sigh,
exhaling the beauty of the burning bush,
as kush and Christ come together,
you might wonder whether,
as they strut so entheogenically engaged,
stumbling upon the stillness of Stoned Age,
if them chilrun cherish also the chill(um) of the Rastafari,
of starry numinous nights and holy Heavenly heights,
and perhaps you’d be right,
as the dudes of dank,
and the dudes of dagga,
delighted and lighted up with sanguine swagga,
reach down into the depths of destiny,
and make sense of the incense of old,
which truth be told,
many highs did hold,
to the guys of Ganja,
precious was their practice of the promise,
the premise of salvation,
as they embraced the subtle ferocity of the divine feminine
Ma’s men of morning move in multi-layered realities
tampering with totality,
so subconscious is their sacrosanctity,
yet so with Spirit, do they stay in sync.
MiC Columnist Karis Clark can be reached at kariscl@umich.edu.