black herman’s last asrah levitation at magic city, Atlanta 2010

This exclusive shit I don’ t share with the world.
50 Cent
I, Herman, made medicinal — concocted potions in ways my former’ s was hearsay;
Turned palomas christened Zora on to formulas husbands roll over n mitzvah.

I, a black lad, proud Virginian, selling out Liberty Hall n pinched w/ stickpins
in Woodlawn, do bequeath my next-to-last oratory:

My roots subverted the man,
honeys n dog voyagers to Neptune,
who dared interfere w/ your melodious saccharine midsection.
My cluster of tricks made chaps seek out connotation.

Look at my magic stick.
Not my clavicles, but my magic stick.

Ain’ t no lightness of hand but of bounce player.
Constraints imposed by a corvid named Jim
could not interpret my remedies.

Jim wasn’ t much of a MacGyver:
not one skill in therapeutic thaumaturgy.
He prescribed cowlicks for the heartsick: I mean, really.

But let me tell you something:

Since I am that laconic brother who knows
how to zone in matter untouched n unseen.
When a honey wails “St. James Infirmary”
for my bones that were laid on the fiftieth funeral,

my suspended distortion shall know when to arise n eviscerate.

Now you see me. Now you don’ t.
Sign up for the joy cruise Shorty.
Mars is the Republic of New Afrika.

I am the Cyrano of Calvin Cadorzar’ s drawl.
A straight-laced shoe herbalist;
colon cleaner than a chlorophyllian Dappa Don.
Wanna ride coach to Blue Flame w/ me?

In 1918, I told Quanah Parker, “Jack, Jesus is Peyote!
Said so in the cards — say it ain’ t so?”

T-Bone hit it straight for 2.50 (even caught a little change on the box),
cause the planets were so aligned.
Sho’ nuf heard these arcane words precise.

I am the other.
Now ain’ t you a pretty saltshaker.

Sing Sing couldn’ t hold me down:
I compliment n shatter upstate.
The roots I baked allowed communion w/ God n the dead

In Kentucky I formulated polar bear toe gazpacho —
an elixir for ATLiens — no need to name drop;

just informing you of the origins.

Comes in Georgia Peach flavor.
Too much will turn your guts like

I patented ‘Poo Tang’ every morning for AC Powell’ s breakfast:

18-ounce glass, ½ Tang & ½ Vodka.

It’ s good for clairvoyance.
That one on the house.

Dare to transpose any other energy drink, sookie?
This exhumation bears no map
fore the next internment there shall be no other.

I AM on some other shit.

How delightful you could clap to the procession.

I come with black cat bones, Van Van oil n goofer dust.

Lucky numbers. Banjo. Torches. Shells. Dice. Florida water. Do-re-me bush.
Bush meat. Rhino balls. Palo Santo. Duppy Basil. Hoodoo muthafucka.

Always to arise on the fourth day: every seven years.

No. You see me.