“But the native intellectual who wishes to create an authentic work of art must realize that the truths of a nation are in the first place its realities. He must go on until he has found the seething pot out of which the learning of the future will emerge.” Frantz Fanon, “The Wretched of the Earth”.
this new vista, a gradual
leaflet of sky, the rune
of an antiquity resigned
to seed the fringes of an
ticipation: the grunge and
dung of it, the hapless
beat of song’s tyranny cap
tured in this visitation.
Gathering just-a-bit-o moss 