Six Act Vernacular

My vernacular is colorful.

Not colorful like real light

reaching real eyes,

but colorful like theorized darkness.

Realized.

I feel lies pumping scarlet rhetoric

from another guy’s mouth

that can only be

brainwashed out

with stonewashed genes

in shades of eugenics genocide.

Then, no sides are weighed

when wading in shady waters.

Where what you decide is but

suicide to the muted whose

hands are tied.

Tide is high

and time is nigh

for spirit spatter patterns

on flood walls retaining

my analytical spittle

to be recognized.

Records-wise my melanin is irrelevant,

but in any event,

my spoken vocals are tone deaf

yet inventive,

with tints of irreverent chuckles

and hints of insensitive limericks

when given no limit in the limelight.

I rhyme right with what’s left

in hindsight: my rifle, loaded with

moonshine

kaleidoscope memories

a time portal

morbid curiosity

vibrant verbosity

and sea breeze

simmering through a tea kettle’s wheeze.