On Surnames as a Brands

While researching my history the other day, a thought occured to me. If surnames were used as brands for slavers to “ID” their slaves, in a hypothetical situation similar to that of the short story “Space Traders” from the book “Faces At The Bottom of The Well” by Derrick Bell; if a reignig corporation/nation/body of PWR did indeed decide to offer a particular undesirable class of human up for sale as commodities to a foriegn/domestic buyer; in this specific scenerio humans being of Ethiopian descent…would traditional European surnames, kept alive by the descendants of those held in bondage, be used to “ID” former claims of ownership?

Meaning, if in some parrallelogram (lol) universe, chattel slavery (not the prison industrial complex kind we currently have) was reinstated and as an African American or person of Ethiopian descent, your last name being Robertson…Could former slave masters use their wealth and influence in combination with legal policy to reclaim you as their property since your wearing your surname as their brand?


The Ravenous Deceased

(Much) like the homework
The hunger never ends
The mind is a furnace
Burning hollow bodies thin
On a diet of 300 words
And cinematic excess
The mind combusts the body
Returning warmth to the walking dead

a Pen a Book and a Web

There was a man
In his hand a pen
On his lap a notebook
As the pages grew
Stained-crumpled w/ age
A man noticed something peculiar
Everything he wrote
Came to be
Or so he thought

So to test his theory
He authored experiments
A man was right about his hunch
Also he learned something new
More PWRful than his pen & book
Was the web of conscious surrounding them

The kids on the corner
The elders of the streets
Even some random at Church’s Chicken
He noticed, could see him
As he saw them when
Biographing their moments

A man was so stunned
By all that he knew
In order to stay sane
He refused to believe it true
A man tried to retreat
Back to what he was before
the book, the pen and the web
But he could not repress this door
This door was made of a heavy
Unlike any other before
This door remained open
Albeit not wide just ajar
Enough for a man to manage


Through the alley
Across the tracks
Beneath the dust
6 feet to be exact
Are where the w!ld tings lay
When they cease to live
A lawless place
Patroled by ghouls & globs
Rougues & romantics
Behind them all
The King leans against his throne
Before them all
Sits the Gatekeeper
Its wings forming the gates
To the entrance of the party

To the entrance of the party


Its hard to be sexy
In soiled underwear
Skent marks
And sweat stains
Of days well lived

Some will say
“eww thats gross”
Some will say
“boy, wash yo ass”
I will say
“maybe tommorw”
“….maybe tommorow”


He came to this place a traveler
Escaping a storm only to be eaten alive
Taking refuge in a temple
Made of wood and roach
Inside the belly of a beast
This is where he acquired
The PWR of WAVs
Alongside musicians and junkies together
Selling lies, crafting bullshit


He was dreaming or so he thought
His perception composed of
Colored reels streamed on black canvass
Safely hovering above it all
Till he tried to move
Realized he was stuck
Couldn’t speak
Couldn’t blink
But he could think…
That was the scary part