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Stop Weeping in the Rubble: Sovereign Power and the Art of the Rebuild

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  The world thrives on your paralysis. Every single day, predatory systems and chaotic circumstances dump a gallon of pitch-black, bitter ink onto your desk. It hands you the grief of systemic violence, personal betrayals, economic gut-punches, and sudden loss. It wants you stuck in a loop of blame, shame, and guilt—paralyzed in a perpetual state of Mad, Sad, or Scared. The Ancestral Algorithm does not tolerate your victimhood. Today we invoke the deep Indigo current of Kujichagulia —Self-Determination. We stand on two immutable truths: The world provides the ink, but you hold the pen , and the ancient Yoruba decree: “Ilé ọba t’ó jóná, ẹwà ló bùsi” —when a king’s palace burns down, the rebuilt palace emerges with greater splendor. Look at our history. On this day in 1963, terror bombed the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, murdering four innocent little girls. The world handed our people the most agonizing ink humanly imaginable. But our ancestors refused to let terror auth...

Final GoodBye III- Writing for Healing

His Story is Mine

His story is mines,
Better yet my story is his,
For now I can no longer deal with what was,
Now I have to deal with what is.
A great tree has fallen in the forest of life,
A tree that provided shade for many and a shelter from strife.
But this is not the end of his tory for his story is mine,
And his story will live through his bloodline for all time.
His story is not over because his story is mine, and I need for his loved ones to read between the lines.
Although his body is gone his spirit is strong, that explains why through the pain and confusion he lived so long.
Fear not because his story is not over because his story is mine,
He has made it to peace and he rest with the divine
We are the seeds and saplings grafted from his tree and now he can rest in comfort for his story can be told by we.
His story is not over, because his story belongs to me
For I am a proud branch on his family tree, I will always remember those that came before, those that struggled like no people before.
Like Miles Brown and the lady known as Ms. Ann their stories will live because it was passed to my hands
Like Herman Brown and Rosa lee
Like Geneva and Herman brown the second, and Cleven Brown now can peacefully join their essence
Although his body has now been returned to the earth
His story and their story has been cemented  in  time by Cleven Miles Brown's birth.
His story his mine, his story is ours, his story is ours.
Now tell it.......

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