It has become necessary
for a symbol, a nime, phenomenological psychopomp that can encapsulate everyone from Octavia Butler to Alice Coltrane and still leaves room for the unborn un-reality makers who perform in the void that we all coalesce from; A banner that those geeks of African descent who can quote Deep Space Nine can join under; A standard by which those Samuel Delany junkies who bump Outkast can stand by; A flag black comic book readers can wave to distinguish themselves with; A sign posted on the doors of houses where little nappy headed children are educated about orishas, griots, the symbology of the dollar bill, while given sonic guided tours of John Coltrane’s Interstellar space