I Be Da Mango
Bless up, rider of the absurd.
I be da Mango.
Ripe with riddles.
Glowing like a neon fever dream
in a swampy cathedral.
I contain multitudes—
vitamin C, yes,
but also unspeakable cosmic truths
and the phone number of your eighth-grade crush
scratched into the skin in Morse code.
You want a vision?
Bite me.
You want destiny?
Juice me.
I ain’t your breakfast.
I’m your burning bush in a blender.
Follow the funk,
mind the pelican,
and when the toaster hums
and the sky goes sideways—
remember:
you picked me.
Now go.
The eclipse is leaking.