Peanuts inna Baltimore

They are allergic to peanuts.

They  work at a small peanut oil processing plant.

They touch, smell and taste peanuts all day.

Pick it.

Press it.

Bottle it.

And Big Man dey watching from his high office.


Most don`t speak Big Man`s language.

All don`t get paid enough.

All are forced to work. There are no other jobs.

They need the little bit of cash to pay for their anti-histamine.


They are allergic to peanuts.

They work for a small peanut oil processing plant.

The few who speak with Big Man plea.

They show their  bleeding hives

They show their swollen eyes.

Those who can speak

Those who are not choking on the floor


we are allergic to peanuts.

we are allergic to peanuts.


Big Man says to be quiet.

Don`t blame peanut oil, after all its done for you.


Big Man wipes the white spittle from the corner of his pasty lips.


Are you sure it is peanut oil that is the problem?

What if it was grapeseed oil?

What if…canola

what if…olive

what if…sesame

Don`t blame the peanut. Peanut is good for us.  Peanut is good for business.

He say:

If you have a problem, you should wear a mask.

If you

have a problem




But don’t blame the peanut.  Peanut is good for us.  Peanut is good for business.

But we workers know that this here is a  big fucking peanut oil processing machine.

Not next type of oil,

Not what-if oil

Ah Peanut  Oil we ah talk bout.

We work here. We live here.

Mask on or Mask off

We can`t breathe.


Together, We spill the bottled oil on our bodies and ignite the fire.

Together, we barge the barricaded office of Big Man and forcefully bring his room-temperature body next to our burning flesh.


Together, We jump into the extraction machine.

Hear the bones crack.

Like the dry husk of the peanut.


First visit to market


How do aliens buy local?

What currency do they use

Food stamps, time shells

Blackblood fuel


How do aliens eat local?

What appliances do they need

Sun Rays, X rays

Radon seeds


How do aliens think global?

What conscience should we use

Third Eye, World Lie

Mapa’s Blues


by: Chris Vaughn

A poem inspired by the Alien Nation project


Panafrikan dances

Panafrikan dances when and where they please.

Harlem-shakes in the courtyards of Harare

Isicathulo deep in the metro stations of Montreal.

Capoiera on rooftops in Grenada

Slow whine in front of cracked mirrors of high-school washrooms in Belize

Panafrikan can sway, lunge, lift, slide, whine-up, twerk, twist and shout across borders, checkpoints and coat check lines. Nuh mind dem.

Panafrikan rubs shea butter on their hard thighs.

Cassamance mango juice lick dry forearms as fruit flesh and skin fuse in the clenched black palms of dancer.

Sovereign and untaxed.

Panafrikan is not exotic. Not an anomaly to be praised, or shunned, or studied.

They are not the exception

Dancing since a time before their watches and their watches


Panafrikan, like Panafrikan, sings in sun and sense

Improvises on patterns of leaves and stories

Strikes decisive chords of Discipline Sharp

And chops a clean development

How yuh mean? Our Panafrikan!

Watch ah dance so sweet!

They must get it from they gran-gran so.

Feel ah whine so sure

they must get it for they gran-chile  so.

How yuh mean? We Panafrikan!

Briefcase hail mop and

Rake teach diploma.

Panafrikan dances where and when they please.

If you please. Panafrikan.


…Who Got the Flyest Chain

These cats drink champagne and toast death and pain like slaves on a ship talking about who go the flyest chain.

Talib Kweli &DJ Hi-Tek, African Dream from Reflection Eternal: Train of Thought.


One of the hauntingly breath-taking pieces from Polish artist Pawel Kuczynski.  Click here to see more of this amazing series.