Sometimes the gospel is turnt–
the choir a synchronized dab
& the church bows their heads
over & over
like the war is over
or just beginning.
It’s something bout that bass line
behind an open bottle of hallelujah
that reminds all the saints
the devil is off beat
& grimy with it–
How is the war ever over
when saints still think Jesus
was off beat too? Like he ain’t prophesize
gave it to the hood as gospel–
like these ebonics not sacred? A scripture?
How we stay saved?
Sometimes the turnt is gospel–
the twerk a ghost
that can’t be shook–
the block party a grill
filled with communion–
what blood have we shed to eat ribs whole?
How much wine is soaked up by graves?
When the beat drops
so do our burdens, the
code switches back to nigga &
some people think it don’t take all that–
think we need to behave ourselves
like God ain’t gift us survival instincts
like these hands can’t knuck and pray.
The turnt is testimony. The blessing
Is how God fills our cups to the brim &
we drink & lift every voice