#pluto black

[plutoblk]

I Song of Rain + Words installation by Kosei Komatsu

[plutoblk]

Set adrift with purpose, finding peace in Shinjuku. Call Me If You Get Lost.

[plutoblk]

Lines in the Light

Sunlight spilling through the blinds tracing moments of reflection / Often / The light finds you in quiet corners as a reminder of Beauty in stillness, or, Beauty in the struggle Absence brings a certain clarity, doesn’t it? With shadows & light weaving stories on brown skin I’ve been gone, finding myself, but the world kept dancing in sunlight / Sometimes / you need to step away to see the radiance in the return The light feels different this time Framed in its glow & whispered truths, I’m here again, letting its warmth, fill the spaces, I left, behind.

[plutoblk]

"We need poetry … We deserve poetry / We owe it to ourselves to re-create ourselves / and find a different, if not better, way to live."

– Nikki Giovanni, Acolytes, 2007

[-Wisdom Knots in Monrovia-]

Woven, In a land where the air hums of ancient songs And each step a drumbeat played on the breeze by Griots, Monrovia's streets weave stories beneath our feet My Pops walks ahead, his stride carved by roots I've never touched, but always carried. "Home," he says, As if the word itself could breathe Woven, The sun, bold as my mother’s laughter, paints the faces of kin I’ve never known— smiles like forgotten mirrors reflecting pieces of myself Their hugs braid history into my skin, fingers tracing paths I had yet to walk, their voices rise like psalms in the humid air. I feel the weight of the wisdom knot: Life not woven in straight lines But a sacred loop where Past and present clasp Brown spiraling hands That dance towards futures untold. Each knot whispering, "Welcome home." And in that moment, the soil beneath me— red as memory, rich as truth— claims me. Not as a visitor, but as a prodigal thread, woven back into the fabric of us. Welcomed, to the tapestry, Of our forever

[plutoblk]

When the cut so fresh you gotta run some random errands to show it off

[plutoblk]

[-Passport to Self-]

Travel isn’t postcards, it’s the stretching of skin— maps folded in melanin, borders breached by breath. It’s the ache in your calves after treading mountains you swore you’d never climb, and the dust of foreign streets clinging to your so(u)les like ancestors saying, “The one who does not know home, cannot understand the outside world." Adversity ain’t easy, but it sculpts like knowing hands— a potter’s wheel spinning storms into smooth. Each crack in your ego is a pathway; each stumble, a verse in the poem of your name. Let the grind kiss you ugly. Let it make you shine. Let it make you light. And when it filters through leaves, and you stop running from the reflection in the river, you’ll behold— the beauty of becoming, the masterpiece in process. Your scars are hieroglyphs. Your steps are scripture. In a journey through proverbs, Paved by good intention

[plutoblk]

[—A Story Carved in Melanin—]

Tracing echoes of my ancestors in ink, Dallas-bound, a story carved in melanin. A sigil of home / a signal of return / A lotus rising / a solar system reborn /

The clouds stretched like a proverb on a ribbon of concrete, Minneapolis fading in the rear-view, the Mississippi low like a djembe, skies thick with memory, with whispers, with hymns of my great-aunt reminding me of where I’m from

Each line, a prayer / Each mark, a map, where roots of past bloom petals of now. The needle danced, thread-thin, weaving sonnets on my skin. I do not flinch, but meditate. Pain is a dialect my lineage speaks too well, a toll we pay for remembering

I wear Nsoromma like a birthright, a sky-script of all who wandered and found their way back. A child of the heavens never lost, just arriving. Three paths spiral, Jieba’s decree— past, present, and future entwined in me. The wisdom knot tightens, unravels, & tightens, an infinite loop, a bass-line, a lesson in balance, a breath.

The lotus unfolds where pain once bloomed, soft as a psalm, free as the wind This ink is a passage, a ritual, a rite, a memory woven in erased history. The body remembers what time cannot, A truth chiseled in flesh, carried toward eternity, spelling my name in constellations unseen, each stroke a star, each scar a song.

And when this body is dust, when marrow fades to myth, and my name is just wind in the trees, where my laughter is only an echo in my bloodline’s bones, this ink will remain— pressed into the palms of the cosmos, still burning, still breathing,

still singing me home.

[plutoblk]

[—The Wav—]

“What is for me will not pass me by,

and if it passes me by, it’s not for me.”

—Letitia Wright

A soulful, genre-blending single from Pluto Black, “The Wav” is a melodic and introspective movement carrying elements of jazz and poetry in its sound. Juggling Pluto Black’s signature laid-back delivery, the high energy soundscape of UrBan Nerd Beats’ production, and ear-grabbing harmonies from Alex Denae and Malik Dawson, the track floats between meditation and momentum, celebrating purpose and creative clarity. It’s a track that captures motion, one that doesn’t just ride the wave—but shifts the tide.

Streaming on all platforms, I said ya'll gon get this art, right? ✌🏿