Where poets have notes, he reminded the audience during a talk back after the performance, poets have vowels. And his vowels resonate with inescapable power as he returns to the mystical core of his Trinidad roots, as he reclaims the black Brooklyn of his youth, as he recounts the meaning of parenthood. (He very sweetly recorded the audience shouting, “Get better, Nina,” on his phone to play for his ill daughter.) Standing there in his red tracksuit and yellow sneakers, he becomes an incarnation of revolt and revitalization. “Be alive, be black, burn, build” is one motto. He tells us that he knows Mozart and he knows Marley. He does.