XenoKnowsALL

Born with nothing but hunger and hurt, a 40-year-old soul is reborn in the body of a homeless Brooklyn stoner—and gifted with the divine ability to grow perfect cannabis in seven days. But instead of chasing hype, he builds a sacred legacy from the dirt: weed with intention, healing with fire, and culture with care.

Alongside Maya, a visionary artist, they transform their struggle into a global movement—From the Dirt—expanding across dispensaries, fashion, food, education, and spiritual growth.

From rooftops to rituals, from corner stores to cathedrals, this is a story of grief, glory, grind, and grace.

Because some things aren’t grown.
They’re remembered.

From the Dirt: Bloom Anyway

The gallery didn't look like much from the outside—just a converted brownstone with peeling black paint and a chain-link gate swung open like a dare.

Inside it felt like something sacred.

The lights were low, almost like candlelight. Walls washed in green LED glows. Local paintings hung beside blown-up sketches from Maya's notebook—images of clenched fists, cracked sidewalks, smoke spirals, and roots breaking through concrete.

At the center of the space sat a long glass display table.

Neatly stacked eighth jars with the matte black & gold label.Pre-roll packs in crisp, resealable bags.Every product laid out like art. Like proof.

A speaker in the corner played soft boom-bap instrumentals over vinyl crackle.

The people who pulled up were hand-picked: barbers, local streetwear designers, poets, beatmakers, three heads from a food truck collective, and a few OGs from the block who Darius made sure got early jars.

No influencers. No clout chasers. Just Brooklyn.

Everyone got a wristband at the door and a card that read:

"Welcome to the dirt. What you grow here is yours."

Maya stood near the projector, running a short video loop:

Shots of the original grow behind the busted dollar store

Time-lapse of the Durban Poison plants blooming under soft light

"I wasn't supposed to be here. But I am. This ain't weed. This is will. And what you're holding right now? That's survival—wrapped in flame."

"Yo… this Empire Poison is different."

"Feels like my brain just opened up."

"Taste clean. Burn even. And it don't drag—it lifts."

Darius watched from the corner, black hoodie on, arms crossed. Calm. Quiet. Studying his city react to his creation.

He wasn't chasing hype. He was chasing history.

Around 10:48 p.m., just as Maya was giving a toast and thanking the crowd for supporting independent growers, the front door creaked open again.

He didn't cause a scene. Just walked slow. Looked around. Took it all in.

Then locked eyes with Darius from across the room.

Just raised his chin slightly—as if to say:

Then he turned around… and left.

He stepped up beside Maya and held up a jar of Empire Poison, the gold crown of roots glowing under the lights.

The room erupted—not in wild applause, but in pure presence. A unified energy. The start of something bigger than one drop, one man, or one brand.

This was Volume Two.

Chapter Thirteen – The Crown Heights Come-Up