Will Remain Untitled

The world I am barely alive in

makes of me the reluctant martyr,

 

or maybe it makes me like Sisyphus

with blunders and deceits

 

only damaging to myself, so I can only brace

myself for the rock to hit, or maybe,

 

the rocks are in my pockets

when I take the longest walk i-

 

n Misery Bay.  I make a life stealing

what I can.  Early, I learned if I don’t become

 

a skilled thief I’m as good as

dead.  At this crossroads, what is life

 

anyway but banal platitudes we all harbor

a secret hatred for but participate in

 

anyway, because like herded goats,

we don’t know anything

 

else?  Move with the herd, or die

under hoof and foot.  Even

 

though, I am not done with this

life of trauma and suffering I have

 

been given, I cannot join the helpless

herd being corralled mindlessly

 

in this direction and that.  I won’t play

the martyr. I have to ask

these questions of myself

 

to myself, is it even possible

to leave the pestilence behind

 

us, and just admit we don’t know shit?

 

Love Is a Body Swaying from a Tree

 

In a state of perpetual

obsession, I remain coolly removed

from the shit around me.  I prefer to record

 

in words—that always fucking fail me—

than be a figure head on the wreckage of the sinking

ship Economy.  That is all I really have is to write

 

it down and hope to find some truth in my own

meaning.  What does it mean to be

what I am?  Maybe I am poised to embrace

 

the shunning and call it mine, besides I want nothing

more to do with the dealings of the ship that takes

everything known to man down with it.  I cross

 

myself with the Trinity just for comfort, and start

doing chin-ups for life’s battle

I must face like a gladiator.

Day After Day You March

for Mensah Atta Francis and my dear David Ishaya Osu

Enveloped by Old Masters

many of whom die

penniless—painted—hovering

in the imaginary songs

in the grace of birds. Sinful, she is

 

the one who brings all the fishing

in.  She weeps as a motherless

child.   The Old Masters painted

in the air, hovering. Sinful.  Child raise

up your arms to fight for the fucking

right to breath nourished. Even

 

though you know she fails at everything

she does, she drags her beat animal

body home by the direction of long

shadows. There is pain in the head. A wailing

in the heart can withstand any weather.

 

We Are But Flickers Here

Oh, but they want to

break the bank with us

all.  I just feel it more

 

because of the female

assets the Patriarchy deems

beautiful.  You know as well

 

as I do that I am really not

a pretty girl that is not what

I do.  Give me your dirty, your

 

discarded, whether it is

in the form of a pair of hand-me-down

jeans that would be my size if I were not

 

so malnourished, or the emaciated 10 year-old

refugee girl from the Congo.  It is all the same

to those with the Money to make things

 

different.  I’m just as important as the dead

Syrian boy whose face was covered by the powder

blue pom-pom hat his mother made

 

for him with loving hands, before

she was snuffed out by something

that looked like a child’s toy.  We are all

 

the same in death, and Love is the only thing

which will save at least

the memory of what

could have fit if

 

circumstances were different.  Hope

 

can make you think

that thing flying overhead

is just one of your son’s toys.

I Am Not There Yet

Could’a been a serial killer, but turned

out martyr for what’s left humanity.  I am

 

suffering in your face. Tire iron blows

so hard to the back of your head, while I

 

tell you I’m real now bitch. Pity spits

Consumption in your eye with a bloody,

 

red-glistening grimace of a grin.  I am

Garage Pin-up babe given pink slip for her

 

pink slit they all pretend is what’s touching

them instead of their own hand.

Avarice: Modern Man as He Lay Dying

Destruction defining death by Debt,

Look at me!  See the bruises blue

 

through the thin membrane of my skin.  I am

Disaster.  I am Capital.  Disaster Capital

 

is an economic term, but my body reflects how

 

we have defined what is important to

the Planet, so I nurse myself licking my own

 

wounds in wonder of why.  Mirrors surround the land

adrift alone in water.  Could be Hell or Haiti: the play-

 

ground of the Worthy Wealthy.  Nothing is

reflected on now, except how many hands now grow

 

from faces.  Eyes are too tired to see the relief

for Natural Disasters come in the form of Fiscal

 

Disasters aided by the circle of Greed. Rolling

gigantic boulders painted in ornate gold-

 

leaf to and fro, the World Leaders now shout

back and forth, Why do you Waste? Why do you

 

Hoard?  We are puppets dropped on the World—the infinite

stage of jest that it is. The truth about Disaster is

 

that it is Man-made

against Mankind.

Love Has a Variety of Faces

In the complete

destabilization of the world

 

as any one person can

 

recognize, yet can’t imagine

what stability could ever really mean

 

to the world, we find ourselves alone

 

filled with dark foreboding.  To remember Love

has many faces, that one pair of eyes could

 

never see

 

all of them, is to find humanity.  It is

almost certain that Love doesn’t give you

 

a choice, and neither does the World

 

Economy.  Choice is an illusion of Human

Power (also an illusion).  So we are the dreamer

 

within the dream, dreaming it all in a nightmare

 

 

from someone else’s slumber.  Machetes, machine

guns, drones, and money never sleep so they careless

 

whose long slumber they cause.