The fish comes steaming, and
English is not the only language making sense.
Politics comes with dark green vegetables spewing flavor,
Kenyans having lunch on the Boulevard,
Lakeshore,
– commitment is the idea that momentum cannot disrupt motion, that
Committed, one moves forward,
Becoming better,
Choosing beyond the sound
Of Americans,
Providing proof of the pudding, cavorting
Wildly,
With language, the idea that language is not owned, it is spoken –
Shoot beyond the target,
Make it count.
Marriage will not be left with men and women.
It has always cavorted with love.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 10:55 AM UTC
You have to wake up
Democratic or not
Atheist or deciding
Male or female
You have to wake up.
You must.
By force.
No, this is not a question of belief
No, not one of freedom
You are free.
You have to wake up until
You die.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
Praised by a drunkard,
Just when my craving for respect,
From Oprah, Obama or
The Queen,
Seems to be all the appreciation I need,
She,
Walks in,
Demanding demurely, hand
Held out, just
Two sticks.
Her praise almost makes me cry –
she is so dignified
tight dress not too
tight, just so –
Fabulous shades she says, glasses I reply.
Everybody needs words of encouragement sometime,
And she wrangles,
A full pack of cigarettes from me,
Between my shopping list, a burgundy coloured,
Brandy glass and,
An Orange Juice,
Placed just so,
Always good practise to keep a spare,
Packet of cigarettes in the car.
I am still laughing.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
“And, I will come amongst you,
Cloaked in the rags of the Sinner;
And thus shall ye all be judged.”
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
They sing for him,
Swinging from heel to frail heel,
Growing earth between the ground and,
his casket,
Bleeding love into the air
Like orchids,
Humming,
They rise again
And again their gently swaying busts,
Move the air to and fro,
To and fro,
Intending that mother be comforted,
Intending that her wet eyes,
Smile at new wives, that
though her son was gunned down, the
Rhythm of the occasion,
Brings life.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
A glance at the rear-view mirror,
And you’re in the hands of a driver,
Who’s chewing grass,
And kneading her weave.
You hope you’ve selected the right seat because,
You’re left of a drunk,
Who’s just exclaimed,
In between snorts,
That women are ******
And we’re moving too fast.
Survival in slow motion can be glamorous.
You imagine, you see,
That you can dodge bullets and retain bouncy hair,
That keratin replenishers really do work;
But the drunk man was right;
Not about women,
Too fast is too fast.
You survived,
The others did not.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 5:39 PM UTC
And they are doing white
Cars,
Nice haircuts and,
Broad Boulevards,
They are doing slick radio Ads,
Smooth charcoal voices,
And Western music,
Gliding with thoughts of Cashmere,
Air-conditioned Kaftan's catching the breeze just so,
Dark glasses like reflective buildings
Perched on tight noses,
Moving forward with morning talk shows in,
Gleaming white cars,
Fabulous fingers prodding perfectly balanced power buttons,
Opulent mechanisms,
Fabulous manoeuvres,
In Dehli they are moving swiftly,
Their stylish Sari's, airborne.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
It’s a revolt.
A revolution.
And in the name of God, they are building schools,
Delivering doctors, door to door.
They are conveying the message that people care,
And that no one is forgotten,
But,
Cameras are not allowed in some places.
People hoist burning American Flags which melt and,
Scar children with big brown eyes.
Women will not talk about this;
Allah is a man in uniform.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
They talk a lot of *******
They don’t clear the streets quick enough when it snows,
And get out of hand if you are not in it.
Short, fat, bald, and smoking a pipe,
Under a street lamp,
After-hours,
They lie.
I wear orange trousers and plastic,
Blue glasses,
And I think I have the answers to poor
******* collection.
The Indian before me has,
Wooden beads around his neck,
And thick toes
Sticking out from open leather sandals.
The other has greasy hair,
Dark skin,
And is very hairy,
In a turban.
They may have better ideas.
Devolve yourself,
From yourself,
To lead.
None of them are women.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC
I.
A guy was sent from East Germany to work in Siberia.
He knew his mail would be read by censors, so he told his friends,
Lets establish a code.
If the letter you get from me is written in blue ink,
it is true what I say,
if it is written in red ink,
it is false.
After a month his friends got the first letter.
It says, this letter: Everything is wonderful here,
Stores are full of good food,
Movie theaters show good films from the west,
Apartments are large and luxurious but,
The only thing you can not buy is,
Red ink.
This is how we live.
We have all the freedoms we want,
But what we are missing is red ink -
- the language to articulate our non-freedom.
II.
So then I was moved.
The pink and yellow bundle in the mothers arms,
Cuts three figures though the barren concrete landscape,
Son and wife and finally mother,
United in South Korea.
Frost in every breath,
A tight escape.
Warm soup around the table because,
Only mother know the pain of birth.
The raft did not fail this time and she showed up in a,
Yellow scarf.
Mother will be happy to learn the new ways,
Of feeding children soup.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 12:20 AM UTC