Cherry , huckleberry , and peach Indian summer bouquets
glide across honey- brown sugar loam
They rattle , crackle and dance at the cue of fragrant ambergris winds , gather in splendid sheltered havens , attending by cackling red-winged mavens
Sing to me airborne madrigals , Cooper angels , Pileated conductors of the oakwood , choreographed lapping lakesides , the scrub of White Pines
Land of the pumpernickel shadows , of cinnamon needle carpet
cast adrift in the very breath of artist , lover and songster* ..

Ajoke, the gods has cursed me to
Praise thy beauty
Like a sugar-cane planted at a river-bank
Your beauty is magically comely
Thy phat smile is an epiphany
I wonder the mystery of the water that
Dwell in the Coconut of thy beauty
Let me adore your well-made eyeballs
They are like traps laid in the forest for
Antelopes
Something the mirror won't tell you about
Your dimples is that they give death to death
The village priests said your
smile can be use to appese the gods
Not to invoke their wrath
Something about your dexterous waist
They are like prison guards when dancing
Guilding my hearts.
Ajoke your beauty is an epiphany.

I do not like the feeling of
examination,
of eyes burning on my back
as if you are a small match
and I am the bushfire
you wish to light...
I do not like the feeling of
obssessive observation,
I do not like privacy violation,
I do not like the feeling of claustrophobia,
I do not like claustrophobia because
it doesn't cease to exist by simply
removing ten people from one room.
I do not like claustrophobia because
sometimes your own mind is enough
to provoke a certain type
of wanderlust,
the kind where you run away
and leave everyone to rot and rust.
I do not like claustrophobia
because when I am alone,
it can never be enough alone,
it feels like the walls of my room
are breathing on my neck;
they're laughing at me,
declaring this poet insane,
it is the most crowded type of alone
until somebody, something
sedates my brain
and you call me "suggestive anxiety"
it's all in your head,
you're a game of chance
and I'm taking a guess;
you know my face but
you know nothing about my name.

Offer me a lead to scale and surpass
the cliffs of men , to reside among
the eagles , to abide in starlight ,
to relish pure morning sun* ....

Beware of 'the loops' that forever lie in wait
for innocent prey* ..

You taste like static
and your eyes look like hot coals
Let my body fizz
Ease me into your skin
I want to know what dying is

What happens to the rose when it dies?
When it is chocked by its thorny foes
Does it green blood soak the earth to water more plants of love?
Do its crimson leaves fold their petals in pain?

What happens to the rose when it dies?
By the hands of a stray lover in search of a gift
Do the lovers drain all their tear wells?
Perhaps they merry as its mortal remains
Passes from his hand to her hand, from his heart to her heart

What happens to the rose when it dies?
Is it ever eulogized and its memorials held
Or is the emblem of love left in pile ash of bygone?
Is the rose ever buried and how does its epitaph read?

What happens to the rose when it dies?
Does it body like man’s decay leaving nothing but dry bones?
Is it folded and placed inside an old love book?
Who knows what happens to the rose when it dies?