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.

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.

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.

“And, I will come amongst you,
Cloaked in the rags of the Sinner;

And thus shall ye all be judged.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And so, health.

And the discussion with mum’s friend,
Who has survived beyond her,

Turns to the evolution of mattresses,

Goose down,
Luxurious but bad for your back,

Foam,

Sometimes current but initially,
Uncomfortable,

Has silver hair that frames,
Her ice blue eyes perfectly,

And deep wrinkles around her mouth,
That light any room she’s in.

Ripe fruit can be determined by the smell of it.

A mango,
At the right time,

Will flood a kitchen with aromas that colour,
The entire house,

Dispersed into cupboards and,
Dispensed across living room sofas,

They can make you forget what you are doing as you,
Iron sheets,

Raising smiles in every nook and cranny…

If we live long enough,
Aliens may bring fruit,

That excites Amygdalas,
And titilates glands,

Caressing more than nasal passages,
Creating new sensations.

Out walking this morning,
Healthy and feeling good,

I remembered my sister and her fight with cancer,

And the frustration she expressed,
Not with the pain,

But with the body that would not allow her,
To spend time the way she wanted,

Time with her mother,
Her lover,
Her brother…

Out walking I was thinking,
A million dollars can change everything,

I feel now though that,
I’d be happier with health.

So.
Health.

The place I used to visit,
On bad days,
With yoghurt and spoon,
Is vacant.

The leaves are raked,
Into a neat pile,
By the bench,

And except for the newspaper,
Blowing about in the wind,
There is no-one here.

The river beyond,
Is a murky brown,
Same as it’s always been,

But,

Over the concrete wall,
On the sandy bank,
Is a briefcase.

Is it yours?

My name is Henry,
And I’ve been disappearing for years.

I can’t seem to find my way home.

Do you remember
the climb?

short or not,
shall we not?

Remember the trip up,
Longonot

can we not, did we not?

Remember fooling around,
In that old farmhouse,

will we not, **** tot,
love my hot
**** ***?

Let him have the car keys dear,
Let him go to Longonot.

I squashed a cockroach the other day.

A big, Fat, Cockroach.

It was trying to get away and I squashed it.

Not that I had anything against that, Particular cockroach but, I was bare-foot.

I had tea, And biscuits, And was bare-foot when he made his dash across the corridor.

It took some time to calm down and, Fetch another tray.

When I returned, The cockroach had moved.

A thick, white streak, Of substantial viscosity, Ran right across the floor and, Straight under my door.

Her gartered leg was up on the table.

She removed a delicate silver pistol and, With his back turned, Fired a single shot.

I used a shoe this time, Like a maniac,

And then, Framed by a single, Swinging light-bulb, Waited for the detective.

Dance music,
Damp heat and talk,

Drifts to halcyon days of,
Seventies groove and Afro's ruffled,

In the political funk of,
Freedom fighters and platform shoes,

Cadillac language,
Smooth and languid,

Dripping off honey colored lips like,
Melting chocolate...

It's a card trick,
And we are mesmorised by,

Furtive glances,
Over fanned cards,

Fascinated by the sleight of hand,
And the afternoon light,

Our soft voices and loud giggles,
Caught in a trick of time,

Heavy with love and breakfast but,
One will not survive.

When you are born,
You know that you are,
Here to change the world,
And it is good,
And it’s alright,
To do your best.

Then,

You’re checking the curtains,
Just in case,
You run out of sunshine.

He is munching on nuts,
vigorously,

Utilising the muscles he has.

He has wonderful eyes,
Hawk eyes,

Wide set and is,
Now eating a banana with a plastic spoon.

We both have motioned for a waiter.

He is masticating on a blob of Almond paste that he,
Has scooped from the glass jar in the,

Center of the table, by the ash tray
With his *******,

Nibbling like a squirrel,

And there is something askew,
As he rushes,

To the aid of a woman carrying,
Four heavy bags.

He leaves his own where it is,
Unattended.

I wonder if he’s on drugs, or
Just a tourist,

High on Africa,
A white man free to do as he pleases,

But I am a black man preparing to fly, and
Have been informed about bags,

Left unattended.

The broom slices across the floor,
Cutting a precise path through the mess,

Clean swathe through the valley,

Creating mounds of discarded,
Clothing,

Pieces,

Returning slowly to their original state while,
Still holding plastic memories of the night out,

-whether or not they resulted in a steady boyfriend,
Or a hang-over-

A strong attempt at cleaning up,
A fine start.

A wayward sock appears on top of the
Crest on the
Right
Smiling.

Freedom has come at last.

The lush valley,
Though it took years,

Has been traversed.

The mannequin operating the broomstick,
Is creating life at last,

And as was written,
The cockroach was right.

When a window is shut,
Somewhere, a door will open.

There are no terrorists here,

Says the classic bold type,
On the FullScap paper,

In the folder on the dusty desk,
Of the Satellite police station in Isiolo.

The drilling rigs will make no difference to,
The cows or the goats or the lives of the people,
Who do not live here.

The construction does not impinge on farms,
And will be manned by machines not capable of dying,
So there is no need to worry,

The oil will be distributed fairly,
According to the percentages,
Agreed to in the constitution.

The matter of people living
In Isiolo does not come into this.

There are no people here.

I wish we had played on all night,
African cowboys with not much,
Else to do,

I wish we had challenged the fish in the sea and,
Called out to the Bison,

My father and his band,
And his

-strike while the iron is hot-

Jive,

Johnstone, his brother,
On the drums,
Kicking up a riot,

Sarah the lead,
Crooning about her rescue from a,
Very bad man,

Lydia,
Lead back-up,

Flinging in the,
‘Alleluiahs’, and
‘Godda-let-it-be’s!

Samuel,
A doctor dying of AIDS,
Breathing life into a tin-metal harmonica,

‘Alleluhia,’

Rocking the old man at the end of the bar,
And the couple at the table, fighting with their lips,

I think heard it coming when he fumbled the line,
And I wish we had played on all night.

They removed the thermostats,
And made us pay for every cup of water we used,

I was standing in the rain,
With a white friend and a Servant.

We marveled at the homemade architecture,
Hopped the rivulets of grime,
And heaved big sighs.

I asked him why there were,
Water tanks with signs that read,
Twenty shillings a litre.

He said,
They sell water here too.

Scottish men protect,
Single malt whiskey,
Welsh women,
The language they speak,

My Palestinian friend once told me,
Water,
Israelis keep.

Never mind steel,
We are creating new materials,
Carbon nano-tubes, poly-ceramics,

Twirl a ball above your head, we are
Building elevators into space,
Stringing massage parlours around the earth,

We are engineering ourselves,
Computer worlds and,
Selling real estate, we

Are leaving the old people,
Behind,
Stained curtains and they are,

Walking into forests,
In Japan.

They say that Africans,
Will have to fight for a place on the bus,

So I am pulling out all the stops.

I am burning incense and,
Turning out closets,
-exorcising demons-

I am fumigating my life,
Throwing out old clothes and,
Trying to curry favour,

-surely children were not meant for the streets,
Nor nations meant for war-

I have found sack cloth and ash and I,
Intend to,

Gouge flesh with home-made irons
Flagellate until I bleed sin,
All over the carpet.

There will be gnashing of teeth,
And great wailing,
-effort must be made-

I shall identify,
Church pews with nails and,
Kneel!

But the spotlight keeps missing me,
And I manage only to elicit,

Splendid chuckles from my nephew.

Here I am,
In a long, low, valley,
On a horse, under sweltering sky.

A single trail runs East to West,
As far as the eye can see.

The sheep-skin bags,
Strung low off the saddle,
Are empty.

Bandits rode into town last week,
And made off with a couple of dreams,

Now I must know,
Which way to go,

I am the Sheriff,
The dream-catcher.

You are,

Living on the top floor,
On a,
Bunk-bed,
In Finland,

In a cultured,
High-rise habitat,
With cool, kitchen kettles,

Where,

You are not visited except by cameras,
Or people taking your children away.

On the African savannah,
The mission brief had been simple.
Go in and find a Warthog.

The Americans had gone in and nuked the place,
Then claimed there had been none to begin with.

The Israelis against strong,
Local advice,

Had sent in Mossad,
Undercover.

-why go in, looking like food,
the lions had a field day-

The Africans, however,
Had not reported by nightfall,

So at daybreak a search party was launched.

They found three Kenyans surrounding a giraffe,
Spread-eagled securely to an Acacia tree.

The Sergeant-at-arms was taking notes,
Whilst his Officers flogged,

The poor thing screaming,
“Confess you’re a Warthog, confess!”

why don’t you?

lift your arms and
heal yourself

stand taller than you
were made

be stronger
than fear

mould dreams into
rainbows

why don’t you

set root
and paint the world

green with envy
you are alive

simplify your needs and
grow wings,

or stand still,
and skin lizards,

decorate yourself
in war paint,

shake off the dust,
why don’t you

uproot yourself and
walk a mile

in any direction you like,

you must at least
try,

To rage against
this idea

that you cannot
and perhaps

the sweat off your brow
will seed fertile ground,

coat handsome men
with lust for life

become
aphrodisiac

Her legs will be amputated but,
Non-collapsible items like,
Book-shelves and fathers
Can make a space to survive.

I spoke French for thirteen years
I say to him
And he smiles.

More cheese.

Soft night yields to love,
Rap is the only hard night sound,
The White man is out of his depth,
Even in French.

He leans forward and whispers in my ear but,
The first lie was mine.

We’ll count them later,
In the fullness of time.

I have always liked,
Defiant Africans,

Nelson, Patrice, Kenyatta,
Martin Luther King,

Groovy black men,
******* with attitude,

But they intimidate me,
Black men.

Freedom fighters,
Bar room brawlers,

And I rise from sleep,
Sheened in sweat,

Running away,
Scribbling my number,
On scraps of paper,

On foreheads and trousers,
On outstretched palms,

And I’m breathing heavily,
Feeling stained,

Because,
That one there,

The white man in Navy uniform,
With hair on his *****,

I know him,

-conquistador-

He smells of garlic and grease,
And my black friends call me,
******, *****, *****.

Will he take the lion tooth offered,
Will he make the tribal dance?

-I can teach him to love the earth,
Teach him to plant his feet in, deep-

I ******* from sleep, supported
By thick, colonial, muscle.

I am forging steel,
Industrial iron,

I am engineering a white lover
Beneath the sheets, whilst

Apologising to freedom fighters,
Who call me ******, *****, *****.

Evidently frogs lie in wait,

And the moon sets on stranger ground,
Than we will ever imagine,

Grey landscapes of endless twilight and,
Shifting sand,

Shadows that congeal into shapeless forms,
Gliding over dank walls,

Flowing into dimly lit caverns,
Filled with hunched figures,

Hundreds of them,
Four limbed slugs captured eons ago,

Growing wings and emerging from sacs,

Peering into neon and,
Farting occasionally,

Stubby limbs chained to,
Grimey floors,

Tubes running into foreheads,
Ruffling DNA,

Every so often we run into humans,
Who do not understand,

That they are only Earthlings,
This side of the Universe,

Night flies on computer screens,
Attracted to the light completely.

How far would you travel from where you were born?

She spends more on her dogs in one week,
Than the government provides for those in trouble.

She’s a naturally happy person.

The mottled concrete walls of the council block she’s moved in to,
Complement her pock-marked, pink skin.

For a rich person,
She’s ugly.

The doors to buildings are painted bright colours,
-blues and greens-
And stand out against the brown stone that is everywhere.

Kevin is a mousey young man with stringy brown hair,
Recovering from drugs,
And she thinks he looks like a very nice man.

They are playing football on cement outside,
-plants are expensive-
Now talking over vegetables, around a table,

About the young mothers who will be coming in to learn,
How to grow turnips -
Like growing confidence, they’ll be told.

Did you know that people move to Dundee from Warsaw?

Makes you wonder what Warsaw is like-
-who’s fault it is that people can’t eat alcohol-

She’s hanging knickers out to dry and telling me that she’s discovered,
She doesn’t need all the shoes that she has,

And would it do if she were to donate,
A hundred and fifty thousand pounds?

They smile when they receive their checks.

Their blue doors fly open,
And when they say thank you, they mean it,
The money is enough.

Round the back,
The husband is in tears.

A brook runs through my Grandmas farm,
That used to carry gold.

My Grandpa
-Benjamin-

Did not yield the land,
To the British, who wanted it dammed.

In 1968, they took him in,
To have his appendix removed,
And Grandma never remarried.

My Aunt Alice,
Was a witch.

She flew in on broomsticks
We never saw,

But heard in the barn,
Where she parked.

She brought foreign sweets that didn’t
Crack our lips,
And told us naughty jokes.

-Oh Pope the *******,
Please pass the Custard!-
We’d squeal and never tell,

And feel all grown up and,
Conspiratorial.

Grandma says she died running with
The wrong pack,

That she was knocked from the sky,
By a cross.

Later we learned,
It was a broken heart that did it, that

Grandma wouldn’t accept a,
Jewish man in the house,

So she killed herself.

Mary was dead when we got here,
Her tree is the prettiest.

It’s a large yellow poplar that
Trembles in the slightest breeze.

She was a violinist,
A frail, little thing, who

Is fading away in family photographs.

Irridescent sparrows trill,
Beautiful harmonies,
From skinny branches,

Shielded by the most delicate,
Drooping fronds.

You see, my Grandmother has three beautiful trees,
Growing in her garden,

One for Benjamin, one for Alice, one for Mary.

My grandmother used to sit under these trees.
They’re feeding off the bones she says.