I was a good friend, and a bad one. I was a day child, and a night one. It rained and the sun shone, I wasted time on my phone; I was friendly, and I was alone. I was in love, and I was afraid. I shouted hello, I knelt down and prayed. I cried for the dead, I said what I said; I thought about leaving, but I stayed instead.
Ogun owed Oxun for the fee he paid to divorce Yemayá in the watery deep. Babalu Aye‘s messenger delayed (no *** in the bargain – price too steep) until San Martín, divine caballero deceived the third wife of el Indio Guerrero.
(Obatala‘s beats got lost in transit the rhythm robbed by macumba-bandit.)
Eleguá cleared paths for He Who Opens Pores. Black roosters smoked puros at midnight. Outdoors, Santa Muerte was asked to turn down the noise so Nana Buluku could get some sleep.
As she gathered Ashé, reduced to a heap of Yoruba fool’s gold anointed with blood Oduduwa pretended he understood; but his mother-in-law knew he never would until Olódùmarè returned from the feast having sacrificed roosters while facing east.
The santero drew me a pictogram to protect me from forces my poem conjured but the blood of a sacrificed perfect lamb affords more protection, I knew. He wondered.