come to me,
my beloveds
with long nails
and squinting eyes,
spare neither
claw or hook,
delve and devolve,
critique and solve
the words of this prophet
scribbled on plastic
bus seats

give me
my due,
my comeuppance,
my downfalls

will me
to be better
or worse
if that be betterment

so eagerly
will embrace,
grasp, insert
your benailing fingers,
soften, grasp,
repoint thy claws
taking thy earnest joy
at pain inflicted
as my own
as long as you dare
just say something!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A bus poem
in honor of my invitation  
my digital birthing

April 8th, 2015

A gob of squash
in a saucer with a hub
let a carrefour marque
with an apple ding
in swirls of romance heading there
a crowd of superfluousness as a hip is king
and a patch through the field
that roll lushly on green for this round mesh
while exquisitness hit so sweet
in a shade of sky  
where ablaze in silky attire
with her brazen desire again.

There's always that one girl

with the astonishing smile
and the little sly gap
      between her front teeth-

charming because it screams of mischief.

There's always that one girl

with the literature voice
and the Zimbabwe speech
    sneaking in through her

points, arguments, metaphors. Identity.

That one, inexplicable, eccentric
     girl

who somehow teaches you
how take to take a selfie in the dark
nighttime balcony of an African university.

And somehow by the end of it,
as you are carried away to tomorrow
by the sound of her new sim-card voice,

you wonder why some victories
cannot be gold medals you can take
back home to your parents,

as she bus-drifts away back to that
spirited mother land
that hatched her onto a podium.

Then that new sim-card is discarded.
And some smiles you cannot forget.