born in 1975
40 odd beat  
song now old
enough to buy a cold
drink

cold drink

We're hitting funk levels that shouldn't even be possible.
recommended algorithm
algorithm
recommended
for your ears only
We're hitting funk levels that shouldn't even be possible.

come band
funk funkier,
summon Brown
back from the dead.


Fibonacci's rabbit on steroids
what’s your count
Feel this beat
Fibonacci's rabbit on steroids
0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55,

seek me the vodoooo advice
quick turn to  23/16
(3+3+3+3+3+3+3+2)
probably overhearing
overhearing what is truly not there 

it's my juju baby

over the speed limit
sound so slow
150 BPM
we’ve gone over the speed limit
billion BPM
and a
beat

direct line to NASA
monitored funk levels
from outer space

audio crackcocaine
legal be it \
this
speed deep beat

band come
come come
now

funkier,

Brown sermons
back from the dead.

James loves  
brown brow
tall dark seregeti

beat
Mandingo beat

Khoudia Diop Repeats
If they got any funkier,
they'd summon James Brown
back from the dead

Fibonacci's rabbit on steroids
what’s your count
Feel this beat
Fibonacci's rabbit on steroids
0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55,

Warning: Do not turn the speed up to two.
YOU WILL BE OUT FUNKED.
double WITCHED

If speed is increased, wash eyes

Khoudia Diop Repeats
wash your eyes
ice cold

water

speed of sound
quicken your pace
release your soul

seek me
the vodoooo advice.

levels of funkiness been
theoretized
never imagined
achieved

born in 1975
Dumisaning
40 odd years ago.
song now old
enough to buy a cold
drink.
drink

seek me
thee vodoooo advice.
I have beaten about
this beat before.

Funk
Jam Wam goes my Trunk
Punk kids rage and unleash the beast of the party out the cage
Hippie kidz just melt
felt there heat
you see there bodies fall to the ground
the Rock kids mosh and make the concert burn down like pete tosh
We were funky hipsterz watchin the motion of the devotion of these kidz gettin down
we were funky monkeys just swinggin and a singing
pretty girlz jewelry gleamin
ya they caught me peakin
**** I was geekin and cheezin
would'nt you
Funkin A

Hear Ye, Hear Ye!

I have never been one to do things usual,
wet down and reusable
straight up delusional,
sometimes confusing all,
******* useable.

So juvenile.


Between you and me,
this girl is overly irreverent,
open book intelligent,
in need of saving reverend,
whose arrogant,
most relevant.
I'm typically benevolent.
It's evident I'm heaven sent,

REPENT!

I'm unsusceptible to rules,
except on days like April Fool's.
I'm orthodox, I kid,
you wish.
Unorthodox, reborn,Jewish

Foolish.


I have never been one to do things usual,
Chained up? Refuseable,
tied down and doable,
funked up and beautiful,
French words excusable,
the next line unsuitable.

I am in a funk.
A ****** funk.
A funky ****** funk.
A fucky funky funked ****** funk.

Depression.
Oh, me.
Big freaky me.
Love me.
I hate you.
Pick me.

One out of millions of zeros.

Ohio.
****.
Canada, oh Canada.
What a place to be.

Decision to make.
Leave it all behind.
Watch the blood drip.
Cry deeply.

0 out of a sea of 1s.

As the month of February draws to a close,
I look back on how dismal a month it's been for me.
Now, February is typically my least favorite month of the year,
Meteorologically speaking,
But personal problems almost always find a way
To add insult to injury during this
Stunted funked up month.

The perpetual cloud cover matches
My mind,
As the pleasant and unpleasant coil,
Intertwined.
The inquisitive, favorable nature I bear
Seems to pack up and vanish as if into thin air.

Let's recap.
Let's not.


Well then.

i tend to fight these small battles every once in a while. small details of daily routine that trigger a foul part of me that doesn’t seem to stop until it grows tired of hurting inside. i never seem to get a grasp of how long it lingers in me until i finally feel the sun on my face again.

the point is, i get sick. i try to pretend as best as i can to jump and smile to show the happiness i enjoy in everyday…but at the end of the day…all i want to do is curl into myself and try to swallow the bitterness that eats me up inside.
my mother termed it “the funk” and it tends to come sporadically. it became obvious to her that it will always be my inner struggle to conquer. she lovingly and patiently lets it play on in the daily routine while standing on guard from the sidelines. she’s been through this before and will get through it right there with me. she’s a soldier and i pointedly take after her. i am her daughter.

i’ve discovered through experience what triggers it most of the time. it’s him. the lingering thought of him. once again coming into focus from a blurry image from my lens of perspective and i spot the difference. i sense the change. i see what’s missing all over again. and feel that familiar pain. soon the rain starts to trickle down from the angry cloud forming quickly above my head. and i’m gone.

snippets of images recorded in my head are then returned to me. words and phrases repeated from another that doesn’t match the baritone or time it was once said. that he once said. to the lady in charge, or to the siblings…or even to me. and i become confused. then hurt. then lonely. then angry.

never ending process that has become all too familiar for the girl who has enough estranged thoughts swimming around in her already chaotic, messy mind. once the thoughts are set in, the pain settles a little longer in the mess of my heart and the images become all too painfully clear to see.

he becomes everything. he’s sitting at the dinner table. he’s watching the basketball game in the room. he’s fixing the washing machine. he’s driving in from working a 14 hour shift. and i can see it all and even hear it sometimes. i hear him humming the songs from the oldies station. i listen for the quiet chuckle after mum attempts a joke at the kitchen counter.

you are correct when you say i seem to be a little off. to imagine someone who has not been in my physical presence for years and yet can appear at random times of my day to painfully remind me…that he has not been there. it hurts too much to even breathe.

you are also correct when you say that i have not found that closure yet. but searching for an answer, all the while re-affirming the steps to the plan of salvation…does not fill in the rest of the time of my day when a memory intertwines with this very moment. and whatever i say to myself, the mantra i give myself daily, cannot justify the emptiness echoing within the confinements of my funked-up imagination.

however, i am trying. i am improving. instead of the flashback brushing against me in spite. i allow it to remain. i allow it to connect. to coincide. to remind me of all the many great things that can become of this past reflection of him. i invite it rather than despise it. i turn forward and welcome whatever else my mind can remember of him. i learned to cherish it. i learned to cherish him. his past with my now.

songs, smells, places, time of the day…i watch for them most carefully and take a moment to myself to learn from it. raise my face to the sun and finally feel the familiar warmth again.

i know there will be more bad days. more painful reminders. more hiding under the covers and suffer in silence. but i know for myself that there’s always room for improvement and a chance to take that single opportunity within stride. it’s still here. he’s still here.

**and i’m finally okay with that.

The scarecrow

            Played on the banjo
One of those golden songs

And the town crow'd
          Crowded like stars

A field of us

While the scarecrow
Played on his banjo

          Songs of love

The crowd rose
      Reaching above

As the strings plugged

                   Strumming

Songs of us

In the field of stars
On the island earth

The scarecrow
        Played a banjo

And the people
   Funked along

The scarecrow played
Picking
            At
                 The
                      Plugs

Scaring away

   All the crows

we are the Barnabus moth in the flame of our contentious reality.
roiling in sunlight benighted. void harpies champing at the 8bit reservoir
of our discontent, relentless and buffoon. our comedies squat on the curbed rapture
of our indelicate illumination. all buddha huffing glitter often
in a dreaming canary’s pistachio garments
loaded with lost ghosts, that mostly pose as a threat
to skim milk. star funked by a torrent of unfortunate blessings.
gaining the last hill on a star
without a serpent.

all the time.

The onions were crisp and sugar funked. The pumpkins plump
and less ordinary than the okra with the palsy.
The sweet peas were lumps of gnocchi tucked into emeralds
as ascendent as a vine of pregnant Ivy.
Coin purse puce where the rain slapped
and the fog of our tundra dropped anchor
where our meadows
were bent.

But what Vera wants to know
Is Why?

And what Heaven wants to know
Is Why Not?