our plague’n of wannabe’n wannabes (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

our incessant cling’n on to this ruse
of just cling’n on is so numb drumm
drummm’n’cause we still aint never
ever give’n dem ancient drummers
still everywhere talk’n’walk’n
the wisdoming wisdoming
of this perspicacious some some
. . . now you jes be telling me howcome

our plague’n of wannabe’n wannabees

all us all jes still here spinning ’round
in our methodical just rolling on up
constipationing on mythological turds
pandemize’n this synthesize’n paralyze’n
monopolizing scrummm drumming
numb’n all us all here raising-the-roof
. . . muffling abortioning screamings of
zombian mirages guzzling bogus notions
in disguising potions so making like
we’re always be’n some somebody else
sanctifying by camouflaging in
our braying hee-hawing amens

and here run’n still so dastardly scared
contending in our pretending
howcome whatever it is it aint even so
beg’n one another’n’all them other others
who baptise’n in the prowling infestering
of this ominous absurding absurding of
bland ad hoc’n liturging public litanies
to just be celebrating in the anathematic
swallow’n of stale bales of molded words
like they’re the keys for all them doors
of our vested barracoon’n tomes
legislationing the auctionationing
in this slithering misanthropic OMMM
always everywhere wantonly lurking
and perversenationing on’n’on’n’on
in incubationing wombs of rabid
pixilationing plastic norms like these

Mama (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

“O ALLAH
if You must take my mama now
please give her the paradise
and bless me to be living so this time
we’re being with each other forever”

Mama

I’m here always still being there
on the threshold of the room where
you’re lying there waiting for me
by yourself all alone with no cover
on a bed that you’re renting—
something you’ve always owned—
just to be being here . . . closer to me
your lips are majestically purple-ing
in their eternal proclamationing
the purpose of your life
keeping me forever
safe and warm
in your arms

here we are Mama at last
leaning on the horizon
of our mutual embracing
in this pausing momenting
of all my chasing
my tears are cleansing my soul
so my eyes are seeing you now
and I’m hearing the sommoning
of all your lonelying tears
that I never made time to wipe away
by just being near to see

Orbiting (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

then is when and when is then
and now is always ever being

Orbiting
(Scared!!! addicting in the serpentining
jaws of just begging to be seen)

we’re just robotic manifestationings
of staged reality celebrationings of
coffling lips suckling on plastic
sugar titties with cultiferous eyes
lock-stepping in our terror of any
critical theorizing of the
existential whys consciously
actualizing the social ritualizing
of our misanthropic perpetratonings

the mass of our anthrophic body is rapidly
diminishing from the alternatating
diet on which it’s being fed
the illusion of a visible dred
or all the other loathing potions
brewing here in our heads
we’re having no desire for knowing why
our eyes are no longer able to cry
as our oceans are rapidly rising high
and butterflies with elegant wings
are no longer daring to fly

so on we’re plunging aloning all alone
weightlessly feeling no pathway home
just a zero or one on some itty bitty chip
pixelating the oracular mosiac of the
anthropic failure burrowing in our demise

just a piece of the pie aint enough . . . (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

there aint never no magic words or wands
or mathematizing ruses for muting alarms
just the desecrating deeds of misanthropic weeds
or the existential freedom of humane performs

just a piece of the pie aint enough . . .
(’cause anesthetize’n fantasize’n invisibilize’n
hypocritizing’s in here roll’n our dough)

the eyes are betraying our coffling words
tangling up in turds of beguiling absurds
baptizing our bodies in talismanic tattoos
and coffling alternatating hoodoos
we’re syncophants here. . . aloning all alone
shot’n’up on reality hallucinationings of
being like our themmms up there on stage
who they all do’n the same just like you
pixelate’n automatons wrap’n’up in the
echos of our orchestrating-ninged BOOOO’s
so make’n like we’re be’n seen in this dark
robotically amen’n the sanctifying of
hypocritical theorizings so sanitizing
misanthropic legislationings of
genocidal manifesting destinationings
so this somebody we’re see’n enlarging
in our mirrors on the walls and there on
the faces in our malling stalls is always
the fault of themmm other somebody elses
and them B.S.’n up our heads do’n the
same to themselves that they do’n to you
razzmatazz’n recycling recyclings of
addicting automatons OMM’n on’n’on’n’on
synthesizing masturbationing incantationings
of this same old same old serpentining ruse
still slithering here inside’us where it’s residing
rabidly swallow’n every soul that’s abiding this
rhythmic convoluting syncopationing vamp’n
here in the belly of this jonah’s slave whale

just a piece of the pie ain’t enough

ORACULAR (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

*oracular

(in the belly of Jonah’s slave whales)

only the smell is raising up

from the deep tribal markings

on the dark bodies laying there

in they kin folk bowels

shackled down to the bottom

on this cold damp floor

in the belly of Jonah’s slave whales

!and we was told they was coming!

was told long long before

eating things for living they cannot name

scared about the night it filling they head

they listening for the drumming off yonder

low going lower it fading away fast

they left naked there humming

humming here alone

in the loud throbbing silence

resounding there

in the undulating rhythm of the ocean’s roar

a mama crying there gnawing on she baby throat

so he never! gone die here no more

they have to feed them ones

they burdened there my Lord to carry on

and sown here in this dirt

by many other hands

like it done been told

it was long meant to be

*Audio available at http://www.nadhiriwrites.com

this . . . is not just loneliness (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

this . . . is not just loneliness

wandering in here feeling
the feeling of not even feeling
the swallowing numbing
in this stall of no walls . . .
there’re no sanctioning echos
in this abounding silence
just going ‘round ‘n ‘round
in a forever come’n ‘round

there’s no touching in this hold
fingerprints can’t cling to silence
despair is always distending
tauntingly baiting its prey
with helplessly holding onto
the abandoning delusion of sucking
on the dry titty of pretending to be
being embraced by the mocking arms
of this bare and carnivorous tomb

charading in this parade’n masquerade’n (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

neurotic mirages weaning on reality shows
camouflaging our fears in fantasy flights
of serpentining blights mocking the harkening
omens of this ancient malady incessantly
progressingly ingurgitationing us all

charading in this parade’n masquerade’n
(synthesizing a pandemic ambiguationing)

we’re desperately cling’n on
to just still clinging on
to our syndicating stars masturbating
on stage right here ‘fore our eyes
!!!THESE AINT NO HEROES, YA’LL!!!
they just genuflecting whores
hyperbolate’n boors
and syncophanting fidos
still vomiting stale dumbing notions of
holy manifest destinationing potions
so trying to be hiding the evolutioning
of this bane misanthropic devolutioning

compassion is just virtual pantomime’n
profane’s a celebration of obscene in this
retarding same old limp’n that’s
no longer just lame but a swallow’n
paralysis catalyzing our selfish self-disdain
with this hypnotizing stupefying clamoring
that’s savagely and virally reducing us all
to run’n on’n’on through long toxic days
into hopeless bouts with sleepless nights
of ever glooming foreboding forebodings
for tomorrows of hypnotically coffling on
in the jaws of pixellating moments
dissipating the ingratiating balm
of the sun’s philanthropic light

Kano Women (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

Kano Women
(of Kano, Nigeria)

the women here have cocoa colored glances
always seeming to go somewhere else
their bodies are covered in long wraps of cloth
dipped in many colors bright
made out in the sun
walking tall along long dirt paths
child tied there on her back
a bucket full of water resting here on her head
her delicate shoulders quietly nestled
smoothly flowing softly going
in the gentle swaying whisper of her presence
here in this baked desert land cool
water she’s sipped pouring here through our hands
coming here in my eyes going there otherwise
everywhere and besides
so silent so heard
the resonance of melodious words

just what is this we’re here-ing (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

just what is this we’re here-ing

it most certainly is not a game
or an intellectual sham
for the sake of demonstrating
how smart I am
by unearthing tracings mitigating
in faces and places and spaces
of angular olympia displacings
craving scholarly promotionings
for archival proportionings
very seldom ever read
‘til way after you’re dead
just another somebody running laps
or somewhere off somewhere
before the hypnotizing eyes of a camera
or with a gavel on my lips
a gun on my hips
or dancing a national rendition of taps

its seems more invitingly comparable
to the enthralling praying
of a Coltrane solo
the angular canvassing
of Jacob Lawrence travelers
wandering a long way from home
the knowing inquisitive flowing
of a Romare Bearden collage
and Toni Morrison’s flowing
intradictionings
the ever unfolding impactationing
of the tinest butterfly wings
and looking there in the mirror
owning up to what you see
and seeking no solace by
screaming ME!ME!ME!ME!ME!
in the addicting never never
of living on vicariously