you are here with me
long before you come
and I’m holding you so close
the warm moisture of your breath
is gently washing and massaging my face
and I’m hearing the thrumming of our bosoms
pouring one on into the other
I’m talking with you
here in the mirror at dawn
at work in the dry spacings of the day
while walking alone in the evening
when the air is clear
and generous with its wisdom
and your soft round browns
are exploding in me rubbing raw nerves
with sensuous brushings and nourishing words
delicately etching in tracings of your smile
the tasting of you is here everywhere
my mouth my stomach my eyes my ears
on the ends of my fingertips
spreading as oceans boundlessly
enslaving my thoughts . . .
to the smooth melodious hummming
of sagacious African drummmings
we’re dervishly whirling and twirling
warming each other as best we can
in this bubbular pocket of rented things
framed in cold and lonely sounds
by the time you have come here with me
there’s so little to be seeing
you’ve been consuming me for so long
only open and naked pores are left . . .
your eyes are pouring quietly into mine
and we’re whispering in native tongues
tones sung through us for so long
and now we’re over flowing
in the urgings of torrid new hungers
savagely grounding us down and
enfolding us in short orgasmic fillings
as we’re continuing to becoming to us
glistening sheets of scrolling waters
drumming on in resounding billows
wet humming oracles unfolding there
nourishing darkening trepidationings
reverently enthralling wondering tongues
in loud roaring echoes leaving their trace
undauntingly entangling on
here across your face
by the stark emancipationing of this moon
staring on through cavern crevices homemade
silently kneading assuaging this fear inside
wrap’n’round the musclings of our strides
so these bronze shackled imprinting soles
aint froth aloning for the leave of wet sands
drying scared in hubrisating emulationings
who here begging unbeknowingly awaiting
the mutual beholding of kindred hands
emanating of our native humane
obedient you feeding this tumultuous
flooding here in our wondering souls
with snarling notion-nings crashing there
attacking foreboding wallings of this hold
nourishing the epic will of all them daring . . .
when so quietlying on back out on into then
and now on your way forth on up here again
embracing us all in this womb with its sway
pronouncing on and on of this cosmic way
the all impoverishing arms of legacy chasing (IT’S JUST ALL ABOUT ME!ME!ME!ME!ME!)
we’re just flies disguising here
laying eggs in this parasitic abiding
wooing on in the fawning eyes begging
of those echoing all around we all
hanging on to us here
like us doing to them and us too
inflationating everything we’re doing
swelling up but never growing at all
except here in our desperate exclaiming
“I’M this special one”
who auctionating other souls like me
into new little shiny old what-nots
politely embalming seditious thoughts
of another some ‘nother body else
sitting here magistrating after me
if this is no more i’ll have nothing left “but what about us who propping you up by grabbing on close all up around you we gon be left here hymning by our self ‘til the next they coming along like you”
it doesn’t matter this how we gon stay
floating like straws scattering everyday
clinging on to whomever’s drifting by
dutifully touching-up my fading smile
on chanting pallets of your mouths
‘cause we aint letting you be forgetting
how you knowing this what you knowing all you ALL YOU supposed to be being is just grateful little memorials to !ME!
A room, building, and any other edifice (mental and physical) is simply that: a construct/construction. And it remains such until human behavior begins to substantially define it. If we empty this nation’s legislature chamber and refill it with billiard tables, it will instantaneously become a pool room (or, more properly, a billiard parlor)—are you feeling me! Human behavior existentially defines and gives living substance to institutions (and buildings). Names are most valuable in terms of differentiationing. THE EXCUSE OF JUSTIFYING OR EXCUSING HUMAN BEHAVIOR BY CLAIMING TO BE RESPECTING THE OFFICETO WHICH THE PERSON EXHIBITING THE RESPECTIVE BEHAVIOR IS OFFICIALLY ASSIGNED IS SIMPLY COWARDICE:TRYING TO HIDE ONES INNATE WEAKNESS BEHIND THE SLITHERING SWALLOWING JAWS OF SERPENTINING (POLITICALLY CORRECTLY AND EUPHEMISTICALLY REFERRED TO AS SPINNING)
Currently, by means of its coverage of the controversy involving three female politicians with non-American heritage but who are fully invested American citizens, our American press coverage is giving us a most vivid and, reasonably, in-depth picture of the swallowing and perversive nature of SERPENTINING
but what now of they themmm’d
’bout whom it never is told
unknowing come they born too
with a share they hummming
with the seer’s tongue limping aloning alone in their incessant roam knowd they un-be-knownst the unknowing unknowned
the rest of my father
there deep in the child soft smile
of his thin dark lips
“tipping his hat to Miss Ann
and Sister Emma too”
was a creek of still water
and blood running red
in a short little man
shuffled back in the rear
and left limping there alone
humming “NEARRRRUH MY !LOR’R’ORD! to Theeee”
wondering just what he done wrong
he was always there by himself
when any somebody came by
to get what he had for’em free
and stand next to’im looking down
tryin to feel sump’n better ’bout theyself
and they never heard a word that he said
there deep in the child soft smile
of his thin dark lips
“tipping his hat to Miss Ann
and Sister Emma too”
was a creek of still water
and blood running red
in a short little man
shuffled back in the rear
and left limping there alone
humming “NEARRRRUH MY !LOR’R’ORD! to Theeee”
wondering just what he done wrong
everybody in the town there knowd him
and they called him Mr. Walduh by’is name
they wuz always jokin and rubbin on’is head
but they wuz talking with my mama in his stead
and they never heard a word that he said
there deep in the child soft smile
of his thin dark lips
“tipping his hat to Miss Ann
and Sister Emma too”
was a creek of still water
and blood running red
in a short little man
shuffled back in the rear
and left limping there alone
humming “NEARRRRUH MY !LOR’R’ORD! to Theeee”
wondering just what he done wrong
every Sunday sitting there in the amen corner
where all the holy men go
to show how they praying !HAH!
and how dey marching on into the kingdom come
but his turn in the corner never came
so they kept on passing on by
and they never heard a word that he said
there deep in the child soft smile
of his thin dark lips
“tipping his hat to Miss Ann
and Sister Emma too”
was a creek of still water
and blood running red
in a short little man
shuffled back in the rear
and left limping there alone
humming “NEARRRRUH MY !LOR’R’ORD! to Theeee”
wondering just what he done wrong
the preacher he stood there humming
’cause he just didn’t know what to say
so I stood up there and said what I said
to the few people there looking on
’bout the man laying there in the ground
but nobody cried not even the eyes
and when the ashes had gone to ashes
and the dust had done’n’done the same
everybody when they got up n left
had already done forgot his name
’cause they never heard a word that he said
there deep in the child soft smile
of his thin dark lips
“tipping his hat to Miss Ann
and Sister Emma too”
was a creek of still water
and blood running red
in a short little man
shuffled back in the rear
and left limping there alone
humming “NEARRRUH MY !LOR’R’ORD! to Theeee”
wondering just what he done wrong
Space is a quantum phenomenon. The quanta of which it is continuously being composed are all constantly entangling. Since entanglement has been finally (2015) experimentally confirmed, why are we still clinging so religiously onto the belief that the speed of light is the speed limit for the transmission of information?
we’re always here never pondering
if when-ing then is then-ing when
as then-ing when is when-ing then
obediently wandering and wondering . . .
as if they’re each somewhere alone
. . . perhaps they’re ever and ever
always ever only beginning to be
solacious approximationings
in this infinite entangling
entangling all of us in
this most gracious
superpositioning of ourselves
can’t be having no mirrors ‘round here
—’specially when somebody else gon be
coming through here looking too—
unless they aint never gon be showing
what it is that they ‘sposing to be making
sure us aint never be seeing how’us
crawing all up in the snortings of our
home growing weeds all right here
running down one another
round ‘n’round in each other’s heads
chewing us all up in our toothless
jaws praying to bloodshot eyes
so always us keeping us down
here on our knees shooing
while holding on to onto
just holding on to how just
to be holding holding on
the blues keep feeding in the rhythm (what is this upon my heart it make me burn inside this dark)
bags
these veined dark hands they shrivelling
in the hungry plundering
of her old crooked fingers
her shopping cart loaded it full
of rescued things
tied up in the arms
of her many little strings
silver aged trolley whose shine done gone
mumbling words grumbling ‘round
in thick lipped jaws wit snuff dripping down
‘neath the smile smothered there
in the still abandoned yearning
of her tird brown eyes
her losing what her finding
in the belly of this night
‘cause the wheels wobbling ‘round
us bumping here ‘gainst the ground
her squat’n there by herself
nobody somewhere
big wide bottom hips fart’n bare
for all those flies they hurrying there
looking on they going pretending no care
swallowing the syrupy spell
of this vulgar smell
slobbering mouths their hands dripping full
holding our breath
while her moving her bowels
the blues keep feeding in the rhythm (what is this upon my heart it make me burn inside this dark)
the grave
this armless night is swollen in silence
and sudden echoes of broken glass
muffled in lowly mumblings
of drunken body screams
twisted dark faces surrender
frozen in the pain of having to breathe
and no one is ever here or even near
the ears are closed for all to hear
eyes they stare and on they stare
always there at what they stare
the blues keep feeding in the rhythm (what is this upon my heart it make me burn inside this dark)
ghosts
the echoes of what there used to be
and the tease of those smells they bother me
dusty toes dressed in calloused corns
stomping and praying on dirt pourd floors
and them hands dark hands they clapping hands
here juke joint druming in rebok shoes
shadows of fires and fat blow flies
syrup they knots tied here in my head
the taste of things they holding me still
they keep on coming here humming
and drinking my time
nadhiriwrites 