there is no eventing on
 the horizon of giving-up
(that it is what it is is never all
what is that it’s being as it is)

introverting eyes caving in on themselves
chancing no glacing just prancing
the thumping hypnotizing soundings are
automating the syncopating bodies parts
so but we still aint dancing no mo’
we’re shattered shattering scatterings
coffling in delusioning illusionings

bumping and grinding
fabricating the heat of romancing
grinning here always looking ‘round
so enfolding in beholding
our own entrancing
while raising our hands
so like the roof is rising up
bodies bleeding tattoos
is our democratizing proof
of this serpentining ruse

cocooning here
in a legislating somebody
so not believing we’re dancing
right here on the cusp
of never ever seen being no more

Copyright © 2019 Asili Ya Nadhiri

so just instead of being dead 

all we doing in these fields here now
is shoot’n mess in our veins . . .
us aint used to no shit like this!
just treading water in this muddy hold
done give up on try’n to get to a shore
no matter how hard i’m wishing i caint
the gov’ment keep promising to massage
my tird aching joints and wrinkling hands
with welfaring drippings of fool’s gold
but this trick aint working like dey say’n
all i’m doing’s just weathering here wait’n
pimpimg my vote to any somebody who
lying out real !loud! ‘bout how they
drawing some kinda line in the sand
when aint nothing but dirt in these fields
and mud hardening up ‘round my waist
in this pond that’s here inside my head
but what the hell! . . . we too old
for thinking ‘bout any kind of sump’n else
got no choice but to keep wrapping up
in all us being given for to behold
“aint your fault neighbor
for be’n how ya’ll still being here is!”
so we be feeling for least a minute
like us instead of being dead

Copyright © 2019 Asili Ya Nadhiri

“TONAL DRAWING IS BEYOND THE RESTRICTING OF ART; IT IS EXPERIENCING THE EXPERIENCING . . . GETTING OUT OF YOUR OWN WAY

a most promising heroic moment

Sometimes, believing the odds against accomplishing an essential objective are overwhelming is preferred; it offers the false comfort of having a justification for not trying whole heartedly. This is, however, a most promising heroic moment; the glorious and euphoric momenting of overcoming is immediately there and most assisting, if allowed

No Need Trying To Be Apologizing

Trying to apologize for what has “happening” seems debilitating and coffling.  No matter the magnitude of the effort, that which is spilt is not to be unspilling; every thing is  entropying, but always elegantly entangling on . . . we are flowing in a cosmos not on an outpost seeking adoption.

SURRENDERING FOR A SELFIE, DAMN!!!

            We are surrendering to the serpentining whining of THOSE AMONG US WHO ARE JUST  TEMPORARILY GLITTERING; BUT ARE DESPERATELY DOING ANY AND EVERYTHING IN THEIR EFFORT TO BE HOLDING ON TO THEIR PERCEIVE POWER FOR EVER. There is not any substantial glowing in glitter; only the fleeting flashing of mimes, and the momentary clustering of staccatos of flashes, WHOSE FALSE GLOW IS SUSTAINING ONLY AS LONG AS WE KEEP FOCUSSING LIGHT ON THEM

We should be rejoicing that these pretentiously arrogating fools are parading themselves so blatantly. But, much to the contrary, we are celebrating their treason by publicly, obsessively, and obediently trying to be just like them (PROSTRATING AT THEIR FEET FOR A SELFIE AND AN AUTOGRAPH. AND IT IS VERY VERY CLEAR THAT WE ARE BEING VERY SUCCESSFUL: PERHAPS THIS IS WHY WE KEEP CHEERING THEM ON BY RELECTING THEM AND/OR RUBBER STAMPING THEIR BEHAVIOR AT THEIR RESPECTIVE GOVERNING VENUES, BOX OFFICES, STADIUMS, AND PERFORMANCE STAGES, ET CETERA

            WE SHOULD AT LEAST ASK: HOW ARE THESE TRAITOROUS PEOPLE  WHO, THEMSELVES, ARE SO BLATANTLY AND COMPULSIVELY IMITATING OTHERS IN AN EFFORT TO SATISFY THEIR INSATIABLE AND EVER GROWING ADDICTION TO !ME!ME!ME!ME!ME! ASSISTING MY EFFORT TO BE EXPERIENCING THE DECLARATION: “THAT ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL, THAT THEY ARE ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR WITH CERTAIN UNALIENABLE RIGHTS, THAT AMONG THESE ARE LIFE, LIBERTY AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.” SINCE THEY ARE NOT PROVIDING THE KIND OF SOCIETAL LEADERSHIP WITH WHICH THEIR RESPECTIVE VENUES ARE CHARGED, !WHYWHYWHY! AM I SO EAGERLY AND RELIGIOUSLY PROSTRATING BEFORE THEM, AND OBEYING THEIR SELFISH WHIMS—SO ABSOLUTELY—AS THOUGH I AM SOME KIND OF ZOMBIE!!!

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 there in my eyes going here otherwise
everywhere and besides
so silent so heard
the resonance of melodious words

Copyright © 1990, 2015 Asili Ya Nadhiri

circular groundings in bubbular spaces

sitting there on a curb
is a young man
propped up
by the strong sour smell of used piss
and the fecal odor of public toilets
in his long boney hands
is a big knappy head smothering
in dread locks and corn rows
and stubby little plaits
big eyes red bulging there in his head
staring down at things
floating here in the gutter

cross thuh street
is another young man
oiled and perfumed
on Egyptian sand dunes
wit curly hair do’s and Air tennis shoes
posing there
in mean hungry stares
cross pickled pig feet and lean limousines
tanning there
in wall street stalls and clean ivy halls
cunningly crossing over
into some ‘nother body else-ing

Copyright © 1988 Asili Ya Nadhiri

The Swooping Strides of Midnight Marches

1.

i seeing creeks of seamless moments
in the thickening of wrinkles
rippling in stilled darkening faces
scurrying away back on inside
to a hiding from the dawn

2.

a small brown boy
squatting down in a corner
bruising and silently erasing
in the fouling embouchuring
of this tribal embrace

3.

here some where there right in here
where long nights spread their rusing arms
rubbing as mystical promissory balms
against the rawed weathering souls
of urbaned vagabonds

Copyright © 1993 Asili Ya Nadhiri

*The Wall
(of Kano, Nigeria) 

the ground is trembling
no one knows
when a step will be taken
until the memory
no visions are dared
eyes have no motion
asking no things
legs dart here and there
on feet abandoned
everywhere
the day is a ritual
starting at sunrise
never the night before
thoughts of tomorrow is tabooooo
“I have little that I want
I want nothing I don’t have”
houses have no windows
thick mud clay walls
dole out each breath
too little for dreaming
worth lives in the markets
patches landscape the people and things
and the ways of doing them
in layers lives are caked
“I cannot see
I will not see
I don’t have to see”
the sacred is profaned
the steps proclaimed
counted over and over
between dark bony fingers
as fat men
“who don’t need to see”
blow dust and debris
in the eyes and wills of gym people
with the holy words they have writ
in a field
sits a seat of higher learning
squat several boys moving their bowels
squeaks a machine making bricks
stands a fire truck out of gas
here
where beginning is never beginning
and always never ending
in this land
with no language but many tongues
no voice but many songs

*Historically, many West African cities were surrounded by thick mud walls for protection from invaders

Copyright ©1990 Asili Ya Nadhiri