drowning on in themm’d themmings . . . (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

**drowning on in themm’d themmings
(ensconcing inside this blurring obscuring)

them themms keep on themming mo’ themms
who strutting on out the mouth of this womb
pompously adorning their anxious disdaining
of oracular warning of proverbial sins
they perpetrating with themm’d themms they
offering when to themm covetting themms
who callously moulding and coldly pouring on
through vicariousing veins of other themms
social matrixationing so for libating our thrones

themms fenestrating venderers jes like themm’ds
run’n scared trying to hide from what them too
pandering vitiating hustlers as heroic themms
who blowing slow low mo’ mo’ humping sounds
resounding in the holds of emptying arms
whining bags fulling on pretensifying mimes
self-cowarding pawns so prostrating in place
‘fore rusing algorithming pixillated rhymes
pervert’n on in the blues like themm’d themms

just surling swirling desperating redoundings
as this ever deepening invasive fingering
is enthralling us deeper on here inside
of our own swallow’n invisiblizing
swaggerly staggering arm-in-arm
invisiblizinglying invisiblizing
babbling mesmerizing mesmerizers
so ’cause all we all is just themms

**nothing in this creation is in isolation. If one mentally isolates a small piece, that person will be able to decipher it, almost, in any manner desired. Needless to say, herein lies a most fertile grounding for desperately holding on to excusings.

the all impoverishing arms of legacy chasing (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

the all impoverishing arms of legacy chasing

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
is just grateful little memorials to ME”

CASTLE-LING

THINK: OUR SOCIETY AND THE CASTLE-LING MENTALITY (SELFIE-ING) IS BEING DRIVEN BY THE FUTILE QUEST OF THE ULTRA WEAK AND INSECURE FOR THE FANTASY (HIGH) OF HAVING ULTIMATE POWER
Asili Ya Nadhiri

NO THING IS ISOLATED IN THIS CREATION; EVERYTHING IS INTRICATELY AND INTIMATELY CONNECTED
TONAL DRAWINGS WRITTEN IN POETIC FORM

Will We Ever Stop

WILL WE EVER STOP ADVERTISING FOOLS!!! NO, NOT AS LONG AS THEY SELL . . . OUR SOCIETY IS JUST SO ENAMORED WITH HUSTLERS/FOOLS; THESE ARE THE PEOPLE WE ARE SO DESPERATELY CHOOSING AND CLINGING TO AS OUR HEROES!!!
ASK: TRUTHFULLY, WHAT ARE OUR HEROES REALLY ADDING TO OUR LIVES THAT IS MAKING US SUCH AVID AND EAGER SYCOPHANTS?
Rather than “wishing upon a star”; perhaps, we will be better serving ourselves and our society by using that star to ascertain where we are and where we are presently going

the rest of my father (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

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

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

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

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

en-clevering decadencing (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

en-clevering decadencing

splashings loudly bodaciously bodacious
loquaciously splatterings in the pupil-ling of our eyes
hooching things hazing synthesizing fantasizings
paralyzing socializing with infantizing mesmerizing
resonating burrowers here sucking on in our wallowings
who they just our aloning soliloquys begging for enfleshing
spinning making so like us aint doing what’us doing
us wrapping up in the charmings of our potionings
wantonly colding on the face of a numbing retarding
snorting the whims of transgendering enthrallings
squandering on in this scattering en-folding
worshipping bloodsucking hustlers mogulizing
mobilizing in-visible-lizing with visiblizing
amen-ing rationalising in a marching disregarding
canonizing this libation us keeping coming on around
drama-tizing its’ anthems as salvation for us all
here bragg’n ’bout how’us swagg’n like’us spose’n
aint no mattering ’bout druming the rhyming
or however else us syncing this sloshing in our heads
us just all in here seeing one another
as some what-ever who-ever else-ing instead

morphing (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

i’m feeling this feeling
that i am not feeling
looking just like what
i can’t be seeing
in the midst of it’s here
and is not is and it is
a square in circular norm
and triangular in form
when except in right then
and now where i’m been
but i can’t disappear
‘cause nobody’s here
to appear how i seeing

morphing
(forms are horns who alarm)

wandering along multiferous paths
mutual enfoldings and no footprintings
disappearings appearing in disappearing
caking dry marbling fluzzy-ing-ing
scared of knowing what we knowing

into what am i turninged
so many flags in this churning
dastardly yearning without concerning
there’s always something else
inside of something else
that itself is something else
honed and unknown is spelled born
an ending syllable announcing my form

how is it am i numbing

how is it am i numbing
(here in the arms of alternationing-ing)

this spangling perverse-a-nating rasp
is grinding up against me
rapidly erasing me on
in this concrete plaza of fools
but how can it i be knowing
if no callous skin is showing
and the pain’s no longer growing
my knees they stiffening harder
crawling in the glass of sugared sands
but how can it i be knowing
if no callous skin is showing
and the pain’s no longer growing
wallow’n in this frigid-ing wallow’n
the colding is losing its cold
but how can it i be knowing
if no callous skin is showing
and the pain’s no longer growing
there is no feeling of feeling
same is same and same is same
but how can it i be knowing
if no callous skin is showing
and the pain is no longer growing

game-ing (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

game-ing

us being collusively abused abusing
in our ruse-ing delusionings of choosing
wallowing in alternate illusionings
proliferating surrogate’n hallucinationings
we swallowing right on down
they numbing us all all around inside
and we claiming it’s just because
we in a hurry being in such a hurry
back’n’forth in between back’n’forthing
but aint hurrying fast a ‘nough
being the shuffling shells we using
for colliding the coffled coffle-ling forms
of our glaring bamboozling allusionings

our eyes they shut so posing closed
in there staring at in behind our selves
through shaded little peepholes painted
on the faces of invisibling wanderers
strolling arm and arm wrapping-up
in words of their serpentining whores
making believe all in our making believe
having no clue ‘bout no notion how it is
that’us going to be keeping score

atlantic mooring (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

atlantic mooring

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

obediently 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 your sway
pronouncing on and on of this cosmic way

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