this dissipationing OM (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

this dissipationing OM

our burnishings and garnishings
are tarnishing most all every thing
and we’re just varnishing pains
through which we are wantonly staring
slumbering plunderinged morsel-lings
grabbing after gaudily painted what-nots
on dangling spangling bangling tables
over which we’re supposed to be caring
hoping they might swell-us-all-up
into sparkling little care-not-whats

they’re casting torn worn nets poured full
of porning midnight dancing shadowings
luring in patented promisory distortionings
of moldy-ing municipal adulterationings
loitering in jading charms of fading pastels
through which we’re militarily trompling on
patriotically flossing at bothersome notions
our prancing toothpic-ings are dis-sing
of a whom we’re always wanting
just ever barely barely only
always a little lessening
and never not so far

surrendering (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

surrendering

we all addicting “Me!Me!-ing” fondlers
our backs they mooningly tote-ing
fabricating tomes who cleverly disguising
treasonous designs being passing on and on
in bilious plottings of perverse-a-nating heads
of too-too-ing little self-devouring leeches
splashing here in their sucking scared
drowning in being scared of being scared
“but just you give us won’t you please
justa few minutes more of our sleeping
just a few more minutes will you please”
ingurgitating the noise of our snoring
our mouths they rabidly spinning us fulling
on swaddling illusions of something born here
that was never much more than stillborn
“a few minutes more won’t you please
justa few minutes more of this sleeping”
circlings in the hypnotic circling of circlings
our words they always just echoes
exacerbationings tatooing stolen juju trollings
on the hollowing caverns of our lives
this aimlessly squandering wandering’s
censoring the tendons commanding our legs
and rendering our bending knees attending
“no no no . . . aint no cause for worry
we just tired that’s all
a few more winks us up and ready to go
so please won’t you just . . . please . . .”

this aint no time for same old-ing (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

this aint no time for same old-ing

we here voraciously crouching down
decorously-ing in the toothless jaws
of crippled scared crippling hyenas
why here am we splashing with you
and all the rest of us swimming too
in this shit floating ‘round
everywhere like we through
confusion’s drinking all the strength
most everybody saying “i caint”
same as them who saying “i aint”
we here voraciously crouching down
decorously-ing in the toothless jaws
of crippled scared crippling hyenas
our hands they tied
by this noise we fed feeding
this clot in our heads
spinning paralyzing motions
shackling our legs
so laying here still is how we dred
very little difference from being dead
we here voraciously crouching down
decorously-ing in the toothless jaws
of crippled scared crippling hyenas

the dark rooming (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

the dark room

and this . . .
it must be a room
but no walls they appear
away there off yonder
!up close all up around me!right here
is there a door somewhere
with a knob and a key
and a light to turn on
to make it so i can see
who this somebody else other
‘sides the one i call me

so i just stay on like this
‘cause it easy to do
keep everything it the same
like how i been used to
and just so long as it stay dark
wont be no need that i see
or that i worry ‘bout who running
in here alone
‘side of me

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

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

corners (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

corners

the softly stabbing sadness
of long worried nights
laying here waiting across my face
and the memories i swallow then yesterday
is what i lean up against
here in my head
these things they stay with me
this how i know i aint dead

when things i do they shackle me
my blood it pourd so endlessly
and this air so thick
it smothering me
is what i lean up against
here in my head
these things they stay with me
this how i know i aint dead

notions of you
that i’m too scared to dare
my other little thoughts
they going no where
and the nipples of things
that i wish they could be
is what i lean up against
here in my head
these things they stay with me
this how i know i aint dead

sundown peopling (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

sundown peopling

fingers they dark and otherwise
pouring out here popping
in soft empty pockets
of little corner lots
clustered there anticipate’n
brown bottles they wait’n
for the bellowing mouth
of the same old faces
go slow motion swaying
they going ‘round’n’round and
there they is in they same old places
a little love warming here
warming here over yonder
some rolling dice coming there
coming there in the corner
yo!blood!
wont you tell it again
and put a little sump’n in it
it make the laughing so !good!
‘cause the day where i been
it got no kin to me
the rhythm it aint strong
they dont play no drum
and everything else there
it too be wrong
so pull me on back in
dont leave me hanging between
pull me here where i warm
‘fore monday coming here again
YO!BLOOD!
YO!BLOOD!
YO!BLOOD!

BOOjuuing (a tonal drawing written in poetic form

BOOjuuing

root woman root woman
root woman root woman
go where you looking around
for sump’n lost inside your head
you picking there off the ground
and put it rub it on your bosom
anything that you find
then you gone you ‘til you when
you coming this way again
root woman root woman
root woman root woman
sifting dirt in your hands
got no cane there bent down low
what can you do for a man
knotty hair kinked on your head
black dirty feet in the sand
what the good is there about you
here i caint understand
root woman root woman
root woman root woman
finding what it you see
how come your eyes why they never
dont they look here at me
aint there sump’n for your hands
who sit’n here in this chair
so what the matter dont you dig
way up on in here somewhere
root woman root woman
root woman root woman
there just like you aint seen
acting strange you left along
so make it seem like you mean
but like the rest just by yourself
somewhere alone in a dream
there spinning ‘round inside your head
in here where like you aint seen
root woman root woman
root woman root woman

orphaning (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

orphaning

hungry dayworkers running
waiting for cars who hire
in empty lots leaning on fried chicken stores
thick warm lips spreading
against cold window panes
in empty rooms full of broken things
little legs slowly walking
with empty brown bags
in wide streets paved with narrow dirt paths

this house is filling with vacant rooms
and darkness is swallowing the walls
the paths between us is filling with weeds
and hiding away the delta ground

and sometimes still we whisper of drummms
and hummm those sweet tasting mama songs
and feel the warm robe of those gospel fires
smoldering in the wisdom of many dark hands

the icebox is empty so i went on to bed
mama she left a note so i know her aint dead
my daddy somewhere he put’n grease in’is head
and my grandmama she jes git’n too old
all the people next door dey jes like mine
and dem in the street dey dere look’n at me
locked in here by’myself
in this cold dark room

in here there is no thing i see
all everything the same to me
no shadows here made by this face
one dream it sold for me to chase
in tennis shoes with lives they laced
in here inside inside this place

unknowningly (a tonal drawing written in poetic form)

unknowningly

but what now of they themm
’bout whom it never is it told
unknown come they born too
with a share they hummming
with the seer’s tongue
limping knowd they un-be-knowst
the unknowing unknown

nadhiriwrites

A topnotch WordPress.com site