a profile of ourselves comes alive
inside the photograph painted poem
that can shift focus, pull out, draw in
to the blend of shade; the touch
of our breathing texture,
let all the sunlight in
to fractal into blur
sense’s emotion
fist an impression
on the still sequence
of life’s great escape
the story of a changing story
and all that we may lay waste and forget
is rolled over in scriptures’ corner of canvas.
The dangerous truth of ourselves is our art
The identity of presence stems deep
beneath the myth of the psyche.
The ultimate freedom,
our true birth
is the art
our vermillion
minds spill as dye
to flush veins
that won’t fossilize
themselves; in life
we must try
to unpack the self
of its own truth


Swallow the heartbeat

cloud of blue mind
you float
in the bobbing bottle
of longing being,
half submerged
in the dark water’s past, amass
in the symmetry of what you see;
the glass echo of hollow whispers
alive in the tunnel
of an imperfect moon,
the dream navel’s
a calm chaos
of nakedness
in water’s silent

piece back together
in the cresting mosaic
of lost reflection, the embrace
In which to hold the depth of the sky


Their plane is his to board

devil cat up and boarded a plane,
took flight in the effluvium
caught sometime in the cloud
of our bird’s eye mind

he lit a cigarette; cloud plume
spume fiddles and fills like
his brief case brim spills
loaded pills, that the skychains
don’t even want to claim again

Giants swat above the city steeps
great minds pick at the picnic of his

one for every day
in his week

sometimes, when they come
to see him, he picks them apart
like toy trains in his playground
of infinite infantile thought

each one the same
each one the same
until they believe it

sometimes, when they come
to see him, their flailing arms silence
in their regression onto him

how many fall in the simmer
haze of refraction in reflection?

all about devil cat they lay
wandering over themselves
in the suspended heat of his despair

“It must be the effluvium
caught in the clouds” they say
but they know he is up there
and will never come down

such is the law of the gravity
they created in weighing him


The old crust veneer of the gilding to this life

spills through the crack in time’s leaking vessel

Undone in the mangrove whirl of shadow imagination,

our lust; the last leaf, dried between the weight of words

forms the silence of the tomb, of an unopened book’s eternal verse

and climbs the mast of our blind balance of body

our star stuck resin, the amber sap of inured self

and seals inside the melt of the lunar gap

along the sky layered in lapse

to harness the open map of mind, the un-constellated white

satin braille of the sailing stars, against the backlight of night,

where you will find me a moonchild, on a honey scar crescent

gathering glowing pebbles of my first words

in the scratch and claw of my true birth

Mungu Wetu

Morning broke this morning,

sleep caught like crystal dew

in the prison call of the sun

dawning far away

from the grey

bland aftertaste of day,

the horizon’s lifeless grain;

a mauve shawl of the dying winter

emerging in splinters, wanting to dawn

more, more than just day, today

Flitter falls, fell with the night,

first eyes, found first blossom trails

on silent fairy lights, carrying in the wind.

Feet step on delicate origami worlds

scattered miniatures of all we hold,

revolve in the breath they blow

into life glowing inside ourselves

within the starblood centers of the blossom

uncurled and alive from where they fell,

the mist has pressed them onto themselves

into one amassing tide of perfume

of the most delicate youth, running beneath

the powder fall of thoughts,

of possibilities,

of life

That morning masks and mutes,

numbs the focus of the falling life

and renders the sweet stung scent

blanched by its own discovery

when in the full circle of a year,

all stops, acutely aware

as if hung on a weightless impasse,

clung to a belief that will never come

and through this infinite, the miniature worlds

of the blossoms curls, grow slowly apart;

mark the splintering of their white

by creases of crimson spills of sight

and find refuge in the fight to grapple

and turn a shadowless light;

a transparent disguise

to their inseparable selves

one hundred and forty seven selves

fell into the blossom’s plight

in my first sight of spring

each whispering

-When we fall, we fall

each and all, to the one floor

from the same great height-

and on they fall, and on we fall

converging in woe, ingrained

in the dirt pressed from our identity;

the fossil set of our equal footprints

mar on the blossom grounds of life,

unable to live out of difference,

outside of season, too afraid of seeing

ends, when they are the beginnings

to the hemlock spin of our blossom creases,

blown into concentric spiraling designs

of the forgotten fingerprints of spring

Teacher of my poem

Dance along the delicately elongating night,

the quick whip of the wind, winds the dunes,

the sand sea-skates in whispers of the land’s

thirst, thin swifts on chalking cliffs, lift and lay

the day’s eclipse to the myth of metempsychosis

and how it sings in the hemlock of my minds veins

The fossils eyes on the black obsidian of my being

will remain in the solemn refrain of the winds way;

Unfastening the cobwebs of my broken, slaking mane

as the dunes melt into the land, that was the sea,

your musing perfume, the nakedness to swallow me

The dandelion’s dendrite dance of your thought

reflexive trance, is the dunes delight;

the rhythmic redress of the land

in the awaited monsoon

veils under the insatiable moon

and I,

I am words, clung to the earth

lost in the shade of my shadow

weightless for all I may weigh,

I sink slowly to float again

in the quicksand of language