Monthly Archives: June 2021

AFRICAN LOVE

i see the night star shinning so brightly
i feel the pain within my soul …
how the air is my last Testament of dreams
i am a traveling soul without boundaries
and my elders lost their grip upon me
oh how much shall be revealed
when at last the sun beats down upon
my face oh oh …gentlemen kneel
as the clear skies rain
I am a chord of grace & not a word
heard i relate — oh, oh, yeah
oh, oh, how flesh eats my soul
How forefathers gave and their
women wept for their pain and love
ooooooh!
rambling wondering and writing words
crying silently and never lord oh never
weeping the pain of my skin and soul
(wait for me) i cry oh how i know
| all i see turns to dirt |
and if a sound burns to ground
i sing with eyes /if i lose my mind
\ then with my mouth!/
Ooh some such angel oooooooooh
touch my Spirit.

:: 06.28.2021 ::


FOREWARD:  THE WERELINGS

WHEN sun opens the skies above so opens my dreams –>  open greens
like children’s eyes :  all to be revealed.  

As where summer’s beside their secret glories sleep
oh flowing downward if they’ll or righteously flow
so(armies of enemies fighting like adults reveals)  will fall

this. that.  a(t) least dare and not a word to relate
of seasons is nothing but herself flustered in pain.
oooooh.

An open closet within the child’s room:  bombed by society’s war;
‘s gulped by fear –> and never knew ghosts who hold
the hands of the living________ whom cannot kill but give life.
As each, c umbs of our Now) oooooooh      yeeeeeeah
twiceauponatime we met the willbeus and the desert streams
of desert sands | kissing the angel of Imagination.

Werelings.  

:: 06.28.2021 ::


WHEN RAIN STARTS FALLING DOWN

There are cemeteries that are lonely, graves full of bones that do not make a sound, the heart moving through a tunnel, in it darkness, darkness, darkness, like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves, as though we were drowning inside our hearts, as though we lived falling out of the skin into the so

And there are corpses, feet made of cold and sticky clay, death is inside the bones, like a barking where there are no dogs, coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere, growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see alone coffins under sail, embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair, with bakers who are as white as angels, and pensive young girls married to notary publics, caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead, the river of dark purple, moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death, filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it, comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it, comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no throat. Nevertheless its steps can be heard and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I’m not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see, but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets, of violets that are at home in the earth, because the face of death is green, and the look death gives is green, with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom, lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies, death is inside the broom, the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses, it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots: it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses, in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out: it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets, and the beds go sailing toward a port where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

:: 06.05.2021 ::