Capsize

pour your contents into her cap

Bimini

she saw a chunk of you fall into Miami

into low buried water

she saw a vessel of your soul capsize

spilling beautiful lives

spilling kin and friend and blood into turquoise sea

spilling old times good times all times

she saw them going home to Bimini

gone to another home far far far from Bimini

and near to its endless heavenly heart

pour pour pour Bimini

pour

Careening Daze

Days ago

I wish I had not seen

You

I don’t know

How many miles there are between

Our lives

But I wish they’d disappear

bodypolitic

we who would so readily destroy

our leaders

crucify them

cannibalize their hearts

suck the dense marrow from their battered bones

we are the people

we are the party

of opportunists and fifth-columnists

and naysayer and gainsayers

we lift them up and exalt them

that they must die

that we must live

beyond our means

beyond our abilities

beyond our willingness

we who would beat our breasts

in triumph at their flailing promises

plot in dark corners and under

small secret tables

to plunder their fraying wings

to stick bloodied feathers in our head-pieces

we are the people

we are the party

of whisperers and screamers

of whimperers and whining wimps

we lather ourselves with greed and confusion and

a longing for selfish promotion

and we whip the air of uncertainty with our black and white tongues

we scratch at the scars of their faces

we dig deeper into the ditches we have pasted on their backs

and we spit venom and bile from near and there

we are the people

we are the party

of mutating ideologues

presumptuous righteousness and

condescending vigor

we

have severed the anchors

and slashed the sails and

we

have smashed the rudders

we have drenched the harbour fires

with our slop-buckets and

we have wrenched the green and red lights

from the ports and the starboards

heads and sterns are laden with obscurity

we revel in the wretched punch

of misfortune disinformation misinformation

we crush our cores and copulate

to conceive new leaders for our unending parties

new leaders

to be stifled by the stench of our partying

new leaders

to be bludgeoned by the parting of our own smudged fingers

we are the people

we are the party of people

that sacrifice time on the altars of expedience

we ensnare wisdom and alter friendship

and drag them through fields of foolishness with heavy chains

we are the people

we are the party of people

that deserve ourselves

we deserve

nothing

but

the best

the worst

of

we

…be told

I going tell story on you

Truth is if

I tell the truth

You going go straight to death row

And that Fox Hill Prison

That ain’t no place to be

Ain’t even no hill

Just high hell

elements

Poema est viva

footsteps

Every day has been a quest

searching

through the great hill of

complex passages and naked scenery

at this place where we built a castle

a safe-house, and a fortress for our passion and mutual adorations

and it’s in the rock-faced cottage near the beach

where I find your smile sitting on a bed of vanilla jasmines

in the middle of that secret hearth

near to your warm rapture filled heart

I’ve tried reaching through the window just to touch

the repressed unconditional love and the blissful times

when your desires murmured songs in the night

and rained sugared juices on my skin

It’s all rolled up now into a thick candle that’s lit

and lodged deep in the interior

And I go on learning to be blessed with what we have built

in a short space in this beautiful place

learning to contend to be pleased with the distant heat

And I go on contented to count my footsteps instead of the days.

Calypsogirl

Today
saw her
stretched
still seeming wet
her steaming joy releasing her skirt
from her thighs
her eyes releasing plight from purple earth

Today
wants to
touch the invisible garden floating
about her sweet brown skin
wants to
wash her veiled enticing rear with sunlight
wants to
kiss the sky onto
her smooth cheeks
her savvy forehead
her adroit shoulders
her succulent arroyos
her peaks and valleys

Today
lips become acrylic
and ache
for a brush
and wait
for her dance
and shake
with her music

ride

to ride

to roll

inside this place

to mark its hide with your black tracks

to blend muscle with machine

man with speed

to bend expedience with the need for motion

to ride wet

in sunshine wet

in rain

through puddles of emotions

to ride

to slide into destinations

hot blood gushing through a Junkanoo heart

sweat dripping through your open pores washing

your tight skin and perched on your eyebrows like a baby high-tide

to ride 

free

no space but for your iron board butt

free

full of books and pens and papers and words and ideas and poems

to ride

without issues of the day

without speedometers odometers and oil meters and thermometers 

and bitter gas station pumpers and seat belt laws

to ride

to put on breaks

and

breathe

thymoumai-time

Where art thou Art
You beautiful expanse
of beautiful spirit
in beautiful flesh
Where art thou Art
I see your name
written by the minute hand
of the silent clock on Bay Street
while the muffled mouths
of stray potcakes salivate
into a roaring sea
that tears
a question into the asphalt…

eerwh rta hout atr?

Nobel

your voice found

me on my deserted paradise

and in the hush between the words

I wanted to brush your eyebrows

I wanted to touch your quota

I wanted to hear rivers flow

I wanted you and I to come

together to make doom

and laughter

and warm whispers

and sweet talk

and

forever

joy

we

our city is dead
we
prop up the body
we
live with it
stinking
carcass
we
love with it

we
build a coffin around it
heap the concrete
steel asphalt into
our own image
our own imagination
our own imitation
of anti-ness

our city is dead
we
bury the being
with memories opportunities
we
bury the generous organs in Styrofoam cups
we
throw plastic petals at peace
we
toss bouquets of crepe paper into a rushing breeze
we
tug at the gown tail of
property hope togetherness serenity
we
sprinkle our stories dreams revelations
we
move on
dumb vacant thoughtless and defiantly dying

callipygian

Hormane is here
sucking a pleasant plum
always here
waiting for a fortuitous encounter with
callipygous moments

There are theories
of how juices flow to soft places
fly between volcanic embraces
it is the reason why buxom numbers spill
out of the economist’s cup
what we wouldn’t do for more, more, more
for a larger one, a grander heftier tool

We’ll make
a fool out of daylight
for sure

And in the spare time
Hormane unscrambles the letters
Spells out Z A F T I G
something big, something full
of possibilities full
of outpouring

Hormane is always there
sucking a plump pleasing sweetened
life
so take a bow, and
another and another, another and
Ahhhh
all the cracks in the theories reveal themselves spontaneously
and the crackpots grunt
for joy and the crackpots overwhelm Hormane with
a gush of empty doctrine
tenacious tenets that
fill the space with more, more, more

Nusic

My son used to call it nusic

And even though I corrected him

A thousand times he insisted

That it was I who had it wrong

He'd often suggest I asked

God the only one who knew more than me

For it couldn’t be music

If it sounded like that…

Cows said moo

fey

it is amazing how

you

tug their lives

through the drudgery of forgotten times

that pliable smile

you

never put down

can melt the cerebrum of demons

and mend the meandering days of

stray dogs

but it is that frown

they

never see

that lives in every drop of your sea

like magic

your lips curl

and revolution

covers the world

felicitous

everything is useful... but in the hands of ignorance, anything can be rendered useless

Woodspecker

I’ll show you

to understand how

to bite a peace

from their lips now

so love could walk

instead of steady talk

walk coolly into a happiness hotbed

I’ll show you