kagablog

jimmy rage with laser 3.14

my desire
is stronger

my resolve
full of love,
blossoming
in head
heart
hands
feet
souls
lips
tongue.
.
..my fire is smiling
like sun
to be
and become

Trust the blank things
we don’t speak

the black be-ings
we make,
destroy
and
become.

me looking back at you,
today

trying to make my peace
with the contention
that how i feel
for you
is a mere invention
of how
i want others
like yourself
to feel bout
me.
my own wayward
belief
in
..showing love
is like
being loved
and
being loved
is like
being in
love,
yesterday.

so i exhale, my dark ass face
whinging..
air
in lungs
my kingdoms come
.. done gone,
ive lost it all
gained my own
dignity..though
the nitty gritty of an atom,
under the microscope
for inspection
my own heart
empty and full
of it all.
the residue on my skin
in heart and sou.. moving on..
i know ill never walk alone..
their voices saying..
i love you’s in quiet chorus..

..so im in the middle way..
gods own alien glory
a ship over my city
..
im swimming i say
for that peaceful
shore brotha..
i swimming pass that bwoy
that place of rage
that space
of confusion
trying at best to understand
the struggle to find rest..

ps.1. it is done,
im done gone
di-vorced
17years of life
lost..
finally..

i tell you, brother—are you listening?—you are
high-up, up-high, and, just now, up-tight, but, there
are sharp flowers growing low near water, little
blazes flashing where the green grass gives-up
suddenly to dry black stones plowed-up in a seemingly
random anger by a relentless sea, jigging in the wind,
october, color-catch of the sky before night,

they speak

in you

curling

feet burning on each war-mapped ground

‘will this be my end?’

‘Is this where I am?’

they keep

an ember

as the world goes cold, jaw-slacked,

weird triumph of night—

you are the holy fucking fight!

* * * *

happy birthday, i stared at a river today
(your mother’s hospital behind me) & thought steadily
of you. (what life have you had away from water?) we
are two children of square cakes, molasses, hens
running, buckling loud, songs inside books, sweat of
impossible summer trees, and tales of christ; the
hard, gnarled hands of our grandfathers find some
relief in our efforts to say something simple, maybe
beautiful, true, before we’re old.

happy birthday, brother.

the psychotic bushman

..so i watch
the ships go by
pink hands waving
the distant cloud moving
slowly
over the river..
my own moment of reckoning
has come and gone
i feel my son’s
small hands on my shoulder
smell his breath
breathing
on my neck
i hear him
saying
i love you
quietly in my ear.
..the sun is setting
now
sky darkening
to pitch
blackness..
i remember
the story of my own
weary arrival to
this place..
my gaze
my tears
rolling
down
my cheeks
big and warm..
setting me adrift
..why am i here like this
i have ask again
why have i come to
this place
by the riverside
where my burden
is heavy
my heart full
am i really
counting
signs
as if it were courage..
tell me brother.

..my own reading of you
was not clear
my own heart beat
of you
was not steady,
i was distracted
with all
dem voices
swirling around
on the plain.
the cars
the birds
the street
walkers,
the whole environment
seemed alive.
i was sitting too
close to them
they felt hollow
and empty,
all the deep dark things
i wanted to confess to you
remained stuck
in my throat
trying at best
to get out..
scream out.

.. i said your name while we did it.
we kissed,
foreplayed, fondled.

you were animal-like
for a moment.
a beast in you..
of desire.

you slapped me
when i asked you,
turning up the sting
with each blow.

you licked
my vertebrae.
you said
say it..
say it
.. i wanted to.

we danced in bed,
in sex,
in writhing.
your hand floated
above my body
then came.
i liked it.
your shoulder..
a moment
of peace..
you are no longer
in love
..i know.
if you were at one point,
i am honoured.

you are
beautiful
i write this from dreams.
i am sleeping..
goodnight.

innervoicing..

all day silence
..talking
in my head
wanted to reach
out
touch
you
speak
to you.
my silence
is
consent
or admitting
to some
strange
fall from
the grazing
grace of
a
razor’s edge
truth’s
trust,
thrust
.. i am naive
thinking
that by
offering more
than
my sun flowered flesh
that i would be healing
instead
only revealing
my own vulnerable
self
caught out there
before the jaws of
un truths sung well
come biting
to a fetished
ending.

when all this shit burns down,
and all the last liars eat the glass,
glue & plastic of their mirrors,
i’ll be right there with you—
we’ll want to laugh,
but will probably be
mute with pity.

fuck you
and
your wayward
analogy
of
equality
we are
not
equal

that
sequel
left in
the
red
charge
over
that
there
hill
of lies
and
deceit

so..
in this here
journey
im just going
to let it
all ride
like the waves
of the surf
i am going to brace
myself
and ride it
out
hoping that the
seas
are kind enough
to me
who knows

do you want me
as i want
you ..
i ask that face
looking back
at me
looking at you
there
somewhere
black bodies
entwined
eyes
flaming.

god has been gracious has given me a life
that i am proud of
despite the details
their folly
the volley of the blows
slapping me like
some pimp
from hell’s mouth

i am attuned to the rise and fall of the sun
and her own hands
eyes and soul
in my children,
the cosmos in us
we in the cosmos ..
of our own galaxy…
the fancy feel of them folks calling us
heathen
but then again feeding on our
flesh soul and chorus
of experience,
cus no thing comes
easy..

they speak of freedom
beating us with
their grave expectations..

directors
in the making
artists emerging..

i’ve always taken my own way
invented the works
words to feed me
when others
did not.
..
..strength to the lovers of light
the drama of this beautiful
disaster
called life..
may we live to see it
beaten
with more joy in
our tears.

my progression is
transgression
against the sky
of the
negative
now positive,
father
less
mother
less
now father
full
of otherness
and the blessed
awakening
of being ready
and always
dreaming this and that anew.

we would not
be anything
without love
overstanding
and
dem
babies
of ours
our total
light to
the future
no matter what we are
or become..

they are the gems
and the shining lightness
of weight
of the heavy duty ..
king again
come to renew
the light
again.

i try this outside
outlook
on things,
from the composite
sketches
of my broken
eye..
singing a new song

“All your goodies are gone…”

-George Clinton, ‘The Golden Goose,’ (1974).

Ten years(!), mon frere, since you be digging-out the waterline & bagging
the clay. Then, roosting in the A.C. in the trailer—dreaming of the those great tits
down by the sea?

Fucking tumbleweeds biting-at the headlights on that string of road.

Don’t smoke in the car.

Everybody’s armed.

Somebody didn’t scrub the oven.

The apocalypse never came; the compound remains.

Fourteen songs stillborn in the sun.

the psychotic bushman

when she told me of her father’s death
i realized that she was now
an orphan,
her mother long dead
killed at the hands
of her father
repeatedly
stabbed..
her own beauty
defined
by bloodstained
madness..
she said

she saw death
crawl
through his veins,
the days and nights
up north
far away
from her island
home.

“we sang songs,
in papimento
rocked what was
left
of his cancer riddled
body
to sleep..
till at long
last
he gave up
his ghost
departing
relieving me
of my
pain
.. leaving
me here
alone