More fun with lyriku

 

The inspiration

WELP!

AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION AS ENTERING A TEMPLE

or sensing, no inventing

the singular sound of

a bowl of fuchsia blossoms

to somehow say

“why is a future tense”

to reflect or project

what we alone feel presently

becomes a recurrent currency—

kneeling or falling before

a nearly purple sound

to make what 

we might ache to field

or place as scene—

a local sight

of the solo

as empathogen.

Bah Humbug!

AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION

AS A HAUNTOLOGY WITH

A RECIPE FOR PERSIAN ROULETTE

(after Kaveh Akbar)

Why does life set tar along our path?

As a child nearly any thesaurus 

roared like a favorite dinosaur until

the beloved came before me to leave 

a cursive sitar next to certain furniture

on legs too short & dark for longing

how far must my sheep now wander

inside the silent ones a rose to set art 

circling round the sound of our father

like a tarot type of card in some casino

of the heart down to our bottom holler

I would grip the right arm of a slot machine

like the leftover parts of a long gone lover 

—if only I found the Farsi word for star

Elastic like Ekphrastic

a red wheelbarrow

how the rain water carries

the chicken’s white call

Happy Helen Folásadé Adu Day!

Is your love HyperQBic? 

Does it have Alchemical metaphors? 

Does it have colorpuntal pearls like a ghost poem? 

Here we go again. 

I’m not thirsty, you’re thirsty  

AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION 

AS MUCH ADU ABOUT NOTHING

“Didn’t I tell you what I believe,

did somebody say that . . .”

Sade

Ifemi, is it a rhyme 

if not even 

the nutty undertone 

of almond blossoms 

can stop a man

from being spotted 

like a Luna moth

in the halo 

of a porch light?

And Beloved, how many 

more dream cycles 

before your cat eyes

& vixen lipstick

leap the ravine 

of No Return

to sip me again

as a sommelier would 

a finger of Pinot

or your rebel red nails

re-press their crescents

across the midnight sky 

of my back?

Half icicle, half feather,

it seems only this morning

your fingers 

counted every curl

on my neck,

but Ifemi who now 

is paying attention 

to the shades 

of your phases

of the moon tattoo?

Pray tell, should 

our gazes cross again, 

I promise not to miss

your wrist’s brassy passion 

for Adinkra charms

& police bracelets

or how your husky alto

might begin to crown

 my love as king.

Ifemi, what keeps 

us seeking cashmere

from palms 

marked by symbols 

of five types of feral?

Oh, freckled cheeks of Jesus,

I may be starting to grasp

why Shakespeare said

 Cupid kills

some with arrows,

some with traps.

 But who knows

if even communion

 could wholly classify

the butterflies caught

by your amber irises?

Ifemi, where

is it written

—as a saxophone

signals sapphire—

that a fool for roses

must always be 

a fool for rain? 

I don’t believe

you whispered

“a love like hours won’t last”

before your ponytail of 

[titanium & samarium]

swung past 

a first flame of bud 

to our last good buy. 

But how may 

I truly be sure 

if the sandalwood & citrus

in your hair can settle 

what a single strand

seems to be trying 

to say about absence 

as a way of staying?

December dawn