The Legislation

Allah taught me
had the yellow bird with black
trims never come
neither would the desire
come to see such a yellow bird
again. How many neglected
homes did he not visit today?
The dove doves qul qul
with rolled rs and thrills
and what else is done
for the residents
to believe barb-wire
and baby-fruit, the faint
bioacoustic that birds
trade in short public
lecture to us again.
So time is artifice
in branches of light
to open and bloom
the genuine and real
against us sans
hint of permission
or request and the wind
as if by chance
settles property
about the place,
wire-taps the bride to
scatter privy and probate
in exact measure:
this much bird
with the temperature
of this much cricket,
this much heat
with this much precision-
driven speechless form,
the brave and honorable gnat
and sonic no-see-ums
turn this much breeze
and rain-timing
of the kûd-dûkan
who lately predicts
the tremendous
achievements of fall
as fall quits talking
and slips into the age-
old guise of winter-
mute cant of snow:
how else to bear
the grunt and squint
of promethea
as it melts and builds
the drowsy hydraulic
inside trusty
woolen quarters:
leaf shroud, wood pajama
taste of silk and salt,
how tenacious
the dreams are there
in the subtle darkness
of the hostage
the remarkable prison
of dynastic tradition
squandered there.
This much fidelity
and candor as the storm
stalls overhead and hands
out the legible
squall of the sky,
the uncanny suspension
of the sea-haul there
in the swell attraction
and pains-taking blabber
of the earth as she builds
a rebuttal and wins.
The lie does surround and contain
the grass as it rises, limits the silence
as it speaks, frees the yellow bird
with black trims
as he appears to wander
from ledge to limb,
from choice to whim
and when this fly
lays down a generation
within my skin,
does not the spider
query the corpse
as she spin?
In this inesscapable this
rests the dominion.

This time of year is good for me, good for us all. It cleanses and removes electronic interference from the air in the form of lightning. People tend to forget the usefulness of that. I want to tell you a story, the story of how I got here, full of anxiety that threatens to disable my mind completely. Truth be told, Americans suffer more anxiety than people in devastated countries...if you look at the prescription list. Here's why.

Anxiety is uncontrollable and that is why it is called, anxiety. The sufferer knows that they are being punished by an unknown force, attacked literally from within and from without. There's just no hiding from an anxiety attack and trust me, I've tried. I think I've finally given up and will allow my husband to support me for as long as he is willing to try and I will simply stay at home to prevent harm to myself and/or others. All day, every day, fighting this horrid demon inside my soul that just won't let go, doesn't sleep and waits beside my bed for me to wake up each day. And al'ham'du'lillah, at least I sleep, I know there are many out there like me that don't.

What is the cause of my anxiety? I believe it is caused by a wayward naf that hates my guts and by definition, that nafs lives right inside of me. It's an untenable situation and the meaning of cathartic is to flush this miserable nut out of my body by writing the damn thing to death or drive it into the body of another by exorcism, self induced.

Taking poetry back and giving
it to the rightful tenants
the one's who people it's walls
that's what I want to do
and do well, get paid for it even.
We all need money.
Society is in reformation
and within that is the cell
caled verse and it belongs
to those who it helps
by observing them
writing it back to them
so they can observe
themselves more completely.

My Whitehouse Edition

What goes down in the glade
of therapy, the edits
and crackdown, she remembers
a starship the last twinkling
they form a line.
This one's for Arthur
he beat me
or something like that.
Establish a rhetoric,
drown the other theories
with other theories.
I wonder what her nurse
thought and wrote down
about her coping aka will to live?
A poem is a thought that can last a century.
Versed is a drug.
The poet who launches is copied
and falls within the crowd
while others shoot arrows
at apples on the heads
in the crowd by guessing.
But this, this will.
This will roll over and play dead
until it is.
All the while it will collect
accolades and money,
there will be no interuption
in that affair.
Insanity is a delicate
decision, one very hard to make.
The award for Cancer goes to....

The America Show

This guy won again,
about to be fired
for personal ritual
he did it real fast.
That confederate flag
in his window I say,
and am reminded
doesn't mean a thing
but they never went
inside did they?

This is America.
There's a strange
thing that happens
as whole nations
go belly-up and land
in the quagmire,
as they turn into
the beggars that
they once hated,
the ones cheated,
as they are overturned
and replaced.
The mirror stops
bringing back the news...

Industry Awakening

Just people, some of us sick
from the district
of dying the same way,
choking on cotton
and cough drops,
tainted raisins and rain.
Here she comes at last
with her bad-news voice
toward the end of the day,
you are dying again
she says but that wasn't
what it was she wanted to
talk to me about, no
it is a supervisory position,
the ad already went up.
This whole country's
dying of the same thing
I think, dying again of death,
something about her phone,
the ones who listen in.

The America Show

This guy won again,
about to be fired
for personal ritual
he did it real fast.
That confederate flag
in his window I say,
and am reminded
doesn't mean a thing
but they never went
inside did they?

This is America.
There's a strange
thing that happens
as whole nations
go belly-up and land
in the quagmire,
as they turn into
the beggars that
they once hated,
the ones cheated,
as they are overturned
and replaced.
The mirror stops
bringing back the news
but there's more.

Industry Awakening

Just people, some of us sick
from the same tribes and
dying the same way
from the same thing,
choking on cotton
and cough drops,
tainted raisins and rain.
Here she comes at last
with her bad-news voice
toward the end of the day,
you are dying again
she says but that wasn't
what it was she wanted to
talk to me about, no.
This whole country's
dying of the same thing
it seems, dying again of death,
something about her phone,
the ones who listen in.