Bank owners of this world slither their way to work on scooters
Paupers of this world limp their way into heaven on golden wings
Black children wear white masks in the playground
White children cut off their wings and soil their white robes
Brown children spit their identity in spanglish

Fashion divas crowd the hands me down stores
Gold wearing homeless ladies hold tea parties at street parties
Black children tour the zoo to let out animals out and the humans in
White children codify Chinese mythology into tam tam sounds
Trigger happy video gamers rewrite the human laws of reality
Ndombolo dancers step to rumba and Cuban salsa
A ku Klux Klan former leader pencils “I have a Dream” in song lyrics
A Chinese interrogator hums Will I Am featuring Common “I have a Dream”
Broadway dancers show off capoeira moves imported by Congolese slaves
White corporate uses African voodoo to promote rap music to black audiences
Street hustlers teach economics 101 at universities
Burger flippers manage hedge funds at wall street
Linguistic bricoleurs collage beings with words.
Muslim knees touch Christian grounds asking God to intervene
Indus bobbing heads don’t know which god to keep and which one to give up
Catholic statues fall down before the cross of Christ
Poseidon from Greece arranges a date with MamiWata from Central Africa
And the world goes around and around
And around and around goes the world


Whenever sound meets image in a perfect balance to give the same message, you can’t help it but love this poem!

Susan Daniels Poetry

the flips & turns those tongues curl
to shape words/hit a spin
leave me reeling
& dazzled–
that’s why talk is cheap.
it is fast & shiny
& does not wear well;
quickly-sewn  seams  split
under pressure.

rhetoric twists perception
until sheep salivate like wolves
& wolves bleat & wear wool
but still smell of dog–
we won’t know which is which
until we see teeth

& by then
we are already bitten

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Who I be

I am the bond between ice crystals, particles and water droplets that forms the clouds

I am the gravity that pulls the leaf and the water droplet on the leaf

I am the particle, faster than lightning to switch you on and off between smile and frown

I am the static electric jolting you back to life whenever you slumber

I am the eternal seconds before a touch, a kiss and a climax

I am the gap between this life and the abyss

my feet grip the ground I walk like roots that finger the insides of Earth

my hands listen to your hearbeat

my eyes dig around for souls

my ears wrap themselves around their whimpers

I am like the wind: I come and go as I please

but I can get sticky and sweet like honey.

My way back inside

I refuse to be that dog, wagging my tail , panting for someone to never come

I used to love like a fool

And live for you like a fool

I took my wants, needs, desires in every gift I handed you

I did it all except bleed for you

I couldn’t bleed for myself

Even when I had the opportunity

much less for someone who couldn’t tremble when my tongue brushed his neck

Or a man who didn’t smack his lips or rub his belly with delight

When I had put my soul in Soul Food

All I needed was for his heart to crack open

and drip out some of that male tenderness

That he hides under that booming voice of his

But like sunlight piercing through a blotted out window

You will catch him letting a smile hang  by the corners of his lips

Its true I keep getting lost on my way to find myself

I would make a map, designate the rest areas, pack refreshments

And simply gaze at the open road

while wondering if I could stretch myself for this long

And let the world take a bite out of me

When I can’t seem to have

Anything of me anymore

every morning, I’m surprised to find every part of me is still there

Nothing got lost on the highways of dreams

No one could trace on my body the ups and downs of my journey

All you could do is trust my word on this.

Just because it’s about time this gets some reblogging!

Bring Me The African Guy

From my outbox:

Are you familiar with the Grecian concept of kairos? I very much like kairos. I think when we worry too much about the time we spend not writing, we are too embedded in chronos—which is ticking time, and not kairos, which is perchance, serendipitous moments when something special happens.

Ok, I realize that I’m not making things any clearer here. Let me try again.

When you think you’re not actively writing, you’re still writing, because your mind is taking mental notes. Sure, there is something to writing by routine, there is something to sitting down at dawn when it’s still dark and waiting for that light at the end of your pencil when something to write comes up, but there is also this having your life interrupted, whether by family or friends or a horse chewing on a damn violin and won’t you please stop that…

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Mary, Mary you will be the death of me

She walked and smoked

Blowing factory fumes up in the air

Her steps pacing to the dead rhythm

Of factory workers doing the love work

As for him, he barely kept up with her

Trying and panting

Gasping and trying

You could see how he wrestled with himself

To sort himself out to be with her


Mary, mary you will be the death of me

But death gets lonely

So I will need your warm body

To make me feel alive and whole again

Be mine for a blink of an eye

Let’s hold hands like the old couple we will never be

Let’s embrace every little bit of each other

Let’s settle down in this moment

And build glass houses on clouds

Before goodbyes stick in our throats

And the light at the end of the tunnel fades away


She turned a corner and vanished

The shadow of her swaying hips

Lingering in his mind

Another missed catch

The sun was going down

And the stars started chiming in

Was that a bird or her love flying by?

He watched the trees dance to the serenade of the wind

How come the world is still spinning?

Short analysis of “Don’t let that Horse…” by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Don’t let that horse
                              eat that violin
    cried Chagall’s mother
                                     But he
                      kept right on
And became famous
And kept on painting
                              The Horse With Violin In Mouth
And when he finally finished it
he jumped up upon the horse
                                        and rode away
          waving the violin
And then with a low bow gave it
to the first naked nude he ran across
And there were no strings

This piece by Lawrence Ferlinghetti nicely plays on the idea of the real and imagined by letting the painter not only create but also ride off literally on the object of his creation. The presence of the mother sounds like the restrain the painter he’s received as to exploring his imagination. I like the “naked nude” because of it points to the blur between a pornographic which I like to think of excessive nudity versus simple or normal nudity (This is a whole other topic for another day) but that compound of “naked nude” is enough to spill more ink because his claim for the absence of strings attached when a fully clothed person offers something to a not clothed person is absurd. Even divine Grace in its unfathomable depth still asks to inhabit the heart completely.
The stair formation and the lack of punctuation makes this poem free falling into a meaningless abyss where the real and the imagined can’t be separated.