.
i met her up on brandon hill
her chin stuck forth like a windowsill
such were the squareness of her jaw
and she had but one other flaw
garbed in gothic head to toe
she prattled like a throttled crow

nor did her barbed-wire hair entice
nor blackened eyes that looked me twice
yet compensation were enjoyed
observing how her bosom buoyed
and to this day i do not know
the tag bestowed this rasping crow.
.
.

every drop in the ocean
i'm walking on truth,
on the coals of regret,
the odd broken tooth.

it helps fill the gaps
on one poet's corner
where i showered you flowers
and toed with the fauna

as they licked my arse
'cause that's how it goes.
we may weigh our winters
by a drip on the nose.

When you feel askew
wait and perform a review
to succeed anew.

How in pale I wonder,
These beloved trees,
Once dressed in green glamour and glitz
flapping majestically its apparel
a seasonal blessing of nature
why not ask the birds its prominence
an abode of leisure and fresh air.

when will thou recuperate from this disgrace?
this nudity of time,
oh, a brutal rape of shame
the birds longed for you again
I'll tell them when you return.

Can you hear it?
Beneath the floor,
Knocking on the cellar door?

It's big and hairy, and just a bit scary.
Not short or small,
Breathing right behind the wall.

At night I hear it down below.
Roars and moans
As it's sorrow grows.

So lonely it must be.
For it's all alone you see?
It has no friends.

Beneath the floor,
It is simply forevermore
And just beyond the cellar door.

a gentleman from the west
considering his culture the best
chronicling what he felt certain
penning The White Man’s Burden
policies provoking native unrest

stagnant bodies
starring continuously,
as if to talk, to walk, to jump
one asked a question
why toiling, why struggle?
this manure body of the earth,
and the divorced breath soul.

take a walk here with me,
where stars seize to shine
golds seize to glitter
where the strong and the weak harmonize,
where the poor and the rich unites
life is a journey, journey it well,
I took a moment to the mortuary.

Bob Schoenbeck died
thirty years
after he took his last drink.

I never really considered alcoholism
until I realized
I couldn't get through my day
without a bottle,
at least not the stressful ones.

And I guess it doesn't matter
what we say to our therapists and friends.
The only important thing
is our perception, right?

And so I guess I'll have another.
Whatever.
I guess this
is where the long train ends.

They brought their cross to us
we carried it,
The white cross
replaced by the dying black cross
long buried in the cemetery of memory
This cumbersome cross
attached to the black neck

My mouth must not eat rotten yam
Blame me not either
A dance with the legacy of my father’s
The Amadioha of Ndi Igbo, the Sango of the Yoruba’s
a symbol of tourism long stolen
what story for the generation unborn
what will they see

Cascading water, escaping it's frozen jail,
dancing over rocks, it anxiously fell,
glacier water escaping it's genesis years,
bouncing over rocks, falling like tears,
it jigged and it jogged,
tangoing over fallen logs,
a tangled foot began to slip,
it suddenly lost it's grip,
I fall, fall, into the falls,
I fall, heeding their call,
I fall for it's charms,
falling into it's arms,
I fall, feeling their force,
I fall, following their course,
as it enfolded me,