afrorise

shameless fiction intruding upon my unknowing heart.

entering boldy only to create an unparalleled physical expression of your wrath, the penetration was gentle.



shame on you fictitious man.

creating the illusion of mutual dependence

so that in reality I was the colonized.



making a pretense of our desire.

so that in reality you were adored.



shameless fiction imposing yourself upon my otherwise sturdy soul.

you entered sleekly only to create an irriversible change of values.



shame on you fictitious man, you became my lexicon

so that versions of me were separated,

never relating to one another.

fractures intensified by your absence.

shameless fiction.



a silent lexicon of words you created

so that through you I was defined.

as if you were the sole path to happiness

while woman.



your fictitious nature is naive.

you were forgiven long ago.

you are the mirage that was once corporeal.

the fading past that was once real.







*Because reality is based so much upon our peceptions, and because we create so much of what we think is real, “reality” requires a parenthetical reference, a qualifier, most of the time.

do I smell another form of control?

need I seek another creative liberation,

another rationalization?

just to keep you near.

you are my politicide.

calling into question all that I work for,

all that I pride.

the rumbling in my gut tells me to let you go

yet I remain chained to you, imprisoned.

despite your willingness to let me fly.

the same spot we left it awhile back

the identical feeling:

me always questioning…

you always wondering…

so let us leave it.

let it be.

all that comes to pass without our hand,

all that is will and grace is natural.

to let it be is most calming and natural.

it is the antifeminist who exists in the calm,

it is the antifeminist who believes it is natural.

sitting on the bus

waiting to realize some hopes and dreams.

then I glance over to an impediment.

the white man adjusting the buttons on his

favourite army green jacket.

he looks up at me; our eyes meet.

he nods and smiles from the front seat,

thinking he’s doing me a favour.

I guess the thrill of wide-eyed question asking -of credulity-

diminishes when one realizes the necessity of decisions and making choices.

but where has all the fun gone?!?

there are very little answers, that is one thing for sure.

at least there are none that satisfy for too long.

knowing this how do you choose to ask relevant questions

without feeling like a puppet-student of life?

In desolate environments I stand

surrounded with robotic multitudes

of human beings.

Many rush through busy streets

in desperation.

Anticipating their soon-to-be

short-lived destination.



I stand and I watch as they whiz

by me; automobiles on a turnpike.



Blank stares have become warm greetings.

Shoves and pushes are now handshakes.



But I stand in my friendly,

welcoming solitude and hope

that one day a stranger will

stop and smile.



Pray that humanity has been

covered under the blanket of

simple existence.



Isn’t that exactly what we live to do?

exist in solitude.

you are too muggy for me

not quite transparent enough

wonder if its your history

with loops and crevices

you have yet to figure out.

rendering you unable to speak

with your heart.

and while your heart stays silent

mine exists in purgatory

loving and not loved.

you’ve situated this heart

without saying a word;

with no recognition of its sacrifices.

you are too muggy.

not quite transparent enough

but now I see you clearly

from my view between

heaven and hell.

diligently he works on the Equation

which puts his identity into question:

“who am I?” he asks,

when solving the left side

of the Equation.

yet he continues to press on.

never stopping for more than a millisecond.

he is pragmatic. his capital awaits.

it waits for the Equation’s solution,

with his own eternally unsolved.

the world embraces such unfinished Equations.

we are dominated by a Man who has never solved

the right side.

fallacious equality, superficial rewards.

the cost of unfinished Equations.

the asian boy here in togo is pragmatic.

he learns early how to solve the left,

leaving the right side for fools.

So I am back to my old tactics.

The only place to be silent is among

a hundred conversations.

Among a hundred blurred, indistiguishable

conversations. each of moderate intensity.

everythingburnsme.

I am no longer in awe of existentialist writing.

I no longer seek to translate myself to myself by

literary quotations:

“an unexamined life is not worth living”?

so you say socrates.

sometimes examination is trite and foul.

sometimes it is useless.

perhaps it is better to live and let things burn,

allowing my originality to be expressed

rather than pondering its sincerity, inspiration, utility.

everythingburns.

eavesdropping here is a burden.

everythingburns.

nothing is hot yet everything burns.

and I believe that it will continue to do so

until new inspiration and creativity rears its

mysterious head.

it awaits manifestation…something waits.

maybe it is in the fire?

there is something awfully sad about the individual.

it is unnnatural to wash one dirty plate

and to laugh alone at british comedies.

is there such thing?

better begets itself

we always want better.

How about best?

what do we need to do to obtain the best

possible life?

change, personalities, clothes, homes, scenery, interests?

yes, I will change clothes tomorrow.

and my life will be better than today.

when I reach to the end of betters with

the best clothes that fit just right

(juuuust right!)

then I will be in the midst of living the best life.

but hopefully I won’t get hit by a car.

then I’d have to start all over.