To those ones on the cliff edge,
forget your soul, hold the wind.
Try everything, try to float.
Don’t make a boat from a tree,
A ladder may be useful.
Think when putting on fire,
Cause it may never go off.

If today becomes your day
And the sun opens her legs.
Don’t forget the umbrella,
It can be used for the rain
It can shield those bad curses,
Those ones that fall like hailstones.
Today may be yesterday.

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You lord of wits
Who has the air, water and moon?
You lord of wits
I was borne to hear you too soon.
Taking my roles and my short skits,
First you came as a child by noon
then as monsters in a cartoon
You lord of wits.

Dignified phases
taking the shape of status.
Becoming the untold god
Lost coincidence
found in age

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To Dead Presidents whose legacies are in death palaces,
I greet thee and thy will that made you gods.
We have lived as you rightly would
with tightened feet laced to this ground.
Conspiracy grows from your graves,
some say its a halo over your headstones
we have forgotten all about your deaths
and now, we have wielded stone heads,
we have begged with tied tongues
for our rusted-heavy lies coated with history.
Promises and truth have outlived the fire from our hearts.

To you o dead presidents
I know not where to knot my words from.

To Dead Presidents whose pages are 6-footed stories,
I write to tell you how freedom is the new chain.
I understand your cause only if you lived to tell me,
I know not what wombs these heads came from,
their grounds are corrupt as the internet
yams germinate after a day from its inner net,
the air is a fouled scent of peace
that waves around bodies resting in pieces.
To you o Dead Presidents like Fela, Malcom, Queen Amina, Mandela, Marcus Garvey, Huey Newton and Da Vinci,
my words are scored from a tiny little dust of nothing.



Time can be buried,
In the wrinkles of my mother.
There are days when I hid it in her smile
it radiated the shawl of her sun,
and covered my pain as ash.
I can remember how her hug was a medallion
wielded with honesty, trust and her wits.

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I hate trespassers,
those with small foot but big footprints.
They peek as if they will just pass
but then, their foul wind stays behind.
They have a gait of the sun,
they possess the name made by tears
so no rain can wash them away.

I hate trespassers with hair like the night,
each strand is an alarming stroke of pain.
Their skin glows like an Arabian mat holding gold,
when they speak, their words become stars
and knit itself to your mind.
they can enroll your heart to dance to their rhythm,
as you flutter with smile in their rainless clouds.
Oh how I don’t like the way your eyesight finds me.

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(for Shalama)

Here’s how to become a moon;
First fetch the color of the sun
peel it by it’s first skin from within,
hold the oceans by your right arm
and swear by what lives within it.

Pick on where you eyes will look,
Northern light heralds ceremonies.
Southern ears hears the language spoken by gods,
Western waters wave with women within mortal wars.
Eastern festivals depend on your back.
You take on your full body with the sleep of the great bright snail.

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I have tasted earth
in the lips of the dead.
When they travel into birth
with my words unsaid.

I have eaten flowers
that was grown in the sky.
Some grew taller than towers
where I jumped into a hollow bye.

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There are your flaws
shivering in these clouds
winds fighting over inheritance
of night by its might
the same pale pricking strain of fate
dangling in the loops of dawn
Is a page of garbage eaten by today
swallowed by another, same as a leverage
intents with souvenir of poured calls.
Let the ticking sound stop the bells of



Dear Reader,

Continue to drink from the mystery of my mist
and never forget to put on the lamp of my fears.
My fingers have always itched your mind
like my words that teach your heart.
Whenever I begin to speak so much about love
re-read my notes from a before.
The day I begin to talk so much about before
unread the messages that talk of heed,
do not despair for the day death drowns on my doom
not of nights news knight a nice number to my noon.
Those days will not come, never!
Those days when you shall grow fear for my feet reaches the desert,
for wherever there’s sand, I’ll mold an oasis
whenever I find waters, I’ll mend me a boat.
Do not tire from waiting for a colored coat
even when the smoke brings melodies of a dead goat,
let your hopes always make you float.
Whenever you sleep, do not dream of nightmares
do not let your pillow feel too comfortable
and let your eyes grow hollow.
Dream of when everything has to go right
even when I have nothing except a solitaire of solitude left.
And just Incase you decide to reach me in your sleep,
hold the curtain of night by the tail of its hair,
circle the halo of the previous morning.
Write these upon your heart
‘I will break your legend into half of two,
one will become a bridge for a true king,
the other will begin the tale of a path love called roses’.