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LEGS (a sketchy February)

No one is going to tell you where,
not the sound calling you.
You’re always in a hurry
to take the iris to somewhere thin,
some place safe to see a sin.
I am tired of running
running from a broken mind,
running from a healing scar.
I am tired of running to find pain



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.



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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