Floating on a river of fire
sitting in a cooking vessel
you were invoking the rain god.
Your hollow words had holiness
of unmeaning.
The sky opens the third eye.
Are you going to offer your
tongue to a footwear
of a proxy blood?
As a hymn to goddess of wealth,
sugar is thrown out of window
and yellow rice dances before a mirror.
And here I bleed silently
for the shooting star*
who could not conceive.
*A kind of primrose whose purple flowere have
backward curving petals hanging down. The
flowers move skyward on slender stems
turning their face upward after fertilization.
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
(Self-published. Please contact author directly to order.)
Enter the pages of diaspora in quiet introspection. Bathe your thoughts with subtle humor; synchronize your spirit-sense with history-in-heat; fall headlong with eyes wide open into
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