Saturday morning awake,
Budweiser's and a kitchen spatula,
Vinegar, water concoc,
Spit, tears, piss also.
Fifty year old wall paper dont come off easy, Stuck in its ways.
Heart attack beat, skull cavin'
Van morrison, Steve Winwood, George Clinton, Lord Buckley My Foremen.
Sit down for a blow, Side road night stand laughin'
Opened a drawer to shut his mouth.
Jonathan Livingston seagull, Happy birthday, Love Grandma.
Three pages of that metaphor Give you the spins..or wings..whatever you fancy.
Next up King James,
Kidnapped him from motel Fayetteville,
Broke his spine on the hardwood floor, With a blind finger Pointed to his spleen,
Isiah 14.
Don't know scripture, but eye nose the news, Choked a healthy laugh 'til my head ballooned,
Bible class over, Grabbed a book of cd's,
Pair of glasses and a metal magazine,
Cheers!
Will,
A wonderful tumble of images running seamlessly into one another gives this poem energy and meaning; there's nothing myopic here. Very fine distinct voice indeed.
John
Still Living on my Feet is the follow up to Tichaona Chinyelu’s first book, In the Whirlwind, which was rooted in a sense of hard-hitting revolutionary black love. However, in this sophomore effort, Tichaona brings the revolutionary essence from deep
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A wonderful tumble of images running seamlessly into one another gives this poem energy and meaning; there's nothing myopic here. Very fine distinct voice indeed.
John