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PART OF THE BEAT
PART OF THE BEAT
Only you can kill yourself,
hiding your game in the shelf
Too many die
living a life of lie.
Too many fellows live
but can’t survive
You must go anyway
but don’t go away
Place your feet on the ground
while you’re still around
My Dear Child
My Dear Child
Before you were born—
if you raised your binoculars,
if you could peep
through the keyhole of life
Would you open the door
and walk right through?
Or would you run back
This is too easy, right?
This is too easy, right?
Do you see this person?
It’s easy to see who is hiding in the picture and what the fellow is doing, isn’t it?
I wonder.
One Her Independence Day
One Her Independence Day
I sent her
a flower vase
spun of orphic hair
with strands of gold,
each line gilded
with a ray of solar tint,
tightly woven into a dreamy jar
with slender pythonic fingers,
and detailed with combed titanic glints
boasting ornamental strings of rubies:
Whistling While Hungry
Whistling While Hungry
I feel really hungry these days.
I wake up hungry and dive headfirst into the kitchen.
I typically have food in the fridge.
AMERICANA AT OKADA PARK
AMERICANA AT OKADA PARK
“You fine o. You wan marry Okada?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, nau. Mek Americana marry Okada.”
“What?”
“Lekki marry Ajegunle o, Americana marry musician…”
“Don’t understand you.”
