A collection of photos and poems interacting with each other in ways both mysterious and obvious.
He don’t give a damn that his glasses
aren’t prescription,
cuz he don’t know how to read,
except the musky scent
of Ohh La La.
He’s been cool since he was a kid
and damn well knows it.
He digs the attention
and a dry, shady corner
to think of days gone by
and to goat dream away
of scaling mountains,
and climbing trees,
and with an audience
he looks down at us
and sez with confidence:
Look what I can do
while he sashays towards Geezerville Pastures. .
Gyae o, Ahoofe Ntua Ka
Physical beauty is nothing,
Death will come in your sleep.
Enjoy life.
My jolly has gone abroad,
Nocturnal lady.
Love doesn’t die completely
There are varieties:
Money,
Handcuffs,
Groundnuts.
It’s really pained me,
My darling, be patient.
* Gyae o, Ahoofe Ntua Ka Physical beauty is nothing
This is the second in a series of found poems constructed from the titles of Ghanaian Highlife songs from the 1960’s.
Behold
the ceaseless process
of going nowhere.
Gravity brings everything down.
Within implicit spaciousness
the levity of
spontaneous actions
defy the awful weight of living.
Yet,
so it seems,
the world’s teeming
with conjectures and words
that might, in fact,
at no point,
can we be free from them.
Nonsense -
there’s no accounting
for flux and unpredictability.
With the uneasy laugh of horror
The World Clown Association decided
to put on a skit:
two balloons under their bosoms
and carbon dioxide sparklers.
The balloons didn’t fill up equally,
and there were butt prints in the dough.
Hidden incendiary girls,
mobilized vulnerability,
eat bitterness.
Boom, Boom!
Custom is the king of all;
they would wish to get paid to devour
the corpses of their fathers.
That way they’ll be happy.
Animated ornaments
at the Kitty Cantina;
The Heavyweight Sisters,
Dark Monkeys,
and The Mutual Benefit Society,
obstructing government administration,
negotiating worthless instruments;
their words were a desecration of silence,
the transformation of radical ideas
into culture, a diehard rejection
of the idea that we ourselves might be
one such cataclysm.
Human exceptionalism, the
madness gene,
gradually blinkered,
like a star role from no-man’s land.
The dinosaurs came,
got too big and fat,
so they all died
and turned into oil.
Dissolute Monster
on display,
bells begin to buzz
with masochistic eagerness
warns you of
debased currency,
flamboyant connoisseur of ironic despair
manufactured felt emotions
readymade in America,
furious folly of these times.
This mammoth antiseptic bath cleanses
a distaste for the reverential attitudes
towards the special nature of the artist
A purity of expression
of frustration and anger
with games, masks, and buffoonery.
Screw convention,
flaunt exotic desires,
outlaw notions:
rebel.
Catastrophic:
her favorite word,
her hunger was
to marry money.
Seduction of others’ loneliness
swims beneath oblique enigma.
Distance established,
thinking ourselves into
the empty universe.
Artificial Lady
I love you like sugarcane,
Come and keep me warm.
It’s all because of the love I have for you,
We are dancing.
I’ve been living peacefully,
I have done my best to no avail
I have suffered a disappointment.
.
Don’t forget the past
Beautiful woman.
Don’t worry me,
Love sickness,
Tell me the truth.
I am not afraid.
Remember me.
*Misumo Bo Tamo She - I Love You Like Sugarcane This is the first in a series of found poems constructed from the titles of Ghanaian Highlife songs from the 1960’s.
Boho Dreams of Space and Time 