I am stuck in this shell that is made of many metals.
Surveying the landscape,

Looking for other metals to put onto the metals that have been there for years.

But every metal I find is of an origin that I do not know.
And then it causes me to wonder.
Do I even know how I got to be the way that I am.
How did I end up here,
With all these unfamiliar parts.



There is a clock on the back of his hand.
Ticking constantly.
As time is known to do.
The seconds clicking over his skin.
Leaving cuts that will never heal.
Permanent reminders of every misstep.
Minutes slowly dragging, edging deeper.
Slicing over scabs and dried blood.
Deep thunderous knocking that rattles knuckles.
The gears twisting skin.
Forming wrinkles on fingers.
Joints rotating in painful ways.
Tarnished brass that no longer has a reflection.
Unable to see himself.
Time has not be kind,
To the man that has not been kind.

Dear Breath of Fresh Air

Dear Breath of Fresh Air

I will say this to you plainly. You are someone that I admire. From your soft feet to your perfectly “managed” head of hair. From your deep contemplation to your to your laughter induced conversations. You are calming.

An ocean breeze that gently nuzzles my leaves. Your smile is a prism of happiness that I feel beyond the tips of my branches. You linger throughout the tentacles of my thoughts.

Complex metamorphic rock that absorbs heat and sunlight. You warm my heart. Glazing honey over my arteries as your affection pumps through me.

I want to be for you, as much as I am with you.



A signal flare into the emptiness.

Red breathing light exhaling onto the walls of my soul.

There is a sharpness in my breath that is stabbing my lungs.

I am exhaustion.

Monotony neatly packed in social media feeds.

Unable to breathe as my beliefs are slammed back against the wooden boats.

The New World just never seemed that inviting to me.

I want to remember the Old World, with the old gods, not the new.

I want more colors and flavors in my eyes.

Instead of the bland mashed potatoes of colonialism.

Show me a sidewalk painted with textiles in a minimalist style.

Matched with sky-scrapping buildings draped in kente.

A virtual assistant that understands what I say.

‘Ok, Google.’ Show me how to make my grandma’s pound cake.

Google: “Here’s a recipe, if in doubt ask your grandmama.”

Dis-jointed Connection

Dis-jointed Connection

I have loved more often than I have taken full breaths.
The caverns of my heart that are left

are ancient.
Predating hints of depression that I ward off using the leftover vapors
from tears of pass lovers.
Hiding under the covers with others
To escape responsibility.
Which vice shall I indulge in this time?
The bottle whispers to me when I’m faced with rejection.
It seems that pouring my heart into a shot glass is too much for some women.
They don’t like it straight.
So I pretend to be uninterested on dates.
I have to create the ruse that I have someone else to fallback on.
This is exhausting.
I’ve grown use to being the vacation.
Rarely am I the destination.

Impurities trickle down my neck
As I wonder how I can hold her interest.
The bridge doesn’t easily connect.
As I breathe in her lust.
My lungs begin to fill with regret.

War-cry for Help

War-cry for Help

Trying to awake from slumber.
Tied down by chains painted in gold.
Gold teeth dig into the roof of my mouth.
Making it hard to speak.
I leave a nightmare where we requested a dream.
Swimming endlessly into the oblivion that my strength has created.

I am stronger than my peers, but they have all the power.

Wasting the atoms that the stars gave me to impress my brothers.

I am in need of guidance.

If not,

My son’s doom is painted by my mistakes.

Musings of a Drunken Time-traveler

Musings of a Drunken Time-traveler

I miss her.
And I hate that I do.
The crevices of my intellect rust over without her.
I am nocturnal in a time when the sun never sets.
Unable to reflect because every decision is made anew.
The blueprint is hard to understand without the architect.
I wish she would just call me randomly at an obscure time.


When I’m reading just before leaving work.
Learning about how to better my life.
I wish she would just call me.
I want to say hello to her once more.
I want to greet her one more time.
I sit alone on this throne.
As the poison exhales through my pores.
Thinking about an ancient time when I could hear my heartbeat.

I use to text her poetry.
When we were in love.
And when love seemed absent.
Poetry is what I would send her.
Maybe I should have sent myself in every text.
In every text that I felt to send.
Maybe I should have sent myself.
Started my car and drove to where she was.
I often wonder if she doubted my devotion.
My love.
If she doubted that I felt for her the way I did.
If I felt like the rings of Saturn only remained in place because of her.
My best memories of my life include her.
Did my parents fail in sheltering me from harsh truths that I could not yet fathom?
Or was she simply more than I could bare.
I want another.