Writes (1)

Arctic winter
blister my roots;
I can no longer
walk my lineage
with my foot

Mountain sees
the truth and
quiver like youth

Mute I stay, as
words desert
me to a land rich
of fruit but lacking
in truth


Oh History

Oh History!

Oh history; how you have
I removed the wig of history
and discovered lies on the
scalps of curators

I walk crippling into the
core of history where all lay
dead except my black skin,
so how can they say I’m sin

My skin is perfection
so they afflict mentally
and emasculate my history;
when truly the misery is theirs


Never seen is the faceless truth of law

in the court of flaws devoured by


Truth play dead in the library of


You can’t touch the truth, its a


Inquietude, truth burns lie,

ashes light in weight, it has no

measure on the scale of judiciary

I study the pursuit of anatomy of

iniquity in antiquity. I dissect the

anatomy of life and therein, 

embossed in a cocoon of humility,

the seeds of truth.

Edible love

What did I do to make you fall

so far from me

Like the opposite of apple

doesn’t fall too far from the tree

When beneath us, is a single tree of love,

and we are its fruits – love.




In my dome, I am
thrown from my throne
I stitch my words; such
in two’s with needles infected
that brew from you

I paint the sky blue with red
Rain empty into river’s bosom as love
Mountains discardlike wool
Affection wanes like it never existed