Daily Archives: May 5, 2015



You may also want to read
1. Lil Wayne’s Smartest Lyrics https://mynameisemmanuelmuema.wordpress.com/2015/03/22/lil-waynes-smartest-lyrics/
2. I’m Addicted To Lil Wayne https://mynameisemmanuelmuema.wordpress.com/2015/01/04/im-addicted-to-lil-wayne



You may also want to read
1. Lil Wayne’s Smartest Lyrics https://mynameisemmanuelmuema.wordpress.com/2015/03/22/lil-waynes-smartest-lyrics/
2. I’m Addicted To Lil Wayne https://mynameisemmanuelmuema.wordpress.com/2015/01/04/im-addicted-to-lil-wayne


It smiles to see me
Still in my bathrobe.

It sits in my lap
And will not let me rise.

Now it is kissing my eyes.
Arms enfold me, arms

Pale with a thick down.
It seems I am falling asleep

To the sound of a story
Being read me.

This is the story.
Weeks have passed

Since first I lifted my hand
To set it down.


Even two years later, she still gets correspondence
addressed to him. Correspondence. This like that.

Mostly about his hobby. Coin collector brochures.
Announcements of collector swap meets. His pastime.

A way to spend an afternoon back when an afternoon
needed spending. Before all the silence flooded the house.

He had old currency. Nickels worth ten dollars.
And heavy, the bags. Musical, too.

She needs to sort through them all.
That’s what she should do, realize its value.

But what she is thinking of is spending it,
buying gum and soft drinks, maybe a chocolate bar.

Just get face value for mint-condition rarities.
Get them back into circulation. Circulation. The afterlife

where someone else could get them as change
and be joyful at the luck of finding his life’s pleasure.


At the end of the work day
you could tell exactly how far you had gotten
and how much farther there was to go.
Of course, it was just a ditch for a pipeline
to carry the reeking slop
that a neighborhood of toilets
would slosh together to be drained away
but it was clean, the trench,
the slick walls the backhoe bucket cut
and the precise grade of the bottom.
My job was to sight the transit.
I gave a thumbs up or thumbs down
or the OK sign if the pitch was right
so that some future day shit would flow
just as it should, down hill,
but you knew where you stood,
what you had done in a day,
and what more there was to do
and every meaningful thing I had said
I had said without a word.


He worked years on the tablet,
deciphering the pictographs. He knew
it was a kind of language, those images.
An eye. A bird, maybe a crow.
A basket of wheat. A ladder.
Did the order of the images matter?
He cross-referenced similar texts.
He studied the history of the region
and satisfied many hours in the tablet’s service.
In a cousin language, a ladder
was the word for happiness, to rise up,
to be lifted above the ordinary.
After years of work, he sorted it out.
It was poetry, bad poetry, adolescent:
“Today, I am happy,
happy all this day, today.”


There is
there is
no audience.

So if you speak only to
imagined beings
what does “only” mean?


This building formerly a restaurant . . .
this small room has been scraped of its paint
and denuded of most former furniture: but
also it has grown in size—can a building be
enticed to grow? Because it is now as big as an
airplane hangar.


beautiful face
unbloodied beneath

Mother of flies your
to turn to. If only
the audience
could see how
you are peaceful and the
languid, glossy

But the audience will still bring
its own feelings
to these

not seeing you
not seeing
what I
am present for.


Who has left me
here, I have.

Who are your

into the
page if you dare


Because he invented
your shape I do mean

because he invented you badly

everything is still hidden.


I was to impale myself on a
steel rod, with a blunt end
with a blunt end
which would make puncture
more difficult
and I tried—it’s too hard. I can’t
Okay said the voice. I can’t

then I was weeping
But it’s blood! I’m
crying blood! I

That’s part of it
said the voice.


I think this is hard.
(That’s part of it)

How they prefer him must go.

I think this is difficult singing

Length and repetition
create power

If this voice can return like
a body

It resembles something that’s already been,



Chestnuts broken
autumnal fungi
so you will remember, that
it’s fall
falling. you’ll go down

this is no story for the puling
social classes
No not at all
it’s for us my familiars say
who let me weep blood on their ground.


It was a poem
men took because it said ovary

didn’t take my
political poems
they took the one that said ovary

Are you sure it was because it
said ovary?

Yes, for them that’s logical.


Destroy another
is war for? So

you’ll go down
each of you does. dies in

each of you who does, dies
for the pain you experience
Just that
and nothing is established

Because I am a woman
Cutting as many cords
as tie you to me. this isn’t
it isn’t anything you
could name

You’re still here
without ties?

because they were logical.


Dance little asshole dance
oh he gets elected, like a Calvinist
He says, I have these guts
Men, I have these guts.


Having dedicated whole
regions to the destruction
you inspire, the
logic will be to go on doing it
doing it. Having proceeded by

the logic
of your per-
sonal vaccuum
you will perceive your continued
as an excuse to go on. having
gone on
as you have. And so one continues.


Lead the boy out of
the building on fire
his head twisted
all fucked

What else is there to
know if
one has gotten
twisted up
all fucked

he is a screaming fire


In the explanations
of our lives’ experience

they’ve left out this wild moment
the long mirror on the right-hand wall of the
corridor suddenly shattered
I can’t see myself anymore.


I repeat that I am not frightened
and why not
I don’t know
what my reactions
are supposed to be.


“Please tell me something
with which I’m familiar.”

isn’t there another part of now.


The wind shakes the chimes
into the siding, and the dog shakes too
though he doesn’t wake you
as I carry you to the bedroom. Small mouth
sipping breath, you are fish-strange,
bejeweled in the dimness of the microwave’s
nightlight. As I turn my back to the bulb
I make your form in my arms a dark weight
but you are no anchor. Together
we are sloops trailing a tiny wake in the carpet.
In the dark it’s hard to navigate the furniture
so I count distance—five paces
from the tile to the sofa. From the sofa,
twelve to the hall. I’m subtracting
my steps to see what’s left. The things
that burden me, like our lame dog’s shattered nail,
blood on the carpet from his paces
to the food dish, our drafty house, all are outpaced.
There are no barriers, and I step over
the hound’s dozing form as a quick gust cuts
dead branches from the pine and the drifts
lock our cars in. But I’m still counting—
the none-stars in the winter sky,
each hazily wrapped and strobing. The far bell
over the deep waters of your sleep. Two steps to the corner
where there are no animals nor animal danger. Two
to the bed where behind us the shadow of the dog
could be distant hills, where the clouds disassemble,
where your breaths pull the warmth of the room in
and where my face, my eyes are the glint of ore
from a country far away and known only in a language,
light as the syllables of exhalation.


Sick in bed with a sore throat,
I can’t get out of my mind
the image of the cat
harpsichord from the eighteenth century,
soothing a prince with laughter.
It worked like this: the tails of them attached
to the strings of the instrument
were pulled by different notes, and the difference
between the way the cats
cried was music.
A shadow is only a shape.
Which is why certain individuals
can put their hands in light
and make them birds, can say in shadow
what they can’t in light.
The tiny branches of the hedge
in the yard that separates
my house from the next
look like the rib bones of a bird
when the sun hits lunch.
The world, they say, is best for a nest
but no good for a flying place.
Come back, I say to my dead,
and the branches don’t even graze
the window, when I eat it hurts.

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