i was raised in a dispensation when we, blacks,
reeked of smoke, dust & other asininities,
swirling in cycles around the patrimony of the west.
then, we were puns obliged to mold pyramids
and castles from the desultoriness of the air at the
behest of moguls who marshaled the mantle of god
in cyrenaic and esurient order. then, freedom was said
to be found in the warmth of fear, in the current of blood,
flowing down the broken tissues of men. but what is freedom
if found decaying with the corpse of dreams chained to the
grave of death. what is freedom if it dies with the light of day,
by the herald owls? what is freedom if devoid of the erraticism
& courage of madmen? tell me.
My favorite Souvenir is a love letter written by my dad to my mum. It begins with a subtle instinct, a glimpse of something pure, and a craving for recognition, as though it had a soul-bewitching face or a wand that could perform some sort of magic. My father had fallen hard, emotion took hold of him, as he lingered, fizzing with hope . From fascination to acquisitiveness, the feeling deepened, became tainted with a kind of benign lust, next a sense of indirection, and finally a stubborn greed for possession