Thursday, January 04, 2007



Standing in Ibo Landing

You make me blue. Like the color of my blood before it oxygenizes. And I pass tense to cast my line of confusion because it is too intense to bear. I listen to you. In my dreams of freedom you talk shit like a rogue angel looking for the revenge God wouldn’t grant you the courtesy of exacting. Sometimes I don’t know what you want though, because while I should have knowledge of your thoughts through understanding, I resist the process on some level because I still wonder. My pathological past does not allow my heart to heal; it remains bloodstained from the emotional war that we so uncomfortably bypassed so that we could spoon romantically in the aftermath. Posthumously envisioning this climatic life on the thirteenth moon of Neptune in the hereafter….I remain blue. I freestyled through a pool of paint thinner trying to find the real, but disavowed my reality remains. Inconsistent and hyperfunctional-- I pretend the world around me exists inside of a kaleidoscope of astrological Crayolas, coloring my transition with moods of indigo, sapphire and periwinkle. I have searched for that smile my imagination has constructed so meticulously, but abandoned it has left me in my quest of discovery. I no longer want to live inside of a barren canteen, hoping that one day the water from Bastet’s gourd will rinse away my blue. But I will continue to hope, because it is all that is left after the inspiration is gone. As I stand alone with my thoughts of our beginnings on Ibo Landing.