I dont mean the rusted chrome edge
that spills from your beautiful mouth
nictotine and lip gloss
Crass is sweet anyway
sounds dirty and needful
and dangerous
like broken glasses
in a drunks room

I can tell its you by the key in the door
slick like you
no fumbling
no waste of time
no sunny surf
just hammering rains
like week old dust
going down the drain

How I love the ragged edge
you leave me
the jagged bruises
the bruised heart

when the bouganvilla stops blooming its time

If you can't stand a good religious rant
get the fuck off my page and join
bible-thumpers anonymous; I'm
not just talking about the Christian Book
of dogma and apostolic revision, give
me an eagle's feather, free me from the
object of your persecution, your procession
is a historical list of hate after hate.

Stain

Hemlock creeping through my veins.
Limbs numb by degrees .
But my ability to live remains.

Losing everything slashing imperceptibly
no visible mark, or contusions.
successive illusions. 

Mental strain unapparent
Internalized, coiled within my guts
Holding on so as not to cause pain
 
Can't fool or hide from myself,
but no one else can detect 
that I am eviscerated.

Blessed be thy name
Akwa Abasi Ibom
Oil flows in crude and palms
We drank to augment the joy
Of a new south-south state
Our ancestors were noted
For farming and fishing
Women wore waists beads
And fed their children
With breast milk
And remains of past sacrifices
The children knew well
How to keep the vultures away
From eating the meat at the altar
Till the sacrifice was accepted
By Itina Iman

I don't mean to hurt anyone here,
Sir.

All my life I have composed
Through the darkness of the eerie nights,
When the mind is free
Without any inhibitions

And

When I read some ones poetry
I get my own vision

And

Compose that's all.
If you don’t like me
At least I thank thee,
For seeing the ray,
Nay,
streak of brilliance
That you do say,
Comes once amongst a billion rays

Many dawns have lapsed,
My lonely pathway
That’s about all what I can say

Swahili,
I never learned Swahili
in the American marketplace
bankers, Realtors and lawyers,
pundits, corporations and dissidents
oh my,

who would I be now without
Siddhartha egging me on
into my heart of darkness?

thieves rescued me and hunters
wounded me, the prey elusive
in their infrared sight, I loved them
all, but not later

I was a Nomad foraging through
deep roots, hacking off words
that seemed superfluous, I stood
on the edge,
a woman of strawberries.

When The Light Goes Go

I watched from my car, sitting outside the electric co op
At people racing to pay bill before their lights go out
A manager unlocking door to let out last customer
Is a hometown friend of my hubby and didn’t have the heart to say
We’re closed, so she let him in

I will miss the acrobatic squirrels
as they vault from tree to tree
searching for an acorn treat
while they fuss and bark at me.

I will miss the speedy rabbits
as they sprint from the brier patch
brown blurs dodging red tail hawks
when they dive beneath the thatch.

I will even miss the feral hogs
all their grunting as they root about
snuffling for some roots and grubs
with their blunt and muddy snout.

From the twelfth to the fourteenth tome
Kings chronicled their might and powers
Where a great ruler made a solemn request
For knowledge and wisdom above all else
To regulate fairly over all his subjects

In league with Hiram’s adroit workmen
Bequeathed a temple legacy to the craft
With treasures buried under the stones
Men went in search of a hush-hush grail
That remains elusive to the mundane

I MISS MY UNDERWEAR

I miss my suit navy blue
the buttons on my Ralph Laurens
crispy white
the times I could tie my shoe
and the nights my bladder made the loo

most of all I miss
my Calvin Klein underwear
boxers, briefs, high rise, low rise
any kind of rise
Speedos that set hearts reeling
Jockeys with that special feeling.

yet when all is said and done
the packaging may change
but the merchandise is still the same…