……………………………………………………………………………….. morning 150
Love is my religion and my faith. Ibn Arabi
racing past me, she dropped her glove. she froze right there, polished bronze, precious. but what is cunning where time is concerned? the brown suede pumps, the hem of the skirt…dazzling. and i, never the he-man, always the poet-warrior, crawl out of my self as a child in a sky of flowers, in a black leather jacket with a flickering Jimi on the back. that's how long we live, that's how time is made. a suit: all the difference in the vibe today, 16 degrees farenheit, no one's pretty, obey the wind. i have no agreement with the poverty of furnishings. hollywood shoved imperialism down my throat, and, as i swallowed my first bite of smoked sprats, i yearned for a certain pocket of air i experienced at a riding stable just outside Paradise, Michigan. there's a cardigan and a chair and a book asking for me.
sadiq bey
morning 134
today i sit at the desk awaiting my assignment.
the world is coming to an end and it hasn't arrived.
this is not good. i could be forced to write
out of my own head, staring at oak patterns on the floor.
today seems like a good day to write poems.
the keyboard is a pen heavy enough to break the silence.
even so, i'm feeling neglected, as middlemen will.
pondering retirement too soon, lamenting between the lines.
today, lines not yet delivered, a poet creating hoax.
a poet creating the evening news, only the footage is missing.
no one told me that poetics was willed to loneliness.
with this i don't imagine the benefit of privilege.
today is divided into seconds, divided into blinks…so painfull.
but like the chump, i wait for delivery…and wait.
all for an inch of stripe on the sleeve. the language approaches
the window cautiously. i hold my breath.
sadiq bey