Yellow is
a high-minded mood
the extravagance of sunlight
to be touched--
before long
by colors of play
___

It is of hair
tendering golden sun
brown pennies for lemonade
__

Yellow is
bumping into the screaming end
of a lit
cigarette
___

Yellow is
dripping from the eaves
onto an empty soup can
___

It is
spindling sparrow song
from highest perch on roof
his pitch can aspire
___

Yellow is
in rattled doorknob
an infant's sweet
voice wanting – in
Reciting menu
above mattress
edges into sleep
two dark eyes
plead
for yellow
waking
Mother into morning--
“juice.... eggs”

Yellow  ___
is
opening a car door
at the shore's
unmistakable!
Smells of life  
warmth and breeze
touching strings
those kites  
of sense
harmonics
above the tone
octaves of excitement
to see to hear to touch to taste
to know
again –

the ocean of my mother
as she calms the waves,
ignores the pouts of us
with stuff to lug out to the beach
the towels, pails and shovels
Picnic basket, cooler
lotion, comic books, her magazines

Mom looks out
She is a good swimmer
Her glasses, dark
Preside  
reflecting beauty –

“Take your sister's hand.”

Yellow are the squeals
Feet thrashing sand
of cannot wait

Your heart brought with Amnesia.
To study it ,
I slid into your heart ,
making way through your tears
it was dark.
Placing a candle at the grave of your sorrows,
I stitched up your battered ,bleeding heart.
Tendering to the grave turned gardens,
I smuggled sunlight to your dandelion soul.
Drugging you 3 times daily with comfort,
was what I prescribed.
Nothing stays forever , so didn't your illness
and you don't remember me any-longer.
Happy laughter of love echoed ,
in the skies of your fist sized heart.
Wished you a healthy heart ahead,
only with the desire to treat it again .

Bribing for Uthamaki survival,
Made Kenya a fortune’s fool,
Not only Kenya but those that gave
And received bribes of all sorts,
Job favour and money favour
To make Uthamaki an eternal kingdom,
They all chewed un-toothsome slices
Of the public fortune’s fools,

They were bribed by cars, money, jobs,
Lands, upmarket houses. And all the stuffs
Of bribery regalia, and then they went dumb,
On truth and facts of the day; them; Chiloba and
Chebukat, dumb they went holus-bolus in the manacle
Of the claws of Uthamaki and its jostle for eternity,
Like the victims of slaughter in Tolstoyan epics.
They hated the truth and fell in love with falsehood,
Feeding children of Kenya on the brutality of Gebelawi,
Faked elections and police brutality in the alley of Samantha,
She died seeing the club of a full geared anti-riot police, it was
All but power of the bribe in the vacuum of conscience,
The true desire of our ages, ages, ages, ages; desire for ages,
A bribe can ****, yes it killed Musando,
A bribe can ****, yes it killed Juma,
A bribe can ****, yes it killed Samantha Pendo,
A bribe can **** yes it killed Stephanie on the balcony,
The bribe kills brutally when taken in line of duty,
A job promotion to job security fight for Uthamaki,
It kills brutally when received in line of avarice;
More land, houses in Karen, swollen bank dove-cots,
Free lunch and air-ticket windows of the bribe,
That can ******* to death when siring Uthamaki,

A bribe kills reason, mires power of truth,
A bribe fetters love for truth but bigotry extolled,
It can sent you to Paris sprinting with the keys
To the server room stuffed in your pocket,
A bribe warps the mind of the giver and the taker,
It makes democracy look the platter on which
Was John’s head, I mean the Baptist,

Uthamaki nourishes itself on the power of crime,
Looting, corruption, ***** riches, prostitution, lawless
hawking, Cartels, land-stealing, insider contracting,
faked academic testimonies, employment by tribe,
gangstering like Mungikification of the youths, insider
tendering, and now computer-generated uthamaki
all but nothing less than power of the bribe,

legerity is full in the hands of Uthamaki,
to condemn the sit that loves the truth,
fairness and justice is the harmful light to the bat’s eye
of Uthamaki, Uthamaki and the truth are oil and water,
uthamaki and the truth are as a Muslim and pork
uthamaki and the truth are an Israeli and an Arab,
they are an anti-thesis, Kenya a battle-field. Uthamaki
the thesis of imperial selfishness, democratic truth
the poor child of Kenya on the guillotine made of bribe,

Uthamaki has the name an epiphany all over,
Hospitals, schools, roads, avenues, maternity homes
Colleges, toilets, airports, prisons, barracks beyond zero,
And so forth, they all bare the name Uthamaki,
Uthamaki where are your age-mates and prison mates
Imprisoned for parting in struggle for freedom, Uthamaki,
You have stolen Kenya’s history and slaughtered the owners
At the slaughter-stone of bribe, using the tribe as your Knife,

Factoring in and tendering out..
What the hell are those things about?
I'm afraid I am lost in the costing and routeing
and..what is the price from Balham to Tooting?

But when time's out of sync
As it usually is when I've had me a drink
Or I'm pie eyed on the dope.
What's left is no hope
There is no way I can work..I might as well sleep..
..and hope time will keep its hands to itself.

But all joking aside with this modernisation there is nowhere to hide
From the tide
Or from time.

Those guys--the intellectuals-
are bashers----they are bashing
words, ideas and philosophy to death
with their endless quibbling and quarrelling

but for me an uneducated peasant
all that I know and need to know is farming--
planting,  sowing,  tendering, nurturing and harvesting
the sun rising and setting--for a good season is all I'm hoping.

I am hereby officially tendering my resignation as an adult, in order to accept the responsibilities of a 6-year-old.

The tax base is lower.

I want to be six again.

I want to go to McDonald's and think it's
the best place in the world to eat.

I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle
and make waves with rocks.

I want to think M&Ms; are better than money,
because you can eat them.

I want to play kickball during recess and stay up on Christmas Eve waiting to hear Santa and Rudolph on the roof.

I long for the days when life was simple.

When all you knew were your colors, the addition tables and simple nursery rhymes, but it didn't bother you, because you didn't know what you didn't know, and you didn't care.

I want to go to school and have snack time, recess, gym and field trips.

I want to be happy, because I don't know what should make me upset.

I want to think the world is fair and everyone in it is honest and good.

I want to believe that anything is possible.

Sometime, while I was maturing, I learned too much.

I learned of nuclear weapons, prejudice, starving and
abused kids, lies, unhappy marriages, illness, pain and mortality.

I want to be six again.

I want to think that everyone, including myself,
will live forever, because I don't know the concept of death.

I want to be oblivious to the complexity of life and
be overly excited by the little things again.

I want television to be something I watch for fun,
not something used for escape from the things I should be doing.

I want to live knowing the little things that I find exciting
will always make me as happy as when I first learned them.

I want to be six again.

I remember not seeing the world as a whole, but rather
being aware of only the things that directly concerned me.

I want to be naive enough to think that if I'm happy, so is everyone else.

I want to walk down the beach and think only of the sand beneath my feet
and the possibility of finding that blue piece of sea glass I'm looking for.

I want to spend my afternoons climbing trees and riding my bike, letting
the grownups worry about time, the dentist and how to find the money to fix the car.

I want to wonder what I'll do when I grow up and what I'll be,
who I'll be and not worry about what I'll do if this doesn't work out.

I want that time back.

I want to use it now as an escape, so that when my computer crashes,
or I have a mountain of paperwork, or two depressed friends, or a fight
with my spouse, or bittersweet memories of times gone by, or second thoughts about so many things, I can travel back and build a snowman, without thinking about anything except whether the snow sticks together
and what I can possibly use for the snowman's mouth.

I want to be six again.

I sometimes wish that self-awareness came inside of a pill.
Because now,
My days have been principled into a misery
I feel when I pretend to be someone
Whose face I see more than my own.
The way an actor out of work,perhaps,
Would roam their lives indifferent to reality-
Wearing a mask of paint, cloaking their emotions in thick layers,
Holding in their words in case a crack destroys
their non-existent role.
Tendering within and playing a part in a society that cannot keep up
with the ever-changing personality of a character who has no storyline to follow.

The name-calls to all stage positions siren in my head every morning,
And I am left disappointed continually as I hear every name
Except my own.
Everybody needs no 'disguise' except me and i spare no energy thinking
Of ways to mask the energy I spare creating mine.
I would work too hard to be myself if I worked at all,
But,
The work is still spared when it's used in efforts to change who I am...
Though you may see the make-up on my eye-lids,
You will also see the eye-bags which surround them from nights
Spent lying awake wondering what color it should be.
Though you may see the likeness intentions in my counterfeit expression,
You will also see the subjective scar of all the times they were practiced in a mirror
Which showed their real reflection.
Though you may see the plastic in the way the necessary emotions are showed,
You will also see the stains from all the tears that were shed
When they were suffocatingly tightening the skin underneath it.
It is bland the way the preparation is more strenuous than the presentation,
Yet often it is overlapped behind it...
And nobody can tell the difference.

I am controlled by a director beyond me,
And he carries out my pain in the slick of the pen he writes the details of my stories with.
He holds it tightly,
As the ink lets out a permanence that suggests flawlessness
In the style
of continually writing tragedies upon tragedies with absolutely no mistake.
He let's no uplifting, no state of miracle show as he continues with his masterpiece.
Dwelling from sequence to sequence as I follow the dullness in his path. Almost
Hoping that he will eventually realize that sometimes the actor can turn into the character,
And when real pain becomes false pain then you should learn to know the difference.
Sometimes I scream to him when it has desolated to the point of an eternal fictional epilogue.
I tell him that I have learnt from the tragedies- that I now know every emotion this mind can feel,
And the plasticizing of emotion itself will become inevitable if it is forced to have to feel them again.
The apathy created by this
would be counter-productive to what he wants me to feel,
And more often than not he will become disappointed by having his efforts shattered
By the same unfeeling mind he was trying to destroy.
The name-calls are inevitable but what happens when the name you left out doesn't care
That it is left out.
You can re-write all of your tragedies but sometimes you'll feel more affected by them than the character who you wrote them for.
And,
perhaps you'll never know the difference between crying out loud when the stage curtains are open and
Crying out loud when the stage curtains are closed but,
Perhaps you will realize you are only as alone as you want to be...

...After all,
Mutual hypocrisy always sticks within the step of each character
In the loneliness of a life spent as a play
Where,
The writer is the only audience.

babe. you're a ******* animal.
a warm and laughing mammal when you watch me breathe.
when we're playing out on a field of sheets,
and the window lighting hugs the edges of your face
you look like the leader of your pack.
and when you pin me down,
like a lion to it's prey,
i feel myself begin to pray.
for you to ruin me,
for me to claw and roar,
for us to become animals.
every time your lips drag across my skin
i feel i've entered the animal kingdom
and you've sat me on a throne
and you whisper sweet nothings,
tendering my assignment to position: queen.
when i feel the stars build up in my brain
and my breathing devoid of proper pace
i remember how much of an animal you are
and how badly i need you to take me down.

This doodling Yankee (boot noah dandy)
doth newt lack chutzpah,
tries to finagle Fitbit fitting figurative footwear,
that ideally Fitzhugh
like custom made glove snugly,
terrifically, unequivocally matching,
thence handily solving Finger hut issue,
when or if arctic blasts cold
doggedly enveloped Gaea,
whence  humans analogously held hostage
linkedin among fellow Earthlings freezing,
frost bitten, gangrenous hominids
scurrying haphazardly searching vainly
from shelter ring sky (with mother's little helper)
each primate scrambling

(as unrepentant, recalcitrant outlier)
once (what seems millenniums ago) livingsocial
jackknifed habitat fractured,
essentially damning Crispr bungled ambition
grist for raconteur spewing sought aide
telling tales amidst the mill by  Ponderosa Pine
drawing a crowd of curious onlookers,
who forewent idling away time structured existence,
thus, nary a clock watcher weathering whims
as mother nature doth channel
capriciously, felicitously,

and indubitably stripped away
bow ring pastime asper watching paint dry
now tis each man, woman and child to
(seeketh dale and hill) to duff fend themselves
whereat mortality will steal immoral majority linkedin
encapsulated, housed, kindled
within luxurious faux existence
capitalistic dreams engendered existence fleeced
devoid of featherbed,

indeed mollycoddled memories
yanked wherein current rank and file
endowing superlative creature comforts
reduce wretched survivors
scant band of bare naked ladies
beastie boys, foo fighters espying counting crows
ready to buzzfeed toe kin **** sapiens

bereft, expunged, faux invincibility kickstarting
learning basic survival skills
forced to rescind twenty first century trappings
shifting paradigm sans primacy
pitting dishabille helpless imps against pearl jam killers
who do not shrink from ethically principled,

but give full reign to selfish callous deleterious foibles,
gruesome harmful indiscretions
sprouting with mushroom rhizome rapidity
ousting the  omnipresently
(well nigh since time immemorial
virtues cultivated, futilely integrated, lending oomph
residentially, scientifically tendering ubiquitous DNA
foisting gabled, heralded, instilled,

justified kneaded love thy neighbor motto
lyft ting in one fell swoop delicately
embroidered, finely graven, heavenly ideals
no more patent leather shoes reflecting up
nor doodling Yankee staking claim to fame
via feathered cap made of macaroni
thus such jingoistic, holistic,
fabric ripped retroactively
ramping atavistic simian base,
thus leveling the playing field.

we are all roadside flowers
blooming and changing in seasons

we are all together
all in these together

all growing together
all nurturing together

We are all soft touchy flowers
feeling for one another
loving and tendering

with the same thoughts
and common soil
we came from the same ground

let's be together
in the light of our sunshine

A perfection of state
A diagram of fate
All claiming she’s addicted to her own virtues
And craving her own foolishness

She’s dwelling on the past
Clinging to stuff she knows will never be
Moving in a circular motion, a clear cut she created
Where she has been deceived by her own emotions

Only circumstances have bewitched her
Tendering to her the hopeless
But her innocence
Consoled her purity

Birds fly to the neck chilly heights,
see upon with a tendering sigh

Afraid to land upon a lousy soil;
glooming in disguise

Morally corrupt are the horrifying souls,
and captivated to the sweetest rose

Rose looses its shine;
appeasing hunger which knows no bound

I know no sweetness,just a fact-
I'm a girl need life; just in case I strive..

We are the pit men,the pony men,the downtrodden,unshod men,and it's us against them,
and them men are the fat men,the fast gabbers,the land grabbers,the takers,the fakers, the usurers and money lenders,
**** them men,
I'm tendering my resignation and going off to look for something more,
a new celebration of a life within this whirlwind of a railway station.
Platform four,
train leaves at five
if I'm still alive
I'll be on it.

Your arms are follicles of disinterest.

Though I am unsure of what their intention is,
They move around my waist in time
With a lack of clarity of what it all means
to be in love.
Affection and lust is all I feel
And when you say you love me their appendature continues
to grow whilst my waist does.
A surging increasing of whenever you touch me.
The voices that pardon me are larger
Than my conscience, and sometimes the thought of you surges
Beneath me,
like a virus or an earthquake in a shattered continent or both.
My heart becomes a state of liquid, the temperature of the air
Transforms to a prominence of length. I grasp everything you touch
I grasp you, I grasp the air. I look around and I cannot seem to
Find land where your eyes do not roam. The centimeters of everything
You've ever held combined with the emptiness of my palms.
The hollows of my retinas seeing pain when I see right through you, my crave
For becoming sub-ordinate to everything I've never known in life, a deriving
Of isolation for the way your fingers crawl so weakly against the meso-folds
Of my tense shoulders. The way they press, clutch, grab me and force them
Towards you.
Upon the shaking ground, where you lean in against my neck and
Pretend to know the secrets which have all the weight on my collar bones. Quakes,
Within you as well emerging from layers of participate, holding ashes and loving ashes,
Burning them again and convincing them that it is intimacy. Tendering flames
That induce smoke silhouettes on dancers that do not dance. Clutching their framework
As if you can make structure out of burning buildings,
'hold me' the flames whisper. From parted lips that are sighing against yours.
Burning buildings do not touch the lips of angels, but you force yourself near me.
I am nothing but a shattered window within a distraught avenue,
The fire grows and you are simultaneously caressing me and crying for help.
Upon the glass shards of my ragged edges, the tension increases with each
Sunken word you forget to say out loud.
There is mesmerization between clutching and grabbing and pulling and releasing. The sensation of us impending upon each other like runaway trains,
the way we shall crash with what we
Know in terms of devastating realization.
Sitting on the same bench as our life forces collide like they were miles apart.
At the breech of creating a history that only I will remember.
You burn everything down,
And once I am ashes you will claim to increase the passion of everything you feel towards me.
I am a burning building, a shattered window, a flame that whispers 'hold me'
And you are nearing my lips. The earth conclaves in centimeters and whenever
You breathe, I measure it.
Exhalations are beautiful but so are the seconds between us. You hold me like a chamber.
The world only rotates on the bench we are sitting on, the wood has caught fire and
So have the trees around of us. I am impending you to burn with me and every
Component of our surroundings is not pardoned by your refusal.
You love me, you say,
And just at the moment of our lips meeting,
You realize that everything impresses you in the completely wrong way.
.
The flames will not cease.
but when you stand up and leave me you do not feel them.
Your arms were once a catalyst to the expenditure of heat energy
But now, I burn ceaselessly.
You walk away as my flames spread.
They spread to the ground, set fire to the soil, and follow your footsteps in hope
That they will incinerate you.
But as the memory of love disappears,
so do you.
And the fire that follows you incinerates everything but your skin.
When you then hold your next burning building,
My flame will be there, watching you, everything you do
It will combust upon itself.
And cause catastrophe through the means of a lack of what you claimed was passion.
Your love will incinerate things that cannot be burned,
And my flames will watch, hoping that you will expenditure what you thought of them too.
Ceaselessly, they will fade away,
And you will only burn everything...
'I love you' you will say,
And then,
you will only burn everything.
...

...and words still come to my fingertips as i undress you in spirit.

almost-friend, hold me tight and love me true / stare me down, see me as i am: disquieted, patinaed and accustomed to pockets / loose change, a worn copper penny; incoherent, the thrill and lurching sensation of gravity / blooming in my core as i die in my dreams; afraid, for all that word means / of the figs that lie waiting on the branches ahead / ample and pregnant with sweet-rot possibility;

we will labor, singing of light and covalence / until dusk is shorn of its gloomy nightgown / staving off the cold with what tea, what liquid light / the yielding sun could gift our wide eyes: / just ask, darling almost-friend / and i will provide, because…

you are a fawn, limber and knobby-kneed / and i am but a stranger waxing melancholy in stolen glances from afar / as you come into focus in my wood / drinking from my fountains and eating from my briars / leaving me to wonder, “how could i not love such a soul, astute and gentle as it is?” / and so i offer you food and drink because i have nothing else / you could be in want of;

but such things are not for me to behold / and i fear that you will molt your coat as seasons change / the down behind your ears yielding to antlers sprouting like milk teeth from gums / tendering tender for tenacious, grace for gruesome / that you will forget the hands that have proffered to you / sustenance and healing in your darkest hours / for to see others consume satisfies my hunger / to see others delight, my vicarious feast;

in my mind’s eye, you are unclothed and angelic / even with the ophidian basin of your back pressed flat against the tiles of a scalding shower / even with tears ravaging your honest face / here, the masquerade, the spectacle and circumstance, ends / because your rapture will betray your guilt / and we will summit new zeniths hand-in-hand / be baptized, enthralled in the fresh, algid, restless oceans we called forth from the far reaches of our globe / with nothing more than the labyrinth-etched palms of our hands / charting the great floods of yesterday / inking them into the annuls of a friendship (nothing more) for the ages;

celebrate holier mysteries in the anamnesis of that day / we rested upon sand fine as powder, crusted on our knees and elbows / as the ark of our covenant neaped and sprang with cyclical certainty / almost-friend, smile me but one more drowsy floodgate grin / rest your raven-crowned head upon my bare chest / laying in that tender way for eternity / and never again will i ask that wretched question of you: "are you with me?"

no, darling almost-friend: forget me not / because fair weather or poor, my love will remain / echoing truer far and far more sweet / than the oblivious whisper of a forest brook / or the stentorian thundering of an ocean reclaiming what once belonged to it / to know that i am cared for even a fraction of how i care for you is an honor/ and as but a stranger gazing from afar, i promise you this: i will far sooner take myself for granted than you / even should no tea remain to keep us warm, i will hold you till the storm passes / and forever will your name be engraved herein.

Savasana is a calm state
in the midst of quietness
all passes away always
like a forever in reverse
Its a state of a corpse
where body meets earth
shoulder kiss the ground
and breath rises above all
Its a reward to the motor
tendering and weeding
giving growth an embrace
It's a handshake I long for
after the crafting and trying
the twisted boats, aeroplanes
lizards, cobras and sphinx
a remedy from warrior stances
and the table tops and doggies
to the wonderful cats and cows
It's a gateway to Pratyahara
the very bridge that connects
the fibres of inside and outside