That speck of soft and moist matter between your fingers — without a name, origin uncertain — which you briskly roll and rub, like flour, could be rheum, mucus, or your own skin tissue stuck […]
We didn’t notice the storm as it gathered. We were too busy taking in the magnificent African landscape, my binoculars perched on my nose. Watching the elephants, I had been so intent on watching […]
So when you see the eyes of the wind roar under the manes of a furious darkness, know that I, Abiku, have come again. I am the leathery meat for the boastful swallows of the […]
He gallops into my dream every night Carrying sprinkles of stars on his polished armor as though a heavenly knight. He would join me in the waterbed, And we would swim till I hear the […]
They were beggars Canvassing for votes Just like alms Soliciting for our approval. To get them there, Into their presumed promised land, They promised everything; They promised to serve us. We voted them […]
My brother e-mails me about how, of late, people have cast words like stares that tell him he has not provided well enough for his family; that their financial struggles have been a burden, like […]
Shall I tell you of the bad bard whose vices know no known bounds? Shall I drive my quill over the papyrus, to the life of one worse than Loki of Norse? He is the […]
I never knew my mom and dad. I remember them though. I remember the way they felt, the way they moved, across silicon and light. The way they spoke to each other. Even the way they fought.
I remember so clearly how my dad felt the first time he met her. The first time he lost her.
He was barely a thousand years old, still a kid, really. They’d both had their bodies back then, and genders or sex. Whichever. Either way, she was still a she, and he was still a he. It’s strange, looking back, how important biology was to us human beings then. Just a couple thousand years later my dad could barely remember what it meant to be a man. I suppose it couldn’t have meant very much at all.
They met at a waystation in what we then thought of as “deep space”. He was in an Artistic Cycle, trying desperately to capture, in oil on canvas, the effect of radiation streaming off a nearby quasar.
She’d arrived on a raft destined for that very quasar.
I remember that he’d found her cool, objective as a mirror. And not very impressed with his work, a failure in judgment that he wrote off as a consequence of the cognitive reassignment that came with her switching from a Legal to a Scientific cycle.
Who will marry me? Who will marry this smeared calabash on my head? It sort of looks like treasure passed down from my three mothers: one who wore stolen necklaces made of gold plated silver; […]
Underneath the heap of rocks and stones a restive but captive stream waits, listening to the hilarious uproar of tumultuous world and of gaudy nature and cries to be a part of them and a […]