|
title
X
by
Lasana M. Sekou
militants&insurgents
come to be
+males of military age+
new code for the
coders
a codeX.a con-
stitute to
“hunt them down”
:
+marked man+
come to be
all who look so
all alike
my brothers,
again, the dark mane
locks in the cross hairs.
+
©
2004
* *
* * *
mariposa
by
Lasana M. Sekou
the mornings are
fewer
the nights
longer
love is fine and
full
here the fight
rewards the future
and everybody
else but you
makes bad coffee.
©
2004
*
* * * *
worker
island
by
Lasana M. Sekou
i did not see
lantau island
the buddha
brilliant regime in sun
lighting the way
where tourists stray
to shake sticks
at their future
for a fated read
of each of the same other difference
but cynthia say,
there is a fishing village beyond the fray
where older
heads pear out bamboo windows
children ride bicycles too
the
sea and the scene is this
what
we all see to be seen
as
pierced longing and longing
eternally
at each other’s side
and
we are always with people …
©
2004
* *
* * *
city
of poetry
(for
Medellin)
by
Lasana M. Sekou
it is you again
in another
place, unrobed
bare muse,
in the valley of
fat nudes
stark iron soft
maidens roundly
fashioned by the
hands of the self in exile
see them all
waiting the kiss of the men at war
for that day
when the armies meet. sin pistoles
bare muse,
looking over the
city, the firing volleys in earshot
burst of
volition the light to see si
el dorado was
not gold.it was land.
but here we
are.where every man should once in his life
(not in any
other life)
have this.a
woman who adores him
(stirs in him
the consummate black hole to ebullience)
even if blind he
sees, she walks barest from the shower,
wet full wonder,
her lips, fan of thirst, snare beads of water
she wanders to
the dryness of his unsuspecting body,
pressing herself
hungrily
until he and she
and sheet reach in the deep soak,
a wanton
geography of sea
bare muse,
here she is
countless
she wears …
from the shower
from the rain
from the zinc-curtained bath
from the basin’s marble terrain
wears herself, unrobed, sin
verguenza
the perfume of water
still coils in the abandon of her hair
willful water falls from her eyelids
a cooling, clinging, to the laugher of her hips,
a
flight of tongues courses,
curves, laps, lyre, longs to the ground
feast to famish.
©
2004
* *
* * *
dm5
by
Lasana M. Sekou
the hand of the
fathers
ascending the
nations
crowns the
sleeping sons
the spirit of
the fathers
descending,
winged as eagle, pelican prowess
graces the
waking sons
the sacrifice of
the fathers
bears the family
of nation, the worlds of wealth
rewards the working son.
©
2004
* *
* * *
homework
by
Lasana M. Sekou
there is no
broken home
in the manner of
the talk,
since it name
so,
to self-fulfill
the terror
that we now come
to in habit.
there is no
broken home
when upful images of our fathers are many.
©
2004
* * * *
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