More windowed or less.
Summer in a garden chair.
Put your hands down
there even if there are holes in your pocket.
A life in search of
the impact of loving backwards.
Even with a newspaper
to sign instead of a book.
On the way to the treehouse.
About a rental and radiant ethnicity.
Uh, well, you see, you're
in partial pursuit of brush fires.
Like if I knew then
what I know now.
Some cloudy
discussions about saving time and saving money.
Every three blocks I
look to see what is inside me.
This would be your
wealth. The sky is turning red.
You hurled the caesura
at a chandelier. What's moxie, anyway?
As opposed to
commuting I don't feel like passing through.
The five stages of
wickedness. A hashtag, a loss of henna.
Projectiles of prehistorians.
I don't even trip anymore.
Figured out how to
adapt to excitation. A month from now.
Claw-marks under a
hand-glass. Upright frame bushwhacked.
Not a battle of wills
but a battle of pills.
When I was filmed it
was really boring.
One cross drives out
another. Brilliant discord, pine needle.
A rider thrown by his
wayward horse.
Like the time I didn't
nitpick and my intimacy got stolen.
Death can't conceal
sex and sex can't conceal death.
A moment to become a
man or a scythe.
The cross-street
argues with the cross-hatch.
A contract to protect
you from ridiculousness.
Foreign to the season
of the ravages of sensuality.
I'm going to wing it
not minding what you said about it.
To summon the
skin-diver. No sentence less than thirst.
Lowest job in town
isn't blowjob. A loss of spare keys.
Or else it impels us
to the zenith of a sandwich.
I don't care if you're
vacationing in Indiana.
Anguish is bliss as we
plunge into the vast linen.
If someone asks me to
sign something or spill something.
I'll bloom where you
are. A gobbling cantata.
Predawn versions of
the open house.
How difficult to
disguise your speed.
We travel for days
inside each other.
You continue to
believe in each and every shithead.
It has central air and
she is cool.
Friday, the sumptuous
and edgy fidelity.
He sometimes comes
here for concerts.
You can have a brownie
if you wish.
She has allergies so I
must vacuum the house.
Sliding down anomy
with a bright blue key of quicksilver.
I told him about that
and he gets it.
Magnificent blunders
of a six-eyed Banjo.
Your edge adores you.
Katabasis of the open heart.
She is the one that
made a plea for a raft.
With his parents out
of town, hell broke loose.
The shifting ceiling
of this room. There are chilies.
For now language is
our only sanctuary.
I have my head up my
ass. You have your head up your ass.
But morning can bear
the weight of our brokenness.
Pure protocol. He was
your target of ejection.
You don't have the
right to humiliate him.
Less glowing than
growling less drums than strings.
My dad's paternal
uncle whipped his wives with canes why.
Tables we can wheel
around. A flashing cursor.
How do you ground
yourself?
I know the play you
are talking about.
Second chances with
sidewalk salt.
She has many other
things going on. Fantastic!
Now what? Your breasts
on my ribs.
Are you gonna be free
tonight? You better be.
One stranger. Two
strangers. Three strangers.
Between the hills your
wife photographed from behind.
And even though you
won't waltz me to the end of the tunnel.
Blessed are the
complications and impossibilities.
A dial like a gust of
sorrow. I had to roll in all that.
Of fate and inversions
of tiredness.
The documentation of
depletions. Her down and dirty testaments.
You don't have the
right to humiliate her.
The Postman just
dropped off a box of despair.
Danger and mirth are
linked. There is snot in every chair.
That strategy is
boiling over. A man on the edge of a hill.
Somewhat shaken when
an attack of the equinox is afoot.
Sniping spree in a
gift shop.
He booked a cruise for
both of us.
She tells him to skip
the slow motion.
How to live in the
cathedral of our desire.
That script we wash
ourselves in.
Your music misled the candles
and the angels.
When geomancy began to
go wrong.
Every once in a while
my shorts on her floor.
You entered the
apricot.
Which exceeds the
limits of rapture.
Monday to Friday: returning
flights.
Something like
fencing, an inventory of adultery.
Saint of all time, psychic
debris, her paraphernalia.
Which is not to say
I've not been a witness to the carnival inside bones.
You jacked off and
ended up not braking for a light.
7 flavors. The kind of
space where language pukes.
Answers in motion together
with broad-backed secret lore.
Culture is your
cudgel. Nowhere else is of much use.
This must be what
sardines in cans must be feeling right about now.
Those streets soaking
inside tantric weeks.
Peace of quiddity and
scab of suburbia.
The only way to dodge
your destiny is to eat it.
To pull the handle and
fly formation if I can pull myself out from under self-torture.
Our salvation didn't
depend on what simplicity had wrought.
8 incarnations.
Marimba moonlight.
Uche Nduka is a Nigerian-American poet, essayist, collagist.
He is the author of twelve volumes of poems of which the most recent is titled
LIVING IN PUBLIC(2018). Some of his writing has been translated into German, Dutch,
Finnish, Italian,
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