it throws her campaign off guard – again
so she does not measure the drapes of the White House –
yet transparency lacks when it comes to Hillary
almost falling off her plane as FBI probe
release of damning new emails? New Hampshire roars
that once in high office a “criminal may be indicted.”
the cryptic announcement blinds the people –
Republicans rejoice as God wearily peers down.
If China has a stake in Heathrow Airport Holdings
Then I surmise the third runway authorized
Would be granted by Theresa May, naturally.
I am surprised that
Thousands of people die every year – air polluted:
I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe in central London
But who cares?
Ferrovial S.A., Qatar Holding LLC, Caisse de dépôt
et placement du Québec,Government of Singapore
Investment Corporation, Alinda Capital Partners,
China Investment Corporation
and Universities Superannuation Scheme (USS).
Brexit? I can hardly pronounce those investors.
Plus 25% extra for bulldozing homes?
I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.
I see the Chief Economist towering over Brexit, as the common person reviles in benign betrayal while lifting toadstools in Tescos. Lamenting an experiment of overhaul: the imperfect structural coherence we knew to be reconstructed in beguiling new guise. The downward pound bumbles through the market, prices hiked and experts forecasting this exit who may? Politics cloaked in dark obfuscation, deflation apparently self-fulfilling, and this House of Cards they are building may dramatically collapse again.
That Sparks –
I project again
riding those high seas.
tangy orange surf board
a periscopic eye.
can you see me in the cross?
listen through Art?
riding those high seas.
Her stern copper face looks down on me,
Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi’s mother?
On closer inspection, can’t help but feel
That this is the Frenchman’s mad brother.
Bearing the torch and tabula ansata,
He invokes the chain of a broken law.
I am enlightened today –
Libertas is male: in shock but not awe.
The door open after bathing.
The steam oozes out a deep musky sigh.
She peek-a-boos through the pine door slats,
Across a narrow landing wanders her eye.
“Baby”, he calls her,
“Take a look – look.”
“Dis a wa form and born you.”
Her mouth open wide, peering in his eye,
She stands in shock as a pillar of stone.
Sniffle, snuffle, she starts to cry.
Crystal drops roll from her bashful brown eyes.
He leads her to the room on the right.
They lie down in a secure embrace,
As dawn breaks in through the curtains.
Doesn’t matter how rich
or poor she is,
‘creamy crack’ is the antidote
to her nappy hair.
Can she go back? It’s difficult.
For if her hair is knotty
she ain’t happy –
by sodium hydroxide
white people relax around her.
The burn of a perm
though excruciatingly hot,
her fiery scalp is worth it
as later she gently caresses roots
with ecstatic fingers.
In addition there’s an erroneous
friend in town,
from wig –
to an extension of reality –
100% protein filament
stitched/glued onto cornrow tracks –
weaveologists charge big money.
It can be combed, curled
and it will not melt.
It’s also been prayed on in Temples.
Tonsure, the cutting of hair
in religious devotion and humility?
The Indian woman’s stolen
in the dead at night –
a rite of passage
to sit upon this black lady’s head
thousands of miles away:
seemingly Godly but
now paraded in high esteem
though evidently not original.