Blue Music Dream, Poetics

in the morning you quote French romantics

I want it be known that I offered you all of the bloody goldmines south of Kinshasa, where a man who has been posing as my father says there is stone,
that I had palms like snakes in the dark,
that I offered you a history of alternates moving like burning coal in the dark.
The day was just another night denied to us,
I was willing to give up all the rage
I saw your face in the sleepy faces of immigration officers
Crossing Malaba, Namanga, Nimule, Soroti-
how awkward all our border towns have three syllables,
a trinity of unbecoming in a land of false unities.
I want it be known that I wanted a union. I gave up
my money to a shady dealer and money launderer so that you could have something
for your coin collection,
I made water colours, studies of a bird hatching on rocky grounds, a bird with long pink feet,
the kind of pink under your nails.
I want it be known that I listened to your footsteps in the ground,
an animal used to picking up the music of dead feet, a
nation walking on wheelchairs in a jazz improvisation.
I want it be known that I looked for clues in novels written
by lonely men, I subscribed to the blogs of pan-Africanists and conspiracy theorists,
I bought flowers at the city market and dumped them in downtown Nairobi
when I saw more flowers blooming out of the body of a beggar as third degree burns, pus, broken limbs, fistula.
I want it be known that I looked up to see birds mating,
I watched for signs of your homecoming all over the open fields of grass,
each drop of rain in November was a note in the music
lock of my sheet roof, I went up to the toproof to receive the god music first hand.
I want it be know that skin is just an intermediary, I was willing to offer you flesh tar warm geysers.
I want it be known that I am a young man who has considered suicide, magic carpets lala lala lala floating above the wind turbines of Turkana.
I want you to know that I gave up complex and elaborate
fantacies starring dolls and an Ethiopian Airline stewardess.
All the places in our bodies are loading zones packed wolf dogs,
I want it be known that I was willing to give up my fear of drowning
to investigate the heightened gloom caught between your purchase eyelashes.
Yet yet yet yet yes I want it be known lala lala lala
It is possible to drown in air:
close your eyes and take a ride in PSV zephyr along Ralph Bunche road during the mist of zero visibility.
I want it be known that you talk in your sleep, you quote Negritude, Taban Lo Liyong, Ngugi Wa Thiong’o,
and in the morning you only quote French romantics.
I want it be known that your high school French and German
dismembers, disarms me like our fathers rotation grazing in Mt. Kenya, a woman scattering body seeds in newly dug up soil.
I want it be known about your toes, how selective evolution has been across the length of your body, about insecurities with your big feet and open toes.
How you change on the inside and sing lala lala lala of the day you turn into Gregor Samsa the Lala.
I want it be known that you are the daughter of a linguistics professor who is the progeny of a fisherman.
I want to come back to river fountains and white plume transit Bongo flava and an elaborate fantasy about our first daughter.
I want it be known that your biography is a naming of streets, avenues and lanes of Nairobi as anagrams of your name and the collective day you were lala lala lala discovered in a body bag.
I want it be known that I followed you to Lamu, and that there is not much difference when sex happens in a UNESCO heritage site.
I want it be known that we might have lived in ruins all our lives but kites took us to a godlala second lover place, where the air is a place for mating eagles.
I want it be known that I was willing to shock you with my ignorance of African ideals and my fine grasp of Dante and Irish folk songs.
How I levitate between one hell to another when I think of your absence.
I want it be known that I talked to your body in the dark about tropical fish, hoping you would dream in colour.
I waited in vain for your after-dark lala body to reply, although I could tell from the soft murmuring of your fish mouth that you were still keeping house.
Sometimes a body in the cold room might cough or laugh in remembrance of love laughter.
I want it be known that the body can be an abandoned pit, a quarry for the new Nairobi municipal garbage dump.
I want it be known that you have turned me into a zoologist, searching for signs of life in the moor of mist without rhyme.
I want it be known that I enact a play in sleep, I talk to myself about things I wish to hear you say to me. I talk myself to sleep, which is as close
as I will ever come to your great peace sleep.
I want it be known that I am guilty for a number of fires in my university between March and May, starting with the linguistics department,
a sign of love that you were too busy sleeping to notice.
I want you to know that each time a new planet is discovered I hope you will be a satellite around it.

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