i was thinking about was is monumental,
what exits without a comma.
i do not remember lilian’s suicide.
just it’s fiction.
miss you lilli.
memory remember itself.
in a field full of sparrows we – or I – do not see
or hear, I tell my friend the elaborate
details of a dream. the idea for a long poem.
submarina, carriages, propaganda,
cows giving birth to manifestos.
see: already I’ve both bored one person,
I’ll say nothing more.
first time i came across a beluga whale i had no hands,
found myself thinking about harold pinter, whale was thinking about
the dreams of other fish,
so caught up in the funk that it thought i was six, again.
‘towards nothing’ — what shall we say, are the remains
of the day?
my white whale is a recurring dream,
i will not see doctors,
doctors will see me.
somedays the extremities are cold —
two shots of coffee and i’m ready to go.
not to say i doubt the many unions of comets and men,
or the misplacement of all my guilt,
but there is something to be said,
coming to you, about my night time trip.
if i ever misplace anything, james,
then i will know i have lived.
first time we thought of place as numbers,
you had your dick in my mouth.
wherever we go now,
memory is the answer.
i am with you on limuru road.
i am with you at the archive,
i am with you in all definitions of crisis.
with you in nairobi.
walking with you in lagos.
i’m with you in machakos,
all these troubled years,
i’m with you everywhere.
i’m with you in harare,
i’m with you in sulurele.
we are back together in our rivers,
we are in love,
we are in tears,
we are in orbiting space,
i’m here with you,
we are all gathered together again
for the first time.
James, we are together,
not here — in lodwar.
in kisumu ndogo i am with you,
Torera is with you,
i am not with you.
in Holy Trinity i am with you.
so happy that I will never talk to you again,
happy that silence keeps me alive.
does not think of space.
nothing to report.