black out (if i’m honest)


the rachis;

the distal part of the axis

of a feather shows stem cell white;

conspectus of angel conceptus

and the immortal adnexa (unveiled:


anatomical organs of a genus

of prickly shrubs,

the leaves pinnate,

corollas fleshy human and

proximal to the dais

of gestation; goddess light).



zero; i adjust the sights of a firearm to hit the point aimed at–a target having no magnitude or quantity–the metrical foot, the trochee

v a c a n t

having no modified inflectional form.



at zero hour, the observatory duty scientist watches luminaries

pointing NASA’s Swift telescope at a singular swath of sky

in search of the theorist’s holy chalice:

flashes of x-rays and ultraviolet light indicative of a wrinkle in the universe.

black holes swallowing dead stars.

i saw a romance of person;

mysterious events set in a remote time and place; Einstein’s general theory of relativity foretelling the pyroclastic flow deposits

of her fallout

the federal bureau of investigation’s most wanted

colliding in spacetime

with systems of white supremacy and suspicion:

Angela Davis on trial for collusion in a titillating murder case charged with political valences.

i look like her. fear me.

formed in the image of a black panther party member, my flesh and its historically subversive adnexa conjures

the government’s institutional memory of

an all black branch of the communist party; of militant resistance

(for a limitless time at all times resistant)

against police brutality; against extrajudicial terrorism


and so, this is the reason

why eyes follow me. my past life is

why i can’t buy a candy bar in peace.

the cashier’s afraid i’ll steal the status quo

and exact a revolution.



this is my prayer:

i will not be your negro.

“Negro Slain By Texas Posse: Victim’s Heart Removed After His Capture By Armed Men”

the real headline is this:

in order to kill me

you’d have to kill me in every permutation, iteration of

all time existence

i’ve ever been manifested in.

lynching is not enough.



i wrap my head like Congresswoman Ilhan Omar; Somalian angel who wears her hijab like a diadem. a map of the horn of Africa floats on a backlit screen: the central intelligence agency has an online fact book. a black star denotes where Mogadishu unfolds. i see her like i see my father.

complicity and the axis of spin, that rachis on which tangential velocity spirals, twirls like the finger of a goddess touching secret countries–that is the revolution of quiet that allows the CIA to back death squads in lush Ayiti.

orchids of state terror bloom from fertile ebony loam. fifty tons of cocaine (worth one billion dollars) paint the Haitian military regime thunderbolt gold.

secret files contact the dead; speak of Duvalier in whispers, saying,

“he is ‘Papa Doc’ the virtual personification of a voodoo god; to the country’s overwhelming negro population, he has shown himself to be anti-mulatto (i am in awe of the menagerie of

disgusting, divisive

incarnations of jim crow’s one drop

red, tear shaped


and a devotee of black supremacy.”

the special operative called us negroes; thought it odd that we’d think ourselves divine; spoke of the communist threat. i read the agent’s special report, eyebrow cocked convex, thinking fuck this son of a–

Ayiti: near apartheid, tensions viscous between the noir and the subtly mixed; in Papa Doc’s palace auspices glint wetly on coils of goat entrails;

president for life,

vodou spirit Lwa of the dead and his tontons macoutes (the bogeyman) were:

gang; cult; secret police; fascist militia

power: raping; extorting; murdering at will

with a cold (in cold blood) grip.

and the vampire of the Caribbean selling blood by the bag

dealing human body parts;

while mad max mutilated the genitals of political prisoners.

slavery made us brutal



“our Doc,

who art in the national palace,

hallowed be thy name.”

he revises the lord’s prayer.

he rides in a bulletproof Mercedes limousine,

raining money on the people; bankrolls

fall from heaven (our Doc

who art–)


he decapitates a man. the severed head

holds secrets

that can be divined

from blood. the brain will

tell Doc what he wants to know

because he is a god–


when Papa Doc dies, the US is afraid that Fidel Castro will see the witch doctor’s daughter, see

that she is tempestuous beautiful

an emerald window glowing across the sea

calling in low tones to Cuba.



there was an idiot

who called my country

island of the damned.

we are free. we revolted

against the French.

our land a mystery

like naked bodies behind a magic cloud.

the jungle. the starved look to us

for consumption. they want to see

the cannibals;

the blood spilled everywhere

(where is the bleach

for the kitchen tile?) dripping;

hearts sawed

out of stiff bodies, the pink muscle somehow

still beating

with black fire, witchcraft, magic.

the watchers,

they are the cannibals.

oh, the poor refugees.

fuck you.

you’ve failed

to see

the politics of magic.

you are so easily seduced by

blood sacrifice, by brown

bodies, by unrest

large enough to rip timespace.

you are the one running from yourself and thanking god hail mary for the wretched of the earth in this fun episode of escapist media consumption.







The Time Thief; Chapter 2, Part 4

Chapter 2, Part 4

Hera is poking her nose above the black freshwater. Her two pinprick nostrils are sucking in oxygen and droplets of liquid. Her legs are kicking underneath her in the river. Hera is swimming sloth slow to the river’s edge. Now, she is at its brink.

Hera is quietly pulling herself out of the river. Her skin is glimmering like wet, hard armor: her girlish knees and elbows are slick and golden; aiguillettes of red hair matt into a sleek helmet; her hair-helmet tapers into a thin tadpole down her back. She is dripping; and stands barefoot in nothing but her white lace bra and underwear.

Holstered to Hera’s hips are a sharp bowie knife, and a powerful firearm equipped with a silencer. Hera is walking cautiously towards the dusk swaddled trees; she is walking away from the cusp of the riverbank.

The river is making guttural sounds under the crescent moon. Hera is seeing the thin, grey star-shine of a naked sword. The metal is twinkling almost imperceptibly. Hera’s breathing is a tattered swatch of cloth. An invisible magician is trying to tug the rope of breath out of her living soul. It’s not working: she isn’t breathing.

The undergrowth near the river’s shore is exhuming a live body. The body is agile and quiet; this figure is drawing a long shadowy saber out of its side. This silent act (drawing out a sword in the dark) is shimmering within a parenthetical cone of silence; outside the conical silence the waterfall is noisily gushing, like water and blood cascading from the bleeding oblique of Jesus.

Hera is reaching for her weapon; her arm is delineating a trajectory of fluid animation. She is a ballerina pulling the trigger of her gun. Death is whizzing through the Cinderella blonde starlight; a bullet is lacerating the darkness in a sterling snail trail of velocity; her gun’s dark, testicular chamber is inseminating her target’s flesh with killer-sperm.

The shadow figure is falling. Their sword is crying in the tall grass; its clean metal is throwing long, grey sparks of moon-glister. The waterfall is foaming with nymphal nocturnes; the water’s glossolalia glissandos over Hera, but she is hearing nothing.

Hera is sweating. She is walking towards her fallen stalker slowly. She is thinking of Sasha and Xyla, who are still hiding in the grotto. The grass feels like dry, bristly hair to her clammy soles. She is now standing a mere two feet away from the grounded figure.

A cloud of light—tulle like, palpable light that sparkles like a bluish veil—is passing over the face of the fallen. Time’s mammoth shadow is retrograding several degrees on the mage Memory’s sundial: and wide-eyed, nonplussed Hera is recalling the face before her.

Hera is dropping to her knees next to the still-breathing body. It’s Akira, a Japanese samurai that she met once while time-traveling through the Kamakura period.

When Hera first sees Akira, he is kneeling by a river dappled in leaf shadows. She watches him fill earthenware with iron infused river sand. He gracefully ferries his cumbersome load to a site near his dwelling. Akira does this for a while.

Hera watches through komorebi (or, sunlight that filters through translucent leaves). Daylight snows, filling the negative spaces between tree leaves. The samurai shovels the towhead-dandruff and charcoal into a geometric clay stove. He is making jewel-steel, or tamahagane, for a katana—a samurai sword.

Hera is hypnotized by the process of sword making. One evening, Hera emerges from the trees to watch the samurai openly. Akira allows her to watch as he smelts steel for three days and nights.

His clay furnace breaths fire on the flaxen sand, coal, and iron ore in its maw; his clay furnace reaches temperatures north of 2,000 degrees Fahrenheit.

Hera watches Akira in the oncoming weeks as he tests the tamahagane for its carbon content—a ratio indicative of the steel’s potential for sharpness and sturdiness.

She witnessed the exorcism of slag from the tamahagane via the holy water of Akira’s hammer. This sacral beholding made Hera feel beholden to Akira. She espied the birth of a samurai’s soul.

For many weeks, Akira shines his katana with stones. He sends his sword to local artisans who give his sword a gold hilt, and a beautifully lacquered scabbard of cedar wood. Akira hires a skilled friend to filigree gold inlays onto the katana blade.

While time-traveling, Hera visits Akira many times to check on the progression of the sword. She eats many meals with Akira and grows extremely fond of his intuitive brown eyes.

Hera is holding the stunning katana in her lap. A single tear is hanging like a ripe, fetid fruit at the end of one of her long, ghostly eyelashes. Hera is touching Akira’s face, and remembering his handsome laugh. Akira is sitting up, suddenly. Hera is startled.

Akira is touching the bloody gun wound, which is closing. He is wincing a little, but smiling his signature half-smile.

“It’s my good luck that I’m a Sylph now. I can self-heal,” says Akira.

“Are you okay? I’m sorry I shot you. I thought you were someone else, somebody from the New School,” says Hera, checking his wound.

“I’m fine, I’m alright.”

“I’m really, really sorry. It’s just I assumed—”

“You assumed right. I was tailing you. I deliberately followed you. I work for the Librarian.”


“He offered me a job, and I agreed. So, I could travel here. And see you.”

Akira is reaching into his deep blue kimono, and pulling out a golden shard. The shard is affixed to a wispy, golden chain around his neck.

“Look,” he says, “this is the needle to your old time-compass. On your last visit, you lost it. Well, I found it one day—the glass crushed, the metal warped—and, when I picked it up, I pricked my finger. On this needle, the needle to your compass. It made me into a Sylph.”

“But what’s a Sylph?”

“I’ll show you. Give me your hand.”


“Because I can take you anywhere.”

“In the Labyrinth?”

“Anywhere at all.”


The Time Thief: Ch. I, pt. II

Chapter 1 Part II: The Librarian

Fluvial fly ash in the wind shimmering primeval blue. Time atoms fluxing on whetted edges of hoary cold. He is leaving the door to the Time Labyrinth ajar; crystals of glass-slipper snow are slip-coating sleeping, peaty time in booty: ice is a treasure here. Cutaneous minutes frieze voluptuously; are shivering in a silver clock; are storming thicker than magma from a death rose.

Lonesome Homo sapiens slashing snuff-like snow; his halberd dragon-slaying frozen monoliths. He is scalping ice, spraying demigod forever-twinkles of sacral winter everywhere. Spattering his snow goggles is mythic galactic hunter, Orion; hero now vanishing in smoke of snow. More snow. The lone gallant scraping frost from his goggles. Already, a new star formation of ice is streaking his just-cleaned lenses. Maybe, he will see Orion again.

The black footed wind war whooping, color yellow. The librarian pulling his gilt pocket watch out. It isn’t telling the time, it’s telling the years, the sentinel centuries softened by gloaming. He is standing (frozen) betwixt parentheses. Time and its parallel are eddying around him.

He hails from the Victorian Era. He is standing at the arctic crux of the Time Labyrinth; which he has access to via a clandestine door in his palatial library. Right now, he is trying to determine which white gust will be ferrying him to the epoch of Zed.

He knows that his destination is AD 2015, circa Zed’s latest attempt at suicide. He knows she is heading for the athletic track; if he’s late, she will have already succumbed to lethal sleep. He knows he can’t be late. However, he is still mining for the master key to the invisible, central Labyrinth Door. He is filleting ice in utter agitation.

Clink! He is using the dagger on the south-most pole of his halberd to dig up the key. Fairy dust is undulating in a translucent partition of particles. The librarian is wallowing in snow scum, finally clutching the hard, slippery high-tech key.

He is using the key as a compass. When the limpid key becomes an opaque neon pink, he will have reached the invisible portal. The librarian is trekking due east in the blizzard. The key is flushing a full-bodied flamingo pink. “The door! I’ve found the door to wonders!” he cries. A chink in the realm appears: a door from nothing, suddenly.

Science! Science! He thinks, That Dr. Yoshimoto is a brilliant man! Except for the nasty business of hiding the key in the depths of perdition. Rather disagreeable assignation, I’d say.

Hurrying, the librarian is fitting the luminous key into the Lab door’s static black keyhole. The keyhole looks like a square on a Rubik’s cube where the sticker was peeled off. The behemoth door looks like it belongs to an English castle; it’s a skeuomorphic gateway to the black river of time. On this side of the door, the snow is yelling in dark blue tones.

The librarian is pulling the yelping door open; he is feeling the carbuncles on the iron door rings; he is vanishing into the soundless vacuum that is future time.

I’m off to see the wizard, he’s thinking, the wonderful wizard named Zed.