There are times
You stop talking,
You step away from music,
From mirth,
From all sorts of meth.
And you just
To the silence.



My playlist is not a list of songs to just play
It’s a memoir
The drumbeats and the many different voices
Of the singers are not mine
But they lend themselves to me
I bind my different moments to each song as it plays by:
My blue funk moment I may bind to a piece of metallic rock
My beatific mo to fuji; my rebellious to a negro spiritual.

The songs thus become carriers of memory, of history:
Carriers of a past best embalmed in the past
Such that a song may impel me to click on the Next button
Not because I hate the song or its singer
But because I can’t bear a reenactment of the hateful moment
Attached to its 3-, 4-, 5-minute rendition.
Some other song becomes a Jesus
A past moment that I wouldn’t mind acting a Lazarus
A moment that I’d gladly relish, relive.

In all, I’m grateful that those moments ain’t lost
That with voices and sounds which I do not own
These singers help me to store my stories.




What time it is
I don’t know:
I’m awake asleep
asleep awake
like a twitching laugh
at the seams of the lips,
hesitant to detonate
or defuse,
unsure which way to return –
surreal or real?
Voodoo drums shove me
into real to reveal
Christian drums shaving
heatedly into the heart
of the night…
Real shatters –
like a tablet of granite –
its chips fly like those of a detonated
And cause me to scamper for fortification
in surreal!