i.

You don’t F with a
B, there’s a reason why
Borden and Burden trade one
letter to traffic in common,
you see, every place retains
past experiences, even we do
in our bodies, they are
libraries of lived traumas and
future joys, presence complements acceptance,
our ancestors’ hurts wound us,
undo us, unless we learn
to perform what form of
worship purifies them, as it
stands, initiation into intention is
the only difference between routine
and ritual, honouring their names
begins to lend their ghosts
a helping hand in becoming
whole again, and us as

                    ii.

well, gifting both parties liberty,
pardoning no faults but partitioning
the heart into what was
and what will be, guilt
is the wrong word, acceptance
of responsibility is preferred, half
this pain of me is
my ancestors’, a mantric fusion
of two breaths peddling in
the magic of sustained syllables,
chanting: I want to understand
what you do, I don’t
want to be understood by
you, since some people have
a thoughts-have-people model of evil,
the gods themselves pray or
fail to do so some
days, neglect the ways of
change, wavelength storm clouds clothing

                    iii.

divine rays, when life feels
more like punishment, a sentence
to serve out, I appreciate
you tolerating my venting, though
the poison of my words
hurts me too and only
serves to distance me from
what I perceive as a
place I have never belonged
to, unless they happen to
exist outside our mind, fathers
only matter to those who
don’t have them, it’s not
confessionalism or media-ready sensationalism, hysteroidal
rage packaged for those less-educated,
less-compassionate, no, it’s metanoia, suffering
leading to thinking beyond my
own thoughts, for others words
this visceral take guts to

                    iv.

publish, my Self, I find
it easy, comes naturally, unbothered
at being unbrothered, vehemently opposed
to the empty nest of
community, bereft of any family
except that of my own
choosing, I will never be
undone by what I am
doing, moving from being polluted
by to defying what style
of living has been lying,
never again buying into truth’s
annihilating antagonism of suppliant consumerists
another’s lies have been providing
an unrenewable supply of disingenuous
energy smothering them, being possessed
of this talent is how
the devil tells me what
deal I made with him.