For Aimé and Wifredo
when you handed out those little
packages of information
standing there in the doorway,
we looked back and you were gone.
the absent face of the deity awaiting paint.
we are the punitive architects
peddling myth with a free hand.
fuel for algebra and synthesis.
stingy poker-faced abstractions, the
will to linger, to objectify the western sunrise
prophets are the littlest of men.
was it drums or strings?
i and we are the same. there
is no going back, no remembering
a reality. “i am,” its clasping hands
and nuclear skirt, its calmness within the
explosions of the throne room.
the without sanity.
the without presence, the i am of our motion
on that yellow seat. you are the
cannibals of the master language.
the monstrous shadow hanging around the future,
devouring any pretense of history.
yes we saw you go to headquarters
and beat up the CEOs.
you pistol-whipped the pronouns,
clubbed the raison d’etre, everything
hurling towards the sun.
we would not allow them
to make you heroes, to pinpoint
your demise, you are futureless
and full of answers. full of rocks
and chlorophyll. the surreality. Nommo.
Sadiq lives in Berlin.
Copyright © 1998 Charles H. Rowell