Sunday, February 3, 2019

MBARI 1 by Uche Nduka

More windowed or less. Summer in a garden chair.

Put your hands down there even if there are holes in your pocket.

A life in search of the impact of loving backwards.

Even with a newspaper to sign instead of a book.

On the way to the treehouse. About a rental and radiant ethnicity.

Uh, well, you see, you're in partial pursuit of brush fires.

Like if I knew then what I know now.

Some cloudy discussions about saving time and saving money.

Every three blocks I look to see what is inside me.

This would be your wealth. The sky is turning red.

You hurled the caesura at a chandelier. What's moxie, anyway?

As opposed to commuting I don't feel like passing through.

The five stages of wickedness. A hashtag, a loss of henna.

Projectiles of prehistorians. I don't even trip anymore.

Figured out how to adapt to excitation. A month from now.

Claw-marks under a hand-glass. Upright frame bushwhacked.

Not a battle of wills but a battle of pills.

When I was filmed it was really boring.

One cross drives out another. Brilliant discord, pine needle.

A rider thrown by his wayward horse.

Like the time I didn't nitpick and my intimacy got stolen.

Death can't conceal sex and sex can't conceal death.

A moment to become a man or a scythe.

The cross-street argues with the cross-hatch.

A contract to protect you from ridiculousness.

Foreign to the season of the ravages of sensuality.

I'm going to wing it not minding what you said about it.

To summon the skin-diver. No sentence less than thirst.

Lowest job in town isn't blowjob. A loss of spare keys.

Or else it impels us to the zenith of a sandwich.

I don't care if you're vacationing in Indiana.

Anguish is bliss as we plunge into the vast linen.

If someone asks me to sign something or spill something.

I'll bloom where you are. A gobbling cantata.

Predawn versions of the open house.

How difficult to disguise your speed.

We travel for days inside each other.

You continue to believe in each and every shithead.

It has central air and she is cool.

Friday, the sumptuous and edgy fidelity.

He sometimes comes here for concerts.

You can have a brownie if you wish.

She has allergies so I must vacuum the house.

Sliding down anomy with a bright blue key of quicksilver.

I told him about that and he gets it.

Magnificent blunders of a six-eyed Banjo.

Your edge adores you. Katabasis of the open heart.

She is the one that made a plea for a raft.

With his parents out of town, hell broke loose.

The shifting ceiling of this room. There are chilies.

For now language is our only sanctuary.

I have my head up my ass. You have your head up your ass.

But morning can bear the weight of our brokenness.

Pure protocol. He was your target of ejection.

You don't have the right to humiliate him.

Less glowing than growling less drums than strings.

My dad's paternal uncle whipped his wives with canes why.

Tables we can wheel around. A flashing cursor.

How do you ground yourself?

I know the play you are talking about.

Second chances with sidewalk salt.

She has many other things going on. Fantastic!

Now what? Your breasts on my ribs.

Are you gonna be free tonight? You better be.

One stranger. Two strangers. Three strangers.

Between the hills your wife photographed from behind.

And even though you won't waltz me to the end of the tunnel.

Blessed are the complications and impossibilities.

A dial like a gust of sorrow. I had to roll in all that.

Of fate and inversions of tiredness.

The documentation of depletions. Her down and dirty testaments.

You don't have the right to humiliate her.

The Postman just dropped off a box of despair.

Danger and mirth are linked. There is snot in every chair.

That strategy is boiling over. A man on the edge of a hill.

Somewhat shaken when an attack of the equinox is afoot.

Sniping spree in a gift shop.

He booked a cruise for both of us.

She tells him to skip the slow motion.

How to live in the cathedral of our desire.

That script we wash ourselves in.

Your music misled the candles and the angels.

When geomancy began to go wrong.

Every once in a while my shorts on her floor.

You entered the apricot.

Which exceeds the limits of rapture.

Monday to Friday: returning flights.

Something like fencing, an inventory of adultery.

Saint of all time, psychic debris, her paraphernalia.

Which is not to say I've not been a witness to the carnival inside bones.

You jacked off and ended up not braking for a light.

7 flavors. The kind of space where language pukes.

Answers in motion together with broad-backed secret lore.

Culture is your cudgel. Nowhere else is of much use.

This must be what sardines in cans must be feeling right about now.

Those streets soaking inside tantric weeks.

Peace of quiddity and scab of suburbia.

The only way to dodge your destiny is to eat it.

To pull the handle and fly formation if I can pull myself out from under self-torture.

Our salvation didn't depend on what simplicity had wrought.

8 incarnations. Marimba moonlight.

Uche Nduka is a Nigerian-American poet, essayist, collagist. He is the author of twelve volumes of poems of which the most recent is titled LIVING IN PUBLIC(2018). Some of his writing has been translated into German, Dutch, Finnish, Italian, Arabic, Spanish, Serbo-Croat, French. A 2017 NYFA Poetry Fellow, he presently lives and teaches in New York City.

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