there’s me

I’m here

I can see his smile, rocking in his

convoluted Bahamian chair

the beige hexagons, lacquered, against his

soft skin      pink back pocked

through a thin summer shirt

he’s there

happy and calm     and peaceful, with her

— I love them like that:    together

in love

its beautiful, they’re beautiful and I

can see them,

can see his soft writer’s hands

— way they always were;

i remember how they felt

to hold; when they held mine

and smiled, the years of



fingers of an indoors man

i can see him cross off lines

with other long lines,

lips: incantation

rhythmic recitation of

arabic and

bubbled & flourished

english alphabets in religious

errors and misnomers

— I’m here

a whirl of wintry wind

in early spring: and

i can see the unkempt

earthen mound,

behind, the mossy lime wall

i know its soft and cold

but nothing so soft of his pale

age-soaked arms,

brown sunspots & beloved little dots

I am here and i can feel

hugging his tropical warm chest

i’m here and it smells of home

his indoor sweat and

soft gray hair

I’m here

and I feel

his smile beneath his beard



“we have to give language to things; we have to make stories”

we need to make a rap sheet of all the shit that went down;

the stories; of horror, devastation, frustration, zeal and despair —

carving and carving,

like a hanging leg of skinned lamb (blood muscle red,

there’s an open wound that I need scabbed

I need Him



and You and

all of this; I need all of this to work

work and coalesce; cohere and adhere and stick together

in general

but also

kind of really work with flying magical sparks;

i don’t call it a fairytale of course, because that is what little girls do

but he does — he says there are sparks colours rainbows glitter


fairytales, are

stories of magic, are

its real and here and happening

in it and within; within and without, I’m watching

this is happening and I’m working, also passing

not passive; but real and here and doing

and when we’re done, I guess it will be magic, and

no one can say, but the idea is a pièce de résistance

of a perfection, because it wont be perfect but clear


Carved is a nice word.

A full word,             mouth arc’ed
strong and hard.

The sound of Michael Jackson moves the shrieking icy air

rippling scarves and fluttering sheets of hair;

With some     space

gaps – x’s and curls, waves, interlocking and intertwining: intertextuality

the white streaks of air in hair

it is clear.

Not a breath of x
   floating like wispy hands of a passing moment

thin entrails of what won’t come back —

gasping gulping spluttering desperate gurgles of a lonely

yellow plastic floater.

teriyaki sauce

there’s a sweet sticky accident

my salmon pink bag    browned

it’s doused;

that October feeling creeps in

when I walk through this corridor;

my knees are cold        and fingers

frozen fingers

fresh fried crispy     tempura

it’s tempura sauce that smokes and

served warm

holds the warmth and

“to lock in moisture”

the words hold their shape

but the pages are browning.

the pale nude disappears

under a dry crispy tan

its a weeping,   donning of colour

competing spikes of sauce, saucing these pages

of thou

a slurp of fake miso

How is your donburi bowl

— this bowl of my culture

culture that deserted me.

I cry out mentally     this can’t be happening

they tell me it’s personal charm,


she tells me I should look more brown.


“my name is Umar

his voice thickens, darkens with pride

the soft white smile of straight teeth

inserted dentures     perfected

how theoretically wonderful

the trailing trinket of Urdu

curving and curving

her r

she lilts and

keeps lulling;  that tone the stretch the loop

the tune

clean hair, combed back and right,

black streaked beard    trimmed

crystal green sugary lime

golden voices   note

weeping through

trailing           waving tone

— straining, aching

careening through tunnels

a blackish-blur of

whoosh-ing melancholia

he loops and loops

m of my last name

has never been     so beautiful.


Dada’s favourite chocolate. Drawn by: uzmizzle


i like the word inquiète

il rêve
  on peut rever

cannot believe this insanity loop
this tuille circle   that circles

there’s a curly pearl
and sawdust
— grating and carving dowels:

it’s a gentle back & forth

a soft smell of cocoa
the butter; not the beverage
the butter not the cave
The cave and
not the hotter of the two

the latter though
the one you think of
  and stop
then go back

then its a circle    a loop
not a golden one but
a hoop a ring a cirque
a rounded, everlasting, hot, caramel

  perched warm  on my dessert.


Sitting down, I look down the tunnel of waving seats.

This is the best part. Don’t make eye contact. Just watch. Discreetly observe faces and what they’re doing.

Are they reading a book? What are they reading? Is anyone wearing an unusual coloured scarf? Hat? Boots are usually really good. Shoes are interesting.

Any unusual attire will usually snag my attention. And hold it.

Next – I describe them. In my mind, of course.

I sit and watch and describe. Describe them in the most poetic words I can summon. This part is a puzzle. I construct a sentence and try fitting multiple competing words in the same spot.

Usually I find it best to focus on any one person. One attribute.

A clenched fist runs down the sloping hill of blue-gray pants. His thumb taps against his fist. Absent-mindedly. He is talking to a friend sitting next to him.

There is a cup of coffee in his hand and he holds it without sipping. He talks with a smile. It’s beautiful. He holds up his cup at chest level and pauses; listening.

He laugh-talks and his expressions meld so simply, smoothly to his words. His words, soundless but I can hear his free hand speaking. He splays out his five fingers while he opens his eyes wider. He laughs. He pushes his hair away from his forehead and clutches a fistful for a millisecond.

It is the talk-smile that has caught my eye. A muscle sharply outlined down his neck. He raises his eyebrows, baring his teeth comically and looks away from his friend. He looks down at his coffee; he plays with the tab at the sip hole like I always do.

His friend talks and he looks up straight. He looks at me: looking at him. It is a quick look; a moment that slows down and passes quickly. Both, at the same time.

It passes because he looks away. It passes because I get up to leave and he doesn’t. It passes because the second moves onto the next second. It passes because the second is now gone forever.