Dimples of Haiti

Letter to Amerika

Beloved Amerika

I dreamt sadamu and Kaddafi chasing after America through,

Oil sodden sand dunes

Ghosts of dethroned spirits crossing Blue Nile through the valleys of Sahara

Ghosts with fingers and barefoot burning, crackling in the pans of their Sahara oil

Ghosts whose blood juice up the freedom of their people, people of their song

Ghosts whose ritual is NATO and obituary is gun thunder

Dear Amerika

I dreamt Afrika shiting typhoid after eating autocracy chocolate coated democracy

Anthropology and ancientry roasted and recycled in ovens of Harvard and California

Professors and politicians juggled like lottery balls

My talent riddled fingers itch to write a long letter to AmeriKa

About war cooked in labs and ideologies hatched in test tubes for peanut states to eat and sing-mental genocide

Beloved Amerika. Ebola ghosts eating tubes, arvs and Gmos

Mental genocide of Kongo and other cassava republics

Cable and fox networks roasting struggles through stomachs of young revolutions

My nostrils are tired of the stench, stench of human flesh fried in the charcoal of superpower ego

Dear America, my eyes are red itching with political pepper in Panama and Haiti, my heart sing for their freedom,


We walked through the smoke of Mali

Dead gods and goddesses singing dead poetry

Vultures feeding on abandoned anthropology


I see children born out heavy nights in the depth of violent dreams. Your face wounded by pain and endurance

Bamako. I will bring a landmine filled with metaphors,

To stop the day of the junta smashing dimples of freedom


I will walk with you through the heavy dew to the valley of dawn

 My Country
I deepen the tongue of my ink 
in the rich pot of praise and protest 
blisters of praise, scars of patriotism 
the war i fought without guns 
my laughter’s stitched with worry and fondness 
smiles of east laden with grief 
my country 
my heartburn for freedom is burning me 
roasted nuts of justice bleed no peanut 
remind me that wind choked tune of mountains 
, I will sing with you 
i have a dream to ride this mountain on its back 
and drink in the ritual of the mist 
my country


See talking slums 
silenced tongues 
freedom silenced 
hope killed 
a bling of ghettos 
collapsed humanity

Mothers weeping,  
under the compression of religion 
trees dripping tears 
Ethiopia your festering open wounds 
you are my anger!

children burn in smoldering canisters of hunger 
time opened new wounds of memories of old scars 
chained on rocks of ignorance 
you need a compass of decency

My poetry is a catalyst fermenting your injustices 
into beverages of justice 
you are my sadness!

Your heartbeat bleached in political fermentation 
rhythm galvanized in furnaces of cultural myth 
laughter imbibed by the rude stomach of the gun 
culture crushing under the weight of globalization

Dimples of Haiti

Haiti,  stink of sweat smelling millet slavery and the scent of blood revolutions.

Slapped in the face with sanctions mud by hands under the influence

of imperialistic alcohol. A super-concoction of propaganda maize porridge and

Media yeast.

Waterfalls of anger washing away your freedom dimples

Handmaidens and mental epileptic waiters serving political syphilis in ideological cafes

Children smelling stale ideological urine and dirt diplomatic cocaine

Identities condomised with donor culture and sexual myopia

Baboons eating colors of your flag, munching apples of your freedom

Tongues kissing bottom streams of the state under the veil of democracy gospel

Haiti, my pen is a weapon of mass instruction, I see the spreading yellow York of the sun

, gently falling over the darkness of your skin, yawning off the old skin of dust,

Regaining the lost richness of your dimples.

  Dear Comissar
Dear Commissar  
my poetry sings of  
political baboons puffing wind of vendetta,  
splashes of sweet flowing buttock valleys of pay less city laborers  
rough crackling red clay of sanctions smashing poverty corrupted face of my village,  
presidential t shirt tearing across bellies of street hustlers  
mute bitter laughter of political forests after the falling of political lemon trees  
Dear Commissar  
my poetry is  
foot signatures of struggle mothers and green horns  
bewitched by one party state cocaine  
new slogan hustlers boozing promises after herbal tea of change rhetoric  
street nostrils dripping stink and garbage  
tears chiseling rocky breasts of mothers who lost wombs  
in the charcoal of voter recount  
Dear Commissar  
my poetry sings of  
rhythm of peasant drums dancing to the new gimmick  
unknowingly , 
political jugglers eating voter drumsticks after another ballot loot.


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