To Throw a Straw on a Camel’s Back

Clarity is what broke them.

The problem with time is that it doesn’t have a respite. It can’t be saved, banked, stored for future use, traded or even farmed. For all it’s infiniteness time itself is a finite, indefinite resource. With the rise then, of the control of time came the rise of clarity.

Which would be perfectly okay if clarity itself didn’t imply a deliberateness.

When the marketplace of the deliberate met – doubt was weakness.


We assure you

that this product

will be 100% everything

that you can imagine

it will be.


When clarity becomes currency then imagination, invariably, becomes a liability. To imagine is to open possibilities. To show what can be. To be clear is to know what is. To have control. Possibilities increase within themselves infinitely. Which is to say, to open up a possibility is not just to open one possibility – but to open a number of possibilities. Any number of which, by the way, can birth possibilities of their own.

Which, of course, would be fine if it wasn’t for time. Because with the happening of time comes the compounding of possibilities and there is little time(HA!) to comb through them all. (Time happens realtime). The only thing, then, to do is lock the possibilities in place. To be clear – and to be clear now. It is in this way that with the rise in control of time came the rise of clarity.

Clarity is what broke them.

See, a Man.

See a man stand, his left hand rests on the nape of its neck, his right hand tugs at its strings. His lips kiss the mesh.

His truth a whisper and a pulse.

A whisper and a pulse.

A whisper and a pulse.


See a man, see him call to the past – and feel it respond.  Feel the sway as it carries the illusion of sound and time to your bones.

As it carries the illusion of sound,

the illusion of sound and time,

into your bones.


See a man, see him smile.

See his eyes light with answers, his tongue dance with questions

See his heart in and his mind out

See his mind in and his heart out


See a man, see him see you

See you, see him, see himself, seeing you.

And the lights call for you to play, something sweet and slow

something sweet and slow.


The Wander’s Dilemma

But suppose you were given the key to begin a desuggestion of evolution. A dream, a whisper, a love note – blown away in a dustball kicked up by a screeching matatu and caught in the wheels of a passing bodaboda. Would the cycle disrupt its message? Perhaps it would break some sort of spell. Unwinding the careful whisperings of the witch who refused to be burned.

Did rebel witches travel in groups? Or did they hover above cities alone, marking their territory with piss every five meters? I digress.

Suppose you were the one who rescued this note. Which is more dramatic than to say – suppose a paper oddly lodged in the spikes of a parked boda caught your attention. And that at the moment they caught your attention you had time to kill. Which is to say that perhaps you were seated on the curb with half a burger in your hand, waiting. And so you are bored enough to chase after a curiosity as trivial as a paper lodged in the spikes of a parked boda.

Now, just because we’re making this up as we go along, let’s assume that the symbols were in a language that you did not recognize – but bore some form of familiarity. A different form of alphabet, you told yourself.

By this time, of course, the wait is over. Would you put the note in your pocket? Would you notice as the words ceased to become part of the note and part of yourself? Would you be there to catch the words as the formed themselves and began to leave your own mouth? Would you be cognizant enough to realise the silent obsession with the code? The “I’m just keeping it so I read it later.” The “I’m laminating it because I really want to get round to giving it a good read.”

Would you begin to see the whispers drive another? Another? Would the whispers begin to appear? Or would the words have slowly etched their way into your being, shifting just the perfect number of strands in your DNA to present the change.

It’s a simple enough change really.

But whispers know nothing of simplicity. And the problem isn’t in the drop – it’s in the ripples. How one simple, meets another, meets another – and how these simples add on themselves and have impact on things that were not even part of anything to begin with. A long sentence to say that the universe has not yet decided whether it is a form of order or of chaos yet. Either that or we are yet to decide what works best for us. Generally, we agreed that some form of ordered chaos is going on. But now that scientists figured out that things happen different when they are being watched the observable universe feels more like a wierded out game of cat and mouse. Or like the universe has been showing us what it would like us to see.

So even if you eventually noticed the words when one too many slipped. And even if the process of ink becoming skin startled you out of yourself. Even if the note itself revealed itself and its significance to you – how would you be able to know it’s authenticity. After all, the need to understand the universe is steeped in the need to control which, often, is driven by fear. To be afraid, then, is to be driven to find out more. Which makes this a zero sum game, right?

But whispers know nothing of simplicity.

And even when they do they are travelled through too many media to maintain their original truth. And because truth is relative – which is to say that no two memories are alike. And knowing that memory distances itself from pain, then the search for an original truth is like trying to say there is a beginning. Which is then a trap of form – a trap of a way of thinking. It is to be trapped by the idea that there is a beginning and not a continuum. And that there are multiple phenomena at play in any given situation at any time. But at the same time that you are part of that phenomena. But even further that this phenomena is not actually real. Because it is a series of calculated actions and response. A series of ‘others,’ equally observing and equally observed.

And so knowing that even the uncalculated is to be read as calculated then it makes sense that you would try to distance yourself from this paper. And besides, it was burning a hole in the side of your pants. What would you do with it?

Would you burn it? How many years of bad sex would one get from burning a paper that held one of its deepest secrets? Is there any mythology around flushing a flyer down the toilet? Would you be fundamentally considered a bad person if you slipped it in a friend’s bag while they told you (again) about how important it is to floss and proceeded to show you their entire mouthful of teeth?

Or, it could just be a flyer – right?

For the artist formerly known as Alice.

Did you listen when they heard you speak? Or were you caught up in chasing the every elusive thought down the rabbit hole? Not seeing any reason to identify with alice, it made no sense to you to say no when the mad hatter offered you some tea.

As a matter of principle it is bad behavior to say no to a cup of tea. And who is to have tea with a stranger without at least asking their name? They always said that bad behavior can get you in trouble – no one told you that good behavior could do the same. And that there is nothing like bad or good – there is more a grey area of behavior and perception.

Were they shocked when you told them that this was your home?

Did it hit them harder than they thought? When those that heard stories of hurt glory shook their fists to the moon – were you there? Did you hear them whisper in corridors and scribble on the walls? Did you attend their meetings? Did you see the fire in their eyes as they recited their chants? Were you there, in the middle of the night, as they swore on gods that have long lost their lustre?

Or is it because, acutely aware that they were listening, you found yourself doing their dance? Right foot, left foot, shuffle – right foot, left foot, shuffle. A simple enough pattern – or so you thought.

Do you ever wonder why the first dancer moved? What the first beat was?

Or were most people born dancing to the rhythm of their mother’s hearts?  What does this mean of those who have irregular rhythm? Do we dance because we were born out of tune and are always just trying to catch the beat? Or do out feet learn to move because they are not allowed to stay still? When we dance, then – we are not still. But still, we dance.


What does it mean to claim still when the elusive thought continues to be dangled right in front of us? Did you notice it was dangled – by some mad hatter closely watching his brew? Or were you distracted by the scent of tea? Perhaps it had more to do with the nature of rabbit holes. After all – didn’t the prophecy say something about the path being less lit, less traveled?

Had you found out how many rabbits had been down the hole before Alice? After? Or were the discarded wrappers too many to count?

Would you do it again?

A dilemma crosses your mind as you read this letter and the waft of fresh tea drifts into the room. Even before the wind whispers its question you already know your answer.

“Black, two sugars.”


A Dependent Observer

These Hands

When it comes down to it we must demand – demand – that the spaces that we end up creating make room for us. Which is to say that we need to be very conscious that our needs are takeninto account when spaces are created. After all, it is only when we create spaces for ourselves that we can really make room for others like us. It is only when we expand where our bodies are allowed to occupy that we can make room for other bodies, like ours, to step into those same spaces.

Baldwin speaks of intent – and how we were not intended to be. And it is seen in the design itself that these spaces were not designed with you in mind. They were neither made for you, nor to make room for you. Rather, they were designed to destroy you. To kill that very thing inside you that allows you to be free. To kill that very illusion that you have convinced yourself that you are chasing.

So it is no simple feat to demand that spaces make room for us. After all, the imagination can only be informed by that which is around it. And so capitalist minds continue to reproduce capitalist spaces. In creating spaces for ourselves we continue to propel this same culture of extraction, appropriation, and exploitation. Even in the spaces we create we eliminate ourselves.

But bodies with a stubbornness that cannot be ignored.

And breaking bodies speak loudest.

So even as we fight to erase ourselves our bodies demand. Our bodies demand that the spaces we create create space for us. Our bodies demand that the spaces we create allow us to live. And it is just the complicated nature of this task that kills spaces as soon as they are created.

The complexity that demands that spaces be self sustainable, and imagined differently that pushes us right to the edge of delirium. We look for different everywhere. Instead we find the same poorly imagined spaces. What then remains, but for us to look, demand and create?

Perhaps to support and imagine with. To let go of the idea that we, and we ourselves must be the sole proprietors of such spaces. And, if the goal, as it has always been, is carefree black bodies – then black bodies must be allowed to be carefree. And to imagine carefree – that’s a tall order. It makes more sense to allow for carefree and adjust oneself in relation to the shape that carefree takes.

To demand that we, like others, must be free.

Or that others, like us, must be free.

Because when it comes down to it, we must demand – demand – that we are creating our own freedom. For what is the point of breaking free if we’re only fashioning newer, tighter, cages? In the end our freedom will be the work of our hands. And that work – that work is all we have.



I went

in search of dreams.

Instead I found nightmares

masquerading through the streets.

No one asked me to join the party.


What is this of the freedom that I seek? What is it, you ask, of the demons that I know, that I don’t know. That they too must also be seen as the emotional equivalents of 17 cycles, a sore throat and two drops of lemonade? Which is not, of course, to say that lemonade is the work of freedom but perhaps to imagine that art, like all things is about turning nightmares into dreams.

Turning nightmares into dreams.

It sounds like the thing of dreams, until nightmares. Which is sensible right? That nightmares, inevitably, are the stuff of dreams? That the very things that we work so hard to figure out are just evolutionary waves, washing away at the sands of time. Often as silently and soothingly as waves themselves do – if you give yourself a large enough perspective.

The problem, then becomes opening up a perspective large enough to diminish the problem at hand. But how big is the problem? And how large is the solution?

The problem with writing, it seems, is that everything that is written comes out sounding so crisp. So neat and tidy. Organised, neatly hidden between the words of any pages are often years of any real life. But are they worth digging into? I say this not because I think that many of the words above would be worth digging into but rather to ask – what does real life look like?

What does real life look like?

That’s what you’ve come looking for in the lines of a poem isn’t it?

A taste of something real.

Hejinian says that perhaps the work of art is to put us in complicity with things as they happen. I guess its anyone’s guess what we’re doing here really. Turning nightmares into dreams, putting us into complicity with reality, there are many theories. Generally, however, we agree that we are fucked. Artists, non artists, dancers, typists, singers, accountants, everybody agrees that we’re generally fucked.

In fact, we’re so royally fucked it’s kind of laughable isn’t it?

Like, no one’s even arguing about it anymore. Used to be there were some “we’re gonna be okay” guys. You know, the kind of guys who just felt like they had to say we’d be okay otherwise we’d not only be completely royally fucked, we’d also not know whether or not we’re going to be okay in this soon to come state of being fucked right? So now, beyond being royally fucked you have to sit and consider this douchebag’s behavior around how royally fucked you are and whether or not you are okay. Which you aren’t right?

Because you’re royally fucked. 

Sometimes we think

about coming up to breathe

and we hear the crash.

But that’s just the waves.

The waves don’t die.


But at the same time, you’re not. And that’s the thing. You’re another wave. And yes, you are going to crash. Hopelessly, probably and with reckless abandon, probably, and drop.

And even as you drop, you get smaller.

And the top gets farther.

Always allow yourself to fall













At first, touch will be pain. Of course, to be experienced after the experience of having oneself to yourself will be a mess.

Allow the pain to seep in – it too has its purpose. It will stretch you as thin as you think you can ever be stretched.

Then comes the explosion. A pulse really. You can feel it now. The birth of a moment in space time.

You watch it spread

As it spreads it becomes everything that is in its path. At first you think this pulse is engulfing, destroying and there’s panic. But, in the end, it is only becoming what it isn’t. Slowly changing to fit the spaces that are being accorded to it.

And then another, behind you this time. Again it spreads.

And another.

And another.

As the pulses increase so do the waves. They violently crash into each other and the waters get more disturbed.


You’re frantic now. Having become accustomed to the stillness of solitude the pulses are an unwelcome disturbance. Worse still is that you can’t seem to figure out what is causing them and thus you have no idea how to stop them – the further you stretch yourself in search of stillness, the worse it gets.


The thing is, you too are a pulse – and you too are a wave. The more you become, the more the waves become you. Which means that a crash is not only a possibility – it is inevitable. So you reach back, inhale and head for the shore. And with each crash you dislodge more sand. With each crash more of the shore becomes the sea and more of the sea becomes the shore.

And so the dance between time and memory continues. And the dreamers keep crashing and remembering. Remembering that nightmares are only moments before the next…



And Breathe


Wait for
Gather with
Create for
Expand with
Accept to
Pull with
Consult on
Study with
Restate to
Step with
Dwell and

Wait for those you
Gather with to
Create for others to
Expand with those who
Accept to
Pull with the rest as we
Consult on the journey and
Study with each other. We
Restate to love every
Step with which we


And therein lies the lie.

That there is a form a knowledge, of possibility, of being, of doing, that is outside your reach. That there is a way to be that is not only available, but readily tailored to your needs. That somehow, to exist is not only to defy them, but to destine oneself to a life of never ending torture.

And this, as has been created, has formed of itself a self-fulfilling prophecy.

In the ways that stories create space for reality the prophecy has made room for itself.

In speaking as if spaces don’t exist the narrative has taken over room. Slowly eliminating spaces around it. Just like it has eaten and depleted physical resources, it has eaten and depleted mental and emotional resources. There is nothing left, there is nothing left, there is nothing left – they kept telling us this. And, in nothing being left, we took the only option we had.


Old paths

can only be trod upon

by those whose feet

have met time

and memory

and learned their dance.

Guilty feet

have got

no rhythm

Careless Whispers


But a monolithic world is about as interesting as waiting for the internet to come back. And freedom is nothing more but possibility. Imagine we are in a room. We have planned to stay in this room for the rest of the week. If a friend locks us in – have they taken away our freedom? Now imagine a thought. Singular. Independent. Imagine it alone in a void. Around it a sea of nothing. Now imagine this thought is you.

How does it feel?


Between the stones

There are souls


Make sure your feet are



Now zoom out until you can see another thought slightly distant from the first.

Move out further.

And another.

And another.

Until all that is left is a sea of independent thoughts bobbing to the ebb and flow of consciousness. Tell me that there is a place in this sea that a thought can’t reach. Tell me that there’s a place, save for deliberate action to stop an idea, that an idea can’t be held.

And thus it is the lie.


That somehow it is not yours to take.


Weary fingers

can’t grip

fractured souls

 Broken nails

let sighs fall

into the dark.



You reach out your hand.

In Search of Words

What, then, is there left to say?

That somehow, amidst creating what seemed to be a path to the beginning that it will begin to implode? Or is it that to begin is not necessarily to understand that there is a step taken but perhaps to take that step. Or is it to say that in the midst of the chaos there was a bird perched daintily on a branch, its feathers glistening in the rays of the sun? That chaos, like all other forms of organized thinking, starts with an idea – and has no discernable end.

If not that then what?


Show me the words.

Give me the vowels that I might mix them with consonants and find a way to quantify this constant – change.

Seventeen shillings, palmed by a boy at a shop, particular care given to the one shilling coins. So easily lost. So easily forgotten. Dropped.

Like a collection of knowledge put to a broken beat and sold for 99 cents on the iTunes store. Like a downloaded album, listened to once and forgotten. Like a song on replay, lyrics held close as if somehow they held the key to the secret of immortality. As if somehow living forever is not only a thing that is aspired to but is also available at the shop for 33 shillings.

As if the fifty bob note in your pocket is enough to buy you freedom – forever.



Concepts that neither start nor end. Space and time unchained and set loose on a path that is supposed to lead to the beginning.


Circling each other.


Waiting for the right words that they might begin to move.

But what, then, is left to say?


The still interrupted maybe, by a question: What do you know of the freedom you seek?

The peace we seek

The silences that we can manage.

The chains that we think we can carry. The weights we think we can bare.

Or, maybe then, freedom is a trap so tight – you can go everywhere with it.

If then, freedom is this – this ever elusive nothing that we chase in the escape of ourselves. This thing that we grasp for and never really touch.

Yes, freedom as a possibility, as perhaps.

Maybe freedom, then, is a thought. At the point. A thought from which thought can sprout. A not yet there.

Or perhaps it is that it is a word, whispered in the middle of the night to the unyielding moon.

Is it a song, that it might be sang and played again on repeat – circulated for a few days before dropping out of the sky?

What do you know of this freedom that you seek?

Where do you go when you search for freedom?

Tell me, what do you mean when you speak of freedom?

What then is it to speak to be heard? To tell stories of freedom?


“(I am) the speak with intent to offend offender”

  • Mensa, FOKN BOIS

“Lock my body, Can’t trap my mind”

Jay Z

“What you want from me? Is it truth you seek?”

  • Kendrick

“Freedom freedom, I can’t move, freedom – cut me loose”


You keep running.