Sunday, October 23, 2016


where pessoas live in the guts of the streets
the warm windows find you
they see through you

                                                         like memories which make you brew smiles and morning cerveja
like smoke tangents intersecting away from clouded tabaco shops
                                                         like swapping perspectives worth potable intemporal souvenirs

lit intendente. hangover lisboa.
i switched my tv on last night
it is still warming up
reality show mechanic ballot tube
           spin roulette and same hands?
a poem is waiting to connect the next world to you
it's the reason the staircase that separates you from it
leads nowhere
 breathers behind lego globules of born again architecture
hear on radio each morning about the great 1755 earthquake
they plaster preservation and orgulho over birthrights to panic

less bicycles to suffer
plying more slopes, so
more tuk tuks sample
more tourist shoulders to count
more cranes hoisting lamps, laundry
under chin of castle with more trees
does that mean less oxygen? 

maybe the next toddling bus
chances on the theater of the barren sun
maybe they read between the lines of street graffiti
maybe they find some color
we polish over the grey

the kinglives elsewhere

                                       just a few trinkets of history growing in your modern brow
that swell to stardust kisses and old boon of moon
                                                                          next visit i'll welcome more of your green into my days
and judge not the tireless mad hearts
                                         who make                         you         so         awkward and cool! 

                                                                                                                      write(c)2016 kwame aidoo  

Sunday, October 09, 2016

one for haiti

caribbean beauty eye of ghostly starfish hooked- 
an impaired island disk of forever 
pellucid punctures of plastered plantation paths of pelted african poetry from past still present
your heart is the humble plenary gift healing from hundred quakes 
as vultures dock under your epidermis contaminating your intelligence
deity dancing in the dark
dying to resuscitate your divine 
dangling your devout clasp 
as red cross crucifies and watches you resurrect losing parts of your living
lonely haiti
loving haiti
laboring haiti
torturous turbines of death spin hurricanes through your afro and watch gash green graphs tabulate the death tolls
deaf at dinner between destructive nature and demonic dentures of colonial canines 
asphyxiating ashes on pedestals
shoe-less port au-prince plagued on pencil toes
priceless mermaid haiti with hurt-sponged soul hugged by sun not in moon's mild reach 
in a lambaste landfall of aborted futures 
bound for breathless beach 
flailing flattened homes pummeling bones into interjections 
haunted haiti
hung hungry haiti
hope-hindered haiti
cholera colored chromosomes 
amidst aids and aid unfair estranged
melanin prose of cornered creoles
with voodoo dolls pinned into moody walls
wounded as you breastfeed millions
single mother 
your kind exists everywhere  
with hearts free to feel soothed nowhere 
healing with you 

See original image

Friday, October 07, 2016


i prefer to live in this imaginary city where homelessness is not a sin
because out here a pale boy plasters himself on the sidewalk 
begging for another life 
with his limbs stretching out the hunger from his bowels and you smell hell breathe from his intestines
a dry poster almost stripped off by hangover hands
and one floor just above his stare
a century old pair of knuckles droop into the streets and fling grains to a curious set of pigeons 
crumbles fall into the orbits of his eyes, this young man
a yarn soaked in pus and suicidal throes of pumped voices evoking lumps of toxins 
you taste hopeless vomit from his empty options
his fingertips- the cuspidate forms of mountaintops, his belly- the voluminous valleys 
but nature around him is not for the innocent and righteous
there in the lonesome farmiliar gorge-
a psychological gymnasium with urban tower blocks breaking shoulder blades
nose tickling the floor 
groped with smoke with a candid feel as if joseph stiglitz echoed his idea about saving the planet here
he reads me the arcane trade laws negotiating pain
exclaims that a newspaper spread covers his head but in the newspapers his painful story is not shared
lugging emotional bags of grafted memory
this stain of dying community-
and his sister- almost photocopies herself from him and creeps out from his slippery shadow 
with elephantine legs and a special kind of madness
her heart whispers to me: 
"when we have no more power over the issue than we have issues over power, we lose the power"
she says to me; 
"the world is silent"
but it feels noisy all around me and the irony lies in how all our souls are invaded by this quiet violence
looking for a loud license to clog the undertakers of our conscience
onlookers are divided over visual pain killers
as these kids endure persistent police diagnosis and doctors tazing with cold stethoscopes
when all they need is a taste of the normal life 
the same poverty the system creates scares them 
their frizzled hair and rotten teeth scare them
their rumble under rum turns out their guts
the fingers numb, demeanor strung skunk sunk scares them
in the corridor bound with six feet tape and basement rape
caged in cries as tombstones replace neck stones
descendants of chains and pendants i greet you
he says his name is smith hers is wesson
they grow into guns because that's the only shot they've had
their parents od'ed because government proceeds only afforded them rooms made of drugs

what do you see when you look into a homeless person's face?
a nomad? the nickel in your pocket? a psych ward? a mole? an abandoned human?
nonetheless, survivors of the streets these be 
maybe you've seen their voices haunt each leftover space?