iniquities of gods


I walk the dusty road of false time, seeking angels with broken wings. Only they know my sorrow and how unforgiving the gods can be. I don’t need their lives vicariously, my window is the same, yet I have no wings. I see through the dirt and grime that only rain can wash away, sometimes.

When the after-time comes, my sorrow will be complete. The gods will walk among us telling tall tales of how they were created. Yes, they too must answer to their gods. Their iniquities will be brought to judgement’s feet, then they will be asked, how did you nurture your creations? how did you help them to become gods?

© zaji, 2016

love and courage


In the space of love and courage, I breathed you in and exhaled the touches you left on my skin. Letting go brings pain and lucidity in equal measure. But I now know myself better than I needed to know you. At times, the self I’ve discovered is a stranger invading my life without mercy. I try to hide. But hiding does not shield me from the authentic self that sees through walls of wood and stone and soul. At other times, this self is a long lost friend I’ve needed, one who had tried to reach me inside the continuum but failed.

You became my blues even though songs in me were playing out of tune. I saw you then, inside yourself, being what could never satisfy my needs. It was then that I longed to become your savior. I would have nailed myself to your cross to die for your sins, particularly those against me. I would have sacrificed everything to gather up your wrongdoings and caste them into the sea or burn them to ash. But you did not see the palms of my hands nor the center of my feet. The blood pooled in the soil, it dripped for you and the love you rarely showed, except when beds were unmade and sheets almost tied in knots. Even then, you were not there. Not really. Your body sweat against mine in thrusts and moans, but the you that lived inside was gone, giving orgasms to someone else in your mind.

So I found the courage to climb down off the cross and return love to me. It was long overdue. The touches now dissipate into the air, leaving a fog of forgetting. I am here, alone. I listen to the blues now and again, in tune, because they no longer live inside in strange unearthly tones. The stranger in me tells me stories of who I once was. I listen and let the notes of history sing to me what will never be again.

© zaji, 2016



phallic symbols
tiptoe through mind

intimate portraits
of ebony gods

standing on thoughts

naked on my
embryo filled stomach

kissing me
licking me
stroking me

mountains of desire
entering my valley
of ecstasy

lifting me
mounting me

arching my back
in need of more

come into me
and leave the memory
of your DNA
absorbing into my soul

© zaji, 2015

park benches

Photograph by zaji, April 19, 2016

the park benches wait for children.
lonely and longing for the weekend fraught with giggles and bruised knees,
they wait for light and dark to revolution less than six times.
that is all it will take to bring the children.
sneakered and bare feet trampling the sand.

the benches wait.
somewhere behind night the laughter awaits.
the children fold into innocence.
they brith a new future,
where race and identity merge.

the playground becomes the neutral zone.
colors are for the external world.

© zaji, 2016

the passionate journal

Brick red journal. Pleather string wrapped three times, tight, to seal the words inside. Gem stone glued to the middle, circled by a carved and braided sunshine design, a mandala. Spine pleather crossed holding together the many sentences that spill across pages unnumbered.

the journal laughs and weeps all at once. i am merely a vessel, here to give to the journal the sustenance it needs to birth worlds through words.

Photograph by zaji, April 19, 2016



Undulating within dark words reaching for dying stars.
Nubian night finds us inventing stories of our beginnings.
Ichor is there for drink, if you want, if you dare.
Venus is just up ahead, a little to the left and on ’til dusk.
Endings exist at the edge of a dark multiverse.
Remember your beginnings so you can live.
Souls don’t find rest, out there.
Ethers breathe the breath of life into entities seeking birth.

© zaji, 2016

inside dreams


i am the lost ghost in your gently fading dreams that hesitantly leave you to greet the sun. woolgathering won’t change the trajectory of a life not lived; except in small dark spaces, between cracks and crevices that hide from light and life seeking itself. there remains the remnants of the not-you, the un-person who gave in to the illusions of existence contrived by the false-bringers.

they make us forget our oceans and ancient waters. they make us forget our drink, the ichor that turned us into Earth gods who then began feeding ichor to our children. the fluid was the milk, pouring from our veins into the vat of our once-life. the god in me sleeps. she sleeps in the place where Morpheus leads me each moonrise. i go to her with childlike questions because they are all i believe i have. she tells me i do not need her. she says i am twin seeking twin and that mirrors are all i need so i can see myself answering my un-questions. but all my mirrors are broken, the million pieces praying at my feet.
i return as ghost seeking life in familiar places. but i am shattered and bruised by the not-me, too afraid to materialize worlds from  my womb–materialize gods from my womb. the false-bringers stir my insides, concocting potions that invade remembering. there is no history, only the now living or dying on the inside. the potion wants the death of memory. the potion wants amnesia to inhabit my DNA so my remembering is erased and all that lives and remains is the un-self, the substance-less woolgathering that chains me to the contrived. but the dreams also show the other world, the place where the remembering hides from the potion.
do not weep for my forgetting. you have your own tears to shed, for your un-self. you are here, too, with me, sharing dirt and sky with my un-self. your mirror waits for you and your un-questions. ask them if you dare.

galaxy luggage

Writing Prompt: Suitcase

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


galaxy luggage found travel stickers across the milky way.
my suitcase has seen Jupiter and Saturn.
winged feet prefer clouds doubling as stones
to take me across stars flowing like waters.
i skip across clouds white and emptiness.
planet hopping is free.
so i travel light.
one suitcase.
sticker embellished.
galaxy worn.
my suitcase tells stories
of solar flares
and black skies birthing stars.
stickers carry worlds and words.
galaxy luggage remembers milky ways.
my suitcase has seen Adromeda rising.

© zaji, 2016

fire in the caves


There is fire in the caves.

Defiant flames stretch across indocile walls.
The cold stones can bear the relentless heat.
But can they bear the stories?

There is fire in the caves.

Fire burned alien symbols into cave ceilings.
Their meaning has long been forgotten.
We are not alone.

There is fire in the caves.

The aliens were the ancient We.
The us that is far removed from the Now.
We were the other species.

There is fire in the caves.

Flames climb higher into cloudlessness.
Sunless black sky cries for light.
The flames answer and obey.

There is fire in the caves.

© zaji, 2016

orange peel waters (unedited)


Orange peel tea drinks me instead.
It tastes my waters, then
pours into me without bitterness.

Remember wasted life.

The water is unclear, it is orange oceans
flowing back to shore.
Orange peel waters hide lonely tears.

Remember wasted time.

This is not a sad poem.
It is orange tea meditating
over incongruent wants.

Remember wasted tea.

Orange lives,
living beyond the waters.
Tears search for the haunting voice.

Remember what was wasted.

green all over

Writing Prompt: Green

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


i am green on the inside where the grass, shrubs and trees live and grow. i am green leaves flowing through thick veins trying to find their way to calm green waters of life. i am green skies and dark green soil, seeking green seeds that reproduce outside of dark green fertile flesh. my thoughts are green and grow in green rain and sunshine, birthing strong green men and women who build nations. death is green and takes us all to that after-place where green persists, trying to introduce us to a new life.

i am misplaced

Writing Prompt: Misplaced

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The cosmic hand misplaced me, Zhala, and dropped me here. I traveled in its pocket for the better part of centuries before it realized that it had lost me, somewhere on the far side beyond several galaxies. It is filled with angst because it knows I don’t belong here, but it has yet to find me, having forgotten to make the psychic connection before embarking on its journey. Now, it cannot hear me when I call and I cannot hear it. But I feel it searching for me, desperate to find me and take me home to where I belong.

I was born with this knowing, just as one is born knowing their sex. This place where I was dropped is strange to me. I have no connection to the ways of this world called Earth. Everything feels alien, stranger than strange.

But I wait for the cosmic hand, hoping it will remember when last it saw me and possibly figure out where it misplaced me. I am waiting. I long for my home, far away from this place.

© zaji, 2016

a world upside out

I am revisiting this piece which I wrote a very long time ago. At the time I’d been reading quite a bit of Shel Silverstein’s children’s poems and shortly after discovered his story, The Giving Tree. I was most enthralled with his poetry and in a roundabout way was led to his children’s poems after reading Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky”.

I eventually began reading his children’s poetry book, Falling Up. It was a fun and interesting book which I would read to my daughters fairly regularly. Silverstein’s poetry and Carroll’s “Jabberwocky” birthed the poem below.


A World Upside Out

Underneath the top of the valley
Looking down at a sky so gray
Over the bottom of the hill
Looking up at a sea at play

Inside the outside of the world
Outside of inner peace
I see the vertical horizon peeking below
The moon setting in the east

Upside inside underneath
A world on top of the clouds
The sun shines darkly evermore
In a garden filled with stars

© zaji, circa 2009

paper, voice, spaces: a tritina for nena

I was challenged by my friend, Nena, to write a tritina. This is my first one.


Ink black and bleeding onto white paper
Words want to find the lost white spaces
Black blood-ink attempts to stifle my raging voice

But inside these words I am a wanting voice
The ink finds its way back to the silent paper
My thoughts rest on the found empty spaces

In between the lines I see more spaces
I am no longer ink, but once again untamed voice
Somewhere inside me now lives the wild paper

My voice again becomes ink on paper, squeezing through the forgotten spaces

© zaji, 2016

untamed roads

Writing Prompt: Tricky

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Jutting rocks pave rarely trodden roads. Walking into an unknown future is tricky. We are twisted into ideas and forms that take us barefoot across the sharp stones and even sharper destinies. But even destiny is an unformed notion. There is something ahead that may or may not be what should have been. It is tricky, this knowing, or not knowing. Speculative. Mysterious. It is the road forward into lazy villages where busy roads are sometimes made for bare feet but mostly for feet covered in stretched animal skins; tricky roads that have requited love and blind hate standing on their backs. The rocky roads are heavy with the weight of history walking to and fro across their life force. They exist untamed, the roads, charted and uncharted, remembering human souls soaked in memories they can never erase. The feet deliver the words. The road receives them. The stones crumble with the passage of time. They remember distant voices that carve thoughts into them. They are scarred and pained by the stories. But they remember it all, even though memory is tricky. They remember every word.


faraway home

Writing Prompt: Faraway

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My home is faraway in unfamiliar land.
It is beyond moon and stars.
It is beyond our ideas of galaxies.

I am forgotten there.

My home is faraway in familiar land.
It is beyond oceans and skies.
It is beyond questions asked.

I am forgotten there.

uncaged voice

Writing Prompt: Voice

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


i am trembling voice. i am fear finding footing and tongue. i am freedom picking the lock to my cage with skeleton key words that find their way through tumblers and springs. the door will open and i will be set upon the oppressed world, unlocking the black and gold bars of those who couldn’t see their cage. tongue lashing, words whipping, voice shaking hills upon hills of status quo. i will swing cages wide and far and let my voice spill into the streets, words littering roads, blocking hate and ego from passage. i am voice flying without wings into future worlds; fast, furious, naked for all to see. i am trembling…no longer from fear. but because my voice needs to heal; it must heal or i’ll die. it must reach ears that want peace and freedom, so they will know how uncaged voice can change the trajectory of existence. how uncaged voice can change everything that i am. how uncaged voice can set fire to the silence.