in the house of brothers

my father had three faces and a boiling pan
where he hardened his sons
into men
before he fixed the roof
my father had three faces
and the head of a hammer
where he pounded
his sons into shape
my brothers were not him
at least the one
their stomachs growled for his eyes
they looked to me for salvation

i bear two men upon my back
one dark, trying to love his night
one light, mocking the moon
father
passing
wishing son was not just passing ship in the night
but passing on shore, by light
my brothers yearn

twisted gazes see shadows
in the mirror
father reconfirming lies
that speak truths about the world
but these men are me
they are the two faces
i’ve also learned to carry

father i need
brothers i need
mother
where are you?
speak to the duality
that burdens our mirrors
mother, i need your blackness
now
before rain distorts the images
i see in the lake of our familiar

– zaji

an experimental pastiche for audre lorde

searching

heading east of the full moon
sand dunes play upon me like violins
i seek my lodestar
persistent, digging
finding something
finding nothing
finding the end of tomorrow
twilight has left me alone
with the moon
it whispers to me
i forgot why i’m here
was it for lust
was it for love
was it for the mirage
that called my name
nothing really sticks
feet sinking into the quick
the moon watches
it points
head east it says
sinking into the quick
violins play my last song

a dime bag

i remember a time when
meditation was free
now the stolen moments
cost dearly

i lean back and think

a memory is worth more
than a dime bag
but no one buys memories
they want weed to get high

meditation won’t
take them there
too expensive
too much time to collect

a dime bag is easier
time costs too much

no, meditation won’t get you high
stolen moments won’t pay the rent

– zaji

A-Dime-Bag