From the Fishouse

your big, bad brain
is a certain glory,

mister samuel dictionary,

how eloquence & etiquette
charge your pages wearing predicate,

seems to me, though,
you’re wolfing the yard,
in your ghost-gauze suit
& your bones’ rattle, rattle,

sir, scuse me, sir,
i found the ax
under the bed
of your syntax

roll over, red rover,
in your dirty grave,
you can’t save
what doesn’t need
to be saved, say

fufu has pity
on the fool,
take your tongue, sleep, sweet,
or i take your teeth, too,
you thot you could keep
our words rowed & locked, no, no,
no this:

even when i
am talking english, i’m ghana
be talking about africa, asmara
body i’ve benin
than anything, i wright
the language
& trick the talk, tongue so magic,
eye so magic & born.