Oil and Water

daughter of thunder · Oil and Water

Look! The mountain drip slick with metal

Drip bullets drip bodies drip blood

Raw iron

Ironically 

Is unassuming at best

Silver hands in his pockets, eyes unfixed on everything in particular 

Even from here I can see that he is dreaming

But when finally is concentrate 

Would annihilate nations at the flick of his flint wrist.

From across the valley, clay dust scales the mountain’s peak

Bentonite drinks whole all that surrounds it.

It is parched of reason, brittle and breaking at every conjecture

A nonmalleable god fit for the furnace.

At a distance one could mistake the iron and the clay 

To be friendly— smug branches of the same vine 

Brothers even, a genetic clone of the other

But

Magnetize and magnify;

No, I mean really hold the weight of the mountain in the palm of your hand.

Do you see it?

How repulsed they feel by their own byproduct?

So clay says to iron, he says:

“If only I could purchase our final dissolution”

“Indeed. How many peoples would pay the price

For our disaster?” Iron smelt.

Iron smelt death closing in,

hooves of a white stallion 

reeked of their own free demise.

About: the dual Anglo-American world power

Daniel 2:34

post script// of course, this is just a poem; for a detailed explanation of this bible account check out the source Jehovah has provided! 

Two Perspectives on Privilege part 2

daughter of thunder · Two Perspectives on Privilege Part 2

 II. 

Everywhere I go 

there is a drooling man

demanding I fall in love with him

and I can’t for the life or death 

of me figure out 

why

If you have never been raped before, it is like this:

some poor swine bound to the slaughter

by a noose, heartless for sport.

There are no strawberries or ranunculi,

just the hunter chock full of cock-knowledge

That what is necessary, what is inevitable,

is within his godpower to accomplish.

about// rapists, demons and the whole self-entitled breed of people

postscript// people who choose to ignore the problem are often worse than the problem itself

Two Perspectives On Privilege

daughter of thunder · Two Perspective on Privilege: Part One

Part One

Woke this morning to a ballistic missile lodged 

between the bed frame and dura mater membrane. 

It had no right!

The nerve to insert itself, uninvited,

into my bedroom and before I’d had my coffee.

Naturally, I knelt outside of my body, 

carpet burn on both knees trying to

pull the elephant by both ears out the room.

Each time I got a loose hold of the arsenal, 

Dribbles of sweat at my fingernails would drive

the lost thing deeper until wedged into webs of the subarachnoid.

(And isn’t that always the case?

The most indelible is irrefutably the most tragic?)

Shrapnel shards were not what I feared most

but rather the eager rage— how quickly it wanted to become a part of me.

So we battled there for hours: 

my human against this metallic carnivore

until night began to break free from its cloudy reign;

The half moon’s eery glow over the carpet, 

wet with the weight of warfare.

Luxury is only one click away away 

(conveniently blind to a young mother

breathing a bulwark over her infant)

with a hand

Whole and changed as the window into my bedroom 

about// the privilege of despair I feel as an onlooker of televised war.

Longingly

daughter of thunder · Longingly

A quaver and a crack—

It is always this way before the deluge,

The ever-so-slight jag of raised pitch,

A jutting-out of intonation where once there

stood still.

That is how we know the flood has arrived.

A steady snot stream now trickling

 through my left nostril 

A hyperventilating puddle of pleas

P- gasp p-p-puh gasp please

Please?

It is pathetic 

I am pathetic, really.

You, empathetic.

Really.

Have already felt the twist of poison in your gut 

where I saw pure gold

 (I swear to you, it glistened from a distance)

You are cut at the thought of what its blunt edge

could do to my fingers out-stretched 

(Even rust and rot glimmer under just the right lighting)

“My darling, my child

Can’t you see there’s nothing there for you?”

ABOUT// wanting what we should not

1 John 5:14

An Elopement

daughter of thunder · An Elopement

If a cloud had tennis shoes, 

he couldn’t float any faster

than the speed I have traveled

 to escape

he asked me: “where to in such a fury?”

And I said to sir stratus you stupid cloud I’m going nowhere fast.

Sir nimbo flexed his fluff until the blue 

bent around him and got caught,

feelings and all.

In empathy with blue, I called sir nimbo 

the shape of an ape

or the shape of an aperture always taking taking light;

oh, I know an unrequited love when I see one.

Columbo-lonimbus passed gas

any which way it fit her fancy. 

Suppose I fit her fancy when she boom-sang at me.

But I am too preoccupied 

with going nowhere quite quickly

to be swayed any which way

she might choose to persuade me.

Now, Sircirrus in all of his creamy spoonful of dream

Understood the overstatement of here or there

and now now now

so he readily obliged when my head reached his height

and I hummed to the beat of birdwings 

slowly, making their way toward

the end of the day.

About// my head is often in the clouds because no one can hurt my feelings up here

Res Ipsa Loquitur (The Thing Speaks for Itself)

daughter of thunder · Res Ipsa Loquitur (The Thing Speaks for Itself)

 

Rotting wood is the thing which has voiced its malcontent,

(Said “you know, I wouldn’t be so frayed 

had the boy mopped up the mess he made”).

Envy be that rotting wood, 

that splintered degenerate of what was once wholly. 

What was once holy now leached onto and

full of holes—

this fallacy that another's glory burns brighter than 

what one has been gifted.

This that ache that screams for itself

The river desecrate brown-bubbles forth its grievance 

(Said “I certainly didn’t slip myself this poison").

Deceit, a most toxic waste, has peered at her own reflection 

but cannot see the foul fuming upward from the creek;

has been seeping in her filth for so long

she cannot smell the way the once-crystal river now

harbors the dead.

But certain as a truth will shed any remnant of ruse,

this that reek that roars for itself.

The black bear has betrayed her cub for 

40 pieces of silver fish!

A vulture feasts on the fruit of its own womb.

Even still,

After man has slapped his Father’s cheek

and run away with reckless abandon,

face still stinging with hurt,

He beckons for his child:

come home come home come home

about// “Res Ipsa Loquitur” is, simply put, a type of legal claim that suggests a violation has occurred because of negligence.

the thing (abandonment of Jehovah God) speaks for itself (the consequences of said abandonment)

Do you think it’s possible for a human to neglect God?

James 4:4

An Undressed Wound

daughter of thunder · An Undressed Wound

 I.

 What is the point of dissecting an open wound?

I mean, the thing is already weeping. 

Do you think coagulation cares who the culprit is

so long as the clot can form?

What to do when the clot cannot form—

Peel back the gauze and ask yourself why:

By 5 I understood segregation before I could spell it.

More a feeling crept up the black of my spine 

than an abolished amendment.

“Nigger” under the breath by a boy who did not 

understand the meaning of my second name.

The undressed wound pleading: 

“No, but you’ve shaded my stars into night

Can’t you see Ufuoma means ‘peace of God’?”

A teen-aged blade to flesh the way his white friends

eyed-balled my skin

and then his skin

and then my skin.

“Yuck!” being the preliminary verdict before

being afforded the opportunity to justify my 

right to love him.

So by the time I reached 21,

I finally understood the shape of the purple bruising,

Could trace and retrace every bump and groove by

the ugly river it ran through my epithelium.

Were I to count the ways my fellow 

Homo sapiens have tried to inject shame into

who I perceive myself to be,

to pry their greedy little fingers into my consciousness,

Perhaps they would outnumber the melanocytes themselves!

As if another human

could ever discern through physical means what 

God Himself has crowned holy.

II.

While my undressed wound has your attention,

it would like to state for the record it 

did not ask to be here

(is in fact being slaughtered alive by an antibody army 

of its own making)

which is to say:

If there is a wound,

there will always be a healing

Oh if only we would let it.

About: I really believe there are some deep-seated and gangrenous wounds only God can relieve us from, one of them being racism.

postscript: On a slightly lighter note, our immunity systems are fascinating, aren’t they? Scarring by sheer feat of nature.