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New Release: Psychoactive Poetry


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The wearying logic by which blackness

Is reduced to a minor term in a dialectic,

Led Fanon to feel entrapped by nothingness

The only way out of which was an eclectic,

Hegelian ideology mixed in with an empirical psychology,

Fertilized with adequate heaps of epistemology,

By which he grew wings, not eagle’s wings,

But butterfly wings of unrealizable color and forced levity,

In his unapologetically naked quest for sanity.

Happening upon it, I, uninhibited, save by the bars of a caged despair,

Flew about the parameters of his tantalizing propositions,

Making them the subject of more than one disquieted disquisition,

Found an anxious peace, along with a day’s wage.


The moments of our transience, the days that become years, bring,

Come what may, and we, in passing, like Turkish street vendors sing,

"I have come, I am going, I have come, I am going…"

Terrible business this living within the limits of knowing.

Street dreaming an ‘if only’ kind of dream which repeating itself,

Weary day after weary day and the nights, a hopelessly bereft

Generation curses the day it was born

Along with the day tomorrow like yesterday, would forlorn,

Had it not clung to the kind of hope extolled by King.

Now and then this hope being given voice in something

Someone said that compelled the undependable attention

Of those labeled attention deficient, yet timely mention,

Or just artfully said words of wisdom to those whose heads

Are in the sand, or to the sky turned, would need to hear said

Out loud so as to be heard over the din of the pain,

Something they wouldn’t stop thinking about, ever again.

By whomever, whatever might be said, by someone, friend or foe,

Or even someone we might not even know

And maybe wasn’t even talking to us, whatever it might be,

Attention-grippingly be, as long as we know it was meant sincerely,

Ponder over it, be frightened, or gladdened, saddened or maybe sent

Hurriedly scribbling it down in a way that unencrypted its hint.

Sometimes we might even draw it, using pastels or oil,

A picture carrying more of its weight than words by which we are smitten,

Telling far more of the thing heard than the thing said merely rewritten.

Thus may our minds enlarge, as over this new information we toil.

For me at least, thus was logic transcended, the weariness upended,

And better things to come portended,

Or so my contentious heart contended.


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