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mind entropy of the ethiofrican

Yell-o nailpolish

31 August, 2008 | 11 comments | Category: for.the.love.of.words!, I.dentity, poetry, thinking...

did she know? she got a sticker stuck on her,

in a box with labels pressed to hips.
they read a sign on her forehead
in bright orange sharpie scribble
did you know? or you imagined?

yellow nail polish on fingertips and toes.
even as paint flakes where paint cracks…
messy dry dribbles on toe tips
speak out bright loudness in yell-o

tears… despite smudges of eyeliner smearing
crying out speaking
drawing lines on eye lids
dulled shades of dark. shades of sad.
shades of thoughts.

echoes resounding
screams bouncing
on the afro, nail polish, tear smudges.

pent up breath explodes
release me
release. let be

and you, with raised eyebrows and crinkled lips
shrink mignon!

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above belly.underneath heart

7 May, 2008 | 5 comments | Category: love.of.words!, musiqa, poetry

getachew mekuria and susheela raman. “the love trap” an adaptation of Mahmoud Amhed’s “bemin sebeb litlash”

trancing a light curly zigzag
lazily. teasingly. tingling
…lips, finger tips…

half-dreaming colors and warmth
floetry, underneath the heart,
above the belly.

feelings that look like…
gradient orange sunset rays piercing through blazing red fire
surrounded by pulsing rhythms and…
sifting fragile petals of yellow on translucent maroon sashes…
like skipping butterflies as they prance between the deep pit of the belly where feelings reside, and the base of the heart where they overflow.

the depth of the feelings mirror shadows falling creating accents…
provoking a vulnerable smile at the cosy humble fire they stroke…
at the heady euphoria of an embrace
a sweeter crush,
a more delish lushness,
a softer…scrumptious flutter,
a more tasty brush.

feels, textures, tints and tones…
tempting finger tip senses, lip buds, eyes.
skimming along the edge of shoulders exposed to air.
sending a delicious tingle down…

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tickles of bunna nostalgia

11 April, 2008 | 5 comments | Category: i.mmigration, nostalgia.personal, prose.tales

my eyes glaze as pupils dilate basking in the otherness of my past….

the things i remember are not expected etches within my memory, they are random recollections of flickering visuals, smells, tickles and sounds…

the clatter of coffee beans nosily scattering on a metal roasting plate. incense flitter flattering the breeze, caressing curves of air wafting upward and sideways; releasing smells of home, comfort and cosiness. smells that mingle with prickly acid tastes of long grass strands spread across the floor, the musky, spiciness of incense and, soil, freshly moist feeding the grass outside the door, by the veranda.

incense rising around us frames my auntie’s face already framed by the peach-beige shawl. my mom has owned, my auntie worn this shawl during all her over-night visits to our house ever since I could remember. The luscious red rose petals appear to dance across the shawl amongst tiny brown geometric patterns adorning the length of her legs which are stretched out on the mat. she sits near the coffee mini-table with 9 tiny white cups appearing to gaze adoringly at a glorious black clay coffee-kettle.

When my auntie speaks, her mouth edges to one side; the scars across her neck create protruding fringes hidden till she arches her head up; a head with thick silky short locks usually big-curled or in curling bigodins.

i remember a conversation in this setting about a girl who lived across the driveway. She went to america to school, she was something of a legend in our neighborhood circle. A neighbor told the stories of the girl’s trials to my auntie who was sharing it with the rest of us. I could sense that we all felt butterflies of anticipation about my departure. With nerves at tickling ends, each of us wondered…could my experience be like hers?

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Blind Ears

18 March, 2008 | No comments | Category: love.of.words!, poetry

at the base under where certainty resides,
jaws release pulses. clenched tight. assured…
flippant eyes glazed, or averted.

heads foam-filled, fuzzy from ear to ear.
stuffed with pretentious filler.
puffing with insistence of rigid and sure…

as if foam is unbudgingly fixed metal.
as if phobic of metals scratching when flexing and flowing.

halt the flex. stop the motion. parch the dialog.
testify the non issue.
decelerate the rumbling, bubbling flow.
avert eyes. defocus ears

what of listening to fluidity?
watching for raw individualities.
stories. emotion…the drumming of the heart.
the rhythmic motion of life
patterns of contradictions and idyosyncracies.
colorful volume and noise.
the unscripted and uncrypted textures.

opaque. beaten.
by listening to fluff and argumentation.
seeing fluff testify…
weave its tangling spell. tangling.

silent eyes close
blind ears numb

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zxantila vibes: under umbrella

13 February, 2008 | 2 comments | Category: I.dentity, i.mmigration, love.of.words!, nostalgia.personal, prose.tales


around 30 minutes past the hour she strut-walks out, a little bounce to her steps and a content little smirk playing across her cafe-latte face. it is drizzling. the black-as-charcoal shiny ground mirrors white, yellow and orange car lights with blurry imprecision. ‘how pretty’, she thinks.

its work day over her head bobs in complete abandon to beats of tunes causing a pleasant ruckus where a zillion buzzy thoughts were whizzing few instants earlier. Her smirk widening, she makes her way through a tall metropolitan jungle of concrete, glass and cleanliness formidable and contrasting the urban metropolis of a sub-Saharan country she hails from.

rejecting the willpower to contain herself, she increases the spring in her steps and adds a bigger bounce to her walk toward the bus stop. intermittently squeaking, mumbling and bellowing out pieces of the lyric of a song in her second language she strides on, adamant about her full enjoyment of the music and the soft soothing spray of watery droplets from above.

reaching the stop she stands, facing the direction from which a bus will inevitably swoosh down. inevitably- buses like water slide down slopes… Her eyes distractedly dance along the charcoal-black slope only partially seeing. she is swept away in the sounds and words, the volume cranked up high, the music soars with her senses failing to arrest only one: her vision. several many moments pass.

tapping along, hip-twitching along, humming and mumbling along…and then she starts a little wiggle -fully oblivious of her surroundings. for a couple more minutes…jamming…jamming. bouncing. vibing with the music….

she sighs. stopping. smiling.

Then…she notices there were no fresh water droplets on her coat….

how could that…….(!!!)

abruptly, she turns around and her heart JUMPS- threatening to leap right up her throat!

“Oh my God!” ….exhale…

There is another human being right behind her!

…a human inordinately close, discomfortingly…breathing down her neck!! … she saw papery white skin crinkling up into a grimace. decidedly- almost contentedly, the old lady was holding up an umbrella above them both! The lady was wearing layers and layers of what looked like a red tent and a flowery sash with a big floppy maroon hat covering half her face. The other hand was holding a large white handbag with disproportionately huge crafty pink flowers blotched onto it…this was She. This was the old lady she had seen at this stop before. The lady’s voice had withered and trembled when it had tried to be projected, what the lady had said escapes her memory.



exhale…”Oh sorry!! I didn’t see you there!!”

silence.

the wrinkly eyelids twitch as the old lady acknowledges that she had heard; the faint grimace still tugging the corners of her thin lips…

more silence.

“uh….thank ….you……. (?)” with a question mark. she steps forward away from the old lady, toward the slope.

Maybe it was her quirky imagination but it seemed the old lady made a tiny step closer with the umbrella, seemingly to proclaim: ‘no more water droplets are claiming territory on your coat if I have anything to do with! I say no! not on my watch!’

‘hmmm?….so they share umbrellas in this country too? .smile. ‘interesting…’

‘is funny…’ almost unconsciously and abruptly she takes another instinct-inspired step forward.

‘ha! the irony! guess who’s more conscious of personal space…?’

“…mhhmmhm…” she starts to hum again fighting to reclaim her obliviousness until the bus comes…

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