We write while Femi Kuti Truth
Don Die playing on the bluetooth
speaker in the corner of the room.
The corner with the desk lamp
on the single small wall shelf.
Outside, more and louder and more.
The insects and amphibians singing along.
Out past the carved dragon sliding door,
out past the mosquito net.
Singing Along.
Behind me the lamp shines
over my left shoulder a gradient
of light flowing down and across
my desk in soft incandescence.
A gentle yellow.
Music as a medium of prescience.
The presence of being alive, wild non-sequitor.
Activistic notebooks open, manifestos
touching topics of demons on Earth
represented everywhere, here, there
beings born of human greed, selfish desire.
The most real truths presented as fiction.
Poetic prose a comforting blanket
over which we cover the terrifying.
Singing Along.
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