June 13, 11

In the struggle of people on this planet we find our history
in the dirt and death, dust long ago settled and no longer whispering, hollering moaning
we find stories
In living the color and the food, the tastes yelling and brilliant, juicy and wet and sweet
they pour through our senses like miniature streams across the earth living only as long as the downpour which they belong to
bright morning sun, king of the sky, Nigerian food, Doro wat and late nights with too many friends
life washes over us a quick witted flirting cool breeze kissing cheeks and dancing on
and her story is found in her mother the earth
Earth, she is older than life
Goddess, underworld, under the world where all the bright beings rest and rise again to rise again
in our fights and cries, in our back breaking work
we wear her
her stories ever so quite
her wealth lost upon us
we wear her and cry in and of our poverty our poor spirit
and when we die we fall upon her
and melt
into her eternity
sinking to her fiery core of pure passion
the star she holds on top of her is but a shadow of the brilliance of her inside
and in her belly we are reformed men, reformed souls
and upon her skin we are human history
deep, but not quite so much as we have thought.