To Ian Chang

To Ian Chang

We are all individualists who descend into Mos Maiorum's
. Just like the ancient mariner I stolidly
accept Egyptian divas who drink pearls like Shivas.
Next like Poe you will ask how many Gordon's dance on the head of a Pym!
Don't quote Atlas Shrugged when John Galt rally balked!
So now we can tell Ayn Rand where to get off!

As I & I drive by baobab trees I listen to Kropotkin's 25
theses on the conquest of bread.
but I am still unaware of what he said
Bakunin is nailed to my head
if you think my ideas spring fully formed
consult the Stepping Razor
otherwise let Jah can be praised.
In a chant to Elijah Muhammad with hands upraised.

The kill and go
block the road in this land not described by Wayne's
Western Philosophy.
I once wrote a song about youth even though
I am no childe roland who to the heart of darkness came.
there is nothing here postmod and tradition dates
from 1919 thought they sell you 1416

I am a stranger in my own land so I look to distant shores
beyond pellinore, though every day I thank Napoleon for importing revolution
even though he ruled without constitution in a little Italian car.
I remember staying at the bent prop inn
where the wretched made a hearth and chanted
"we are the good guys in the back of the real!
Who helped Casey to the bat so that he finally makes a steal".

The czars of hegemony challenged her.
The gari eaters live in fear
Maybe at the next road stop
Some OC who dreams of welding a bull pup
will spray me with lead so I must sufficiently beg

To Ian Chang Who Taught Me Elementary break dancing
I dream of smoke machines
with 9 millimeter beams.
Wally sacrifices metals for our lifeline,
a pipeline to the 42 warring states
who celebrate Christmas last with unpaid repasts
of fatted kine soaked in Atlantic brine.

Now that there is a tasty kitchen in Jimeta
maybe Momma will stop tripping.
But outside of St Cloud there is no cheap thrills,
though En Vogue promised me something I can feel.

I ate poundo yam with spinach soup
and danced with baker street runners
in the red hot summer while Skika played
the beats of east African drummers
Hip hop is universal and I am sending another
object of Ioconsicousstream
May developing in C++ be more than a goddamn dream

Cape Town beckons
to travellers who dead reckon.
What makes this an African verse is that is while snow flakes fall on Mount Kilimanjaro
the Beautiful ones, unborn, weep not for the brahmins who came to this world twice.
Like Ogbanjes loudly proclaiming their right to return,

Then again I am thrice blessed, twice in the east once in the west.
If you mark the twain there are no more innocents abroad
just folks who mourn for Denver,
Denver, where Hiram Abiff raised his Moloch
over his Mexican Radio to kill the big beat.

I will stop here since there is no where else to go,
Some will show art in Mayday in the meantime there is the didachae to give me tropic dreams
of eternal machines.