pomba gira (10)

pomba gira
beneath yr sway i have fallen, not once but
many times,drawn to u like a shark to blood
in the water, yr comeliness, a solicitation,
a knowing brush of a playful hand against my

tumescent need; u who are spouse to the
first among òrìşà,

the one who goes whither he pleases, is bound
by neither law nor rule, who flows against
destiny through the cracks & crevices of fate,
along the seams separating parallel worlds &

multiple realities, over the precipice of human
folly; who tests us at every crossroad & punishes
us today for what we may do tomorrow – do u
really exist apart from him or are u just one of
his many paths?

i invoke yr aid, pomba gira, because i cynically
know u will help the truly desperate. when no
other òrìşà will answer the plea, yr patronage is
always for sale & u always get paid in advance.

u have led me to wives & lovers convinced that i
was the magical piece missing from their lives;
that i could & would complete them. they would
dazzle me with incomparable enticements to keep

me from leaving; to keep me from seeing what
they were hiding – those potent secrets best
kept away from prying eyes:

a father’s salacious abuse piled on an innocent
who kept the faith & family secret – the serial
violations visited on an innocent so very
desperate to belong;

or the innocent tricked into fellating a trusted
family friend while in his care; who with fearful
infirm purpose received a perverse prize for
good behavior.

or yet again the innocent, abandoned on a refuse
heap beneath a blanket of flies; who seeks self
worth in real life pulchritudinous jackpots &
episodic debauchery.

or lastly, the innocent exploratory body play
among siblings that turned terribly serious &
sexual; underscored by the death of one & the
overwhelming neurotic guilt of the love-addicted
survivor…

& of course i saw them, these secrets; learned
about them. these wives & lovers had a salubrious
need to tell their secrets to me & i heard over
their whispered confidences eşu’s raucous
laughter. had i just listened

to them, they might have healed on their own,
might have purged themselves in nonjudgmental
ears; drained the poison of the past from their
deep emotional wounds. might have forgiven
those who caused them pain;

might have forgiven themselves. but i couldn’t
leave any of it alone; i had to help. i had to dress
my need to control in therapeutic whites & tell
them what to do. i had to be right at their expense
& play upon their guilt. some I drove screaming
into the night; drove all of them all away.

how many times have i come back to u, pomba
gira, with my thirty pieces of tribute & the same
supplications that hope for a different ending?
are u truly a sacred harlot or merely the hand of
eşu squeezing my scrotum?

can u translate my sexual indiscretions into a
series of great mystical rites or do u expose me
for the fool i am? are yr breasts, so round, so
plump & firm, the enticing,passion fruit of love
or merely eşu’s prurient tools to plunge me into

debauchery’s murky depths. can those lips of yrs
that so glibly lie, mouth the sacred mysteries i
crave i? is yr well of delight a redemptive revelation
or a cauldron of concupiscence?

are u a divine sexual road in disguise or just a
metaphor for human hubris at best?

©Joseph McNair;2009

panthera pardus (9)

panthera pardus

the sleek black form, a killing need
to prey on the hapless, slay & feed.
feminine & feline, it stalks the night
keeping to shadows, out of sight,
quick demise promised, guaranteed.

its body long & built for speed.
a sanguine & solitary breed
that snares with strangling bite;
a melanistic morph of death indeed.

panthera pardus will greedily bleed
a buck with vampire fang, proceed
to strip the carcass clean & delight
in the blood feast on a starless night;
to feed as kali herself mught feed –
a melanistic morph of death indeed

©Joseph McNair;2009

panthera leo krugeri (8)

panthera leo krugeri

a sanguine sunrise.
a queen stalks the savannah;
sekhmet stalks her prey.

tracks the wildebeest;
tasty banquet on the hoof;
an ungulate feast.

to a hundred feet
she closes – then she charges,
fifty miles per hour.

the 30 ft leap,
the slap & grab, the take down.
her long fangs drink deep.

a bloody sun sets;
sekhmet sleeps; her belly full.
& hungry pride … fed!

© Joseph McNair; 2009

ouija (7)

ouija

they were a steadfast five,
who'd meet from house to house
& divine what they would
from the ouija.

two couples & a wife
(her husband deigned to meet)
did seek astral guidance
from the ouija.

& guidance came to them
from spirits wild & tame
who'd use the alphabet
on the ouija.

they formed a pentagram
although they knew it not
with one ordained to lead
by the ouija.

amien they called him,
the spirit guides who used him
to speak to the others
through the ouija.

& so for months they met
& thus they were exposed;
no secrets can be kept
from the ouija.

they saw themselves anew
& saw each other "true";
an exacting mirror held
by the ouija.

for work they deigned to do,
daunting work upon themselves,
to walk the path described
by the ouija.

amien himself, who was
supposed to know did cringe
from the vision
of the ouija.

one feared he was possessed
though once he was a priest
his "devils" were exposed
by the ouija.

another saw her "curse"
in unrequited love;
her wantonness betrayed
by the ouija.

another saw the causes
of her bewildering barreness,
reliving her past lives
through the ouija.

still another sought to claim
perennial abuse;
her abandonment foretold
by the ouija.

even amien himself
was all too sorely flawed
& flinched in the judgement
of the ouija.

none of them could see
that their fear brought to the fore
distortions of the truth
through the ouija.

one by one they dropped away
'til only one remained
& even he was forced to
quit the ouija.

their sordid fears confirmed,
t'was more than they could bear.
three marriages were sundered,
six lives were sore distressed;

five futures dearly mortgaged
by the ouija.

©Joseph McNair; 1984-2009

the wheel (6)

the wheel

power comes in flashes,
in tantalizing glimpses
& small satisfactions;
extends my senses, select
different blends of stimuli
from my environs. the
concrete becomes symbolic
& heavy with meaning.
events reveal their
significance, their recurrent
patterns & causes; faces yield
their secrets – flashing or
vacant eyes, nervous laughter,
ticks, furrowed brows, jutting
chins, the showing of teeth –
the language of the body is
eloquently revealed. i hear
much in the silence
masquerading what is not being
said. i probe my own body's
feeling centers, identify the throat-
blocking lump, the involuntary
swallow of sadness, the chest-
filling balloon of fear, the
radiating plexus coil, the stiff
neck & throbbing temple of
anger, the chest & groin pains
of jealousy, the blinding red-out
of rage, the narcotic whole body
lethargy of depression. i learn
that the feelings of others
resonate in my own centers, that
i sometimes mistake theirs for
mine. i study the stars, learn their
symbol systems, the math, logic
& absolutism. i chart the planets.
their effects in signs & houses;
in angled relations to each other.
i commit to memory their
rulerships over people, objects,
places & events. i study my dreams,
write them down on waking. i sort
through the voices in my head,
identify mine own among
them, pick others – ones who
through trial & error have been
judged reliable – to listen to. i close
my eyes & let the images come.
i conjure the faces & bodies of those
i know on the backs of my eyelids i
look at & around them, behind them;
observe the materializing scenes if
images are chaotic, make no linear
sense, the planets rush in bringing
their own peculiar insight, fitting
those icons into perceptible
patterns, making them coherent
i learn the tarot; add seventy-eight
new truths to my growing arcane
capital. i practice my new skills on
family & friends. my ego inflates in
wisdom & stature.

© Joseph McNair; 1988-2009

awakening (5)

awakening

“nearly all men can stand adversity,
but if you want to test a man’s character,
give him power.”
abraham lincoln

what has taken the savor
from the taste of political power?
was it the brief reality of jail?
the mad memories of masturbatory
stratagem for revolt – the impotent
fires set that burned themselves out
in anonymity? the marches on the
police station, the imaginary wall of cars
across the freeway or walking down
riverside avenue in formation with
carbines in full view. was it the
ego clashes of man-child leaders?
the endless posturing of potency?
the autoeroticism of weaponry?
was it the alarming echo of my
own demagoguery?
maybe it was the chagrin of challenge –
the old black wraith who dared me
to show him what i had, what the revolution
gave me, compelling enough to make him
risk his meager mite to get.
how can i liberate my people
if i can't liberate myself?
who appointed me liberator
in the first place? the truth?
"political" is merely an adjective,
a sound/symbol that cannot stand
by itself it must be adjacent, connected to
power. a flavor, a blend of taste & smell
peculiar to defining terms, creating reality,
changing things & making others do what u
want them to do. like water. i want power.
pure. hinted at by fluency in arcane symbols;
demonstrated by auguries, foretellings &
psychokinetic virtuosity. i want to see in
astral light, hear disembodied voices, feel the
vibrations of events. i want to cavort with spirit
guides & give my body up to mediumship.
i would trade the vision of revolution for a
clear & unobstructed view, beforehand,
of the next moment in time.

©Joseph McNair; 1988-2009

crossing the niger (4)

crossing the niger

the taxi, its nature true of all beasts of burden &
conveyance however long of leg & wind requires a break in
a protracted journey. the carburetor cough, the ragged
revving of acceleration, like the belabored breathing of an
exhausted runner, telltales the need for rest. its driver &
passengers (me among them) too are travelweary; show the
collective strain of an unrelenting sprint, a random obstacle
course of gaping pot-holes, figure-eighting oncoming
maniac-driven vehicles which thread needle-eye openings
between to & fro traffic; have held for hours the unison
leftward oblique of anxious body posture, bodies leaning,
eyes straining to see around go-slowing lorries, rightward
leftward curves to see over the hills & through every
manner of blindspot. seven psychic pairs of hands to aid
the steering; seven extra pairs of eyes for the driver who
seems compelled by some demon to overtake anything
ahead on faith, to devour vast stretches of road at the speed
of light. we pull into the rest stop at lokoja, at the foot of
the bridge across the niger. my travel companions
disembark, & disappear into the raggedly rugged array of
scrap wood & zinc-roofed restaurants; settle heavily in
front of plate of rice & beans, eba & egusi soup, pounded
yam & bush meat. the air is pungent with palm oil. i
override my urge for food & drink & cast my eyes upon the
river. i am drawn by its languid motion & am compelled
down a footpath around & behind the restaurant…

“oga wetin? eat, now!” the driver, watching me, calls.
“i’m coming,” i say,
“kilonşe e? were oyinbo!”

i walk with vague purpose along the banks of this ancient
river thinking of all the rivers i’ve crossed in the blur of a
lifetime. there is always one more river, no matter how
deep or wide the last. i respect all rivers; become involved
on planes personal with those i touch physically. each
private mountain scaled has had its companion river. &
rivers, like oceans seem to suck all of my personal water
out of me, leaving me vampire-drained. obversely
inebriated, psychically disoriented, & hopelessly addicted
to large bodies of water. knowing the consequences i seek
out a place to sit, & find one on a mossy finger of rock,
bent at the knuckle, exploring the sensuous wet riverine
depths. removing my shoes, & rolling up my trousers, i sit
myself down, my feet submerged in the swirling eddies of
red & gold. giving myself over to its wet, noisy kisses,
oblivious to the sinister suck at my toes, ankles, & calves,
the steady seepage of feeling out through the walls of my
skin at points of contact, i am reeling…

wet dreams. selfwaters merge with godwaters dissolves
time dissolve the walls door & windows between one
hundred & thirty one days seven thousand eight hundred &
sixty hours four hundred seventy one thousand six hundred
seconds such a swift temporal blink so complete a
transformation the boy the youth the man merely
characters encountered when i dream there is no one
outside to confirm their existence make flesh their
reflections breathe into them ... there was one once (who
was she?)… naked as a man with a few clothes can be
…skills/talents/abilities without reference less revered
applies to uses not intended (by whom? by me/i/) … living
an unctuous obsequious poem singing rhyming clowning
for rapt audiences of children laughing bose querulous
olukemi precocious wale sullen mansa stubborn yewande
& others (where are their names?) amusing them/myself
while mothers market fathers work me earning a now &
then meal & a bottle of beer a lift into town or a word to a
friend who knows someone who has a brother in the
ministry at the television house whose legs are long who is
family firm sure things relax take it easy… lectures in the
beer parlors (is that me talking?) pounding home the
vagaries of america's many-headed hydra of racism
reaganomics realpolitik ruthless rushream of cashflow
dirty collared hucksters porkbarrel perverts haute haughty
heterophobes…masking desperation in beer life of the
parlor big joe (small joe?) must be a professor from who
knows where university truth wrapped in fraud…playing
postman carrying my curriculum vitae twenty-five copies
for unilag thirty copies for unibadan forty for unife
traveling to iwo ilesa ijebu ode ekpoma clerk loses fifty
copies of c.v. at ilesa finds it for five naria dash to ile ife
dean keeps me waiting three hours queries my credentials
degrees never heard of my secondary school, it’s not in
nigeria sir oh i see why did u come to nigeria u weren’t
recruited aren’t u too young to be a principal perfect for
ibadan but well u see we want a ph.d although there aren’t
many if any on the faculty with yr experience or yr
specialized training my hand’s are tied iwo loses my
twenty-five c.v. copies five naria is not enough to find them
asuu goes on strike moratorium on hiring shoes worn out
business suit frayed unsuited for tropical heat ten kobo is
all that remains of settling stake sell my camera fade from
social contacts hide in a half life of three months move to
the boy’s quarters in bashorun cook with kerosene make a
fable out of abjectivity a shelter in which to live move now
like an elephant in tight shoes… down but not out destiny
here in the bosom of nigeria am made of strong stuff will
not quit runaway be deflected owe it to myself-friends
real friends found in the salt of nigerian soil shelter in the
time of trouble rocks in a weary land ajax & linda poured
balm over & bandaged my broken heart watched over me
with angel eyes frank oyenuga fountain of encouragement
zenobia soft severity looking glass clear chief bessie taiwo
sister intimate motherwarm held my hand shoveled food in
my stomach starch in my backbone john nwankwo gave
help when there was no help steadfast staunch regenerative
force olu akinkoye brother lost & found hundredfold giving
bola & lolita gave me shelter taught me a lesson in trust
sofie & yemi sympathetic soothing caring a welcome place
to hide to share chris chidebe provided cover from
embarrassment a place to anonymously plan muyiwa ogunaike
faithful companion helped me trace ibadan’s underbelly yaya
abubakar gave hope to hold on to lent powerful influence
with interest secured the future…debts too great to ever
repay except in kind & by an infinite number of cheerful
installments to nigeria my cross my crown

“oga, oga, chei! oga! wake –o…! why u do dis t’ing?”

the driver’s face forms from many droplets of a dream;
focuses into a mask of annoyance. “oh! sorry-o; must have
dozed off. is it time to go?”the driver hissed in that way that
only africans can, lips open, teeth clenched; sucking in air
mixed with bubbles of spit back across the cuspids forcing a
passage between the teeth & the soft inner tissue of the
cheeks. the sound & the meaning is unmistakable. he turns
angrily & runwalks up the footpath towards the taxi. fully
awake now i hurriedly pick myself up, grab my shoes &
follow – the fool might leave me if i dawdle. the engine is
running when i reach the cab. the other passengers look at
me strangely but say nothing. my stomach growls in
english, the price of indulging a turbulent spirit. on the road
again, we are quickly semi-airborne, flying across the niger
without ceremony. but for me a personal ritual is complete,
& with that inner calm & glow that follows yet’ another
initiation i allow myself to be carried north to kaduna &
then, perhaps to zaria & employment without a backward
glance. i feel, really feel for the first time on this continent
like a prodigal, bereft, bruised, but undaunted, coming
home.

© Joseph McNair; 1984-2009