What the Muses Leave Behind

 Lost my tweezers this morning, and my attention to detail.  What's the point of plucking? That fascist, entropy, spoils everything. We want to do things once and done. Tweeze a chin, pluck a brow, Sweep a floor, sort the drawer. Entropy's mother is doubt laced up tight as a nymph, for a little while. In the meantime, my chin glares back from the mirror  righteous with white hairs - vestigial colonists, Plymouth Rock; like a little Aryan Nation on the rise. My white terrier runs nose to ground, trails the vapors of last night's forage, raging against the scattering scents - more entropy, more spoils. What is the point of chasing what's long gone anyway? The king of confusion complains his election win was stolen. Corona virus says, more like metabolized by facts. Imagine the celebrations we could be having now. But that revelry rocketed off with the SpaceX Dragon; and we watched it board the ISS. The party is overhead until spring, and  we skulk about like ghosts of Chr

The first human voice was African.    Divine essence grew a tongue,  wagging with fricatives and open syllables.    The telling tongue walked out of a Great Rift Valley carrying its necessary words:  mama matiti mfupa imbwa   It gathered more words to embellish necessary ones:  mungu   cheza   ndio      Listen In our mother tongues live all the dawning conversations.     Confabs with        wind and rain,  storm and fire,  bugs, birds, beasts,  tall grasses and trees.    The same conversations curl beneath our modern breath, ready to feed the heart to hearts,   we need to remember how to have      again.    All those words even now  fill  a loom with the weft and the weave                 of desire               vision              duty               love.   When words fly into space and look down, they watch a spreading web of lights and they call it blanketi la njaa duniani  Earth's hungry blanket, edges            fraying                   mungu            imbwa