WINDOWS
                                                 
Abnormalities of view-foresight, insight,             
                   Second sight and all solecisms of
seeing-
Called vision.
                 -Wole Soyinka

Dispenser of Parodies,
I am your errant child, seeking restitution
from a riddle about origins.
I alone in Egypt am afflicted with the eleventh
plague:
a plague of windows. Blasting a hole through the wall,

the old Swede, surely one legacy must beget another.
The world, it worships an atavist god, nothing is new.
Streams of consciousness flowing bring
cockroach figures of humans
living out the rituals of turbulent lifetimes.
From my mounted height I feel I transcend it all,
only I am plagued by windows like
slits in the dark

     slits in the dark eye of the sky-god,
     drawing blood, not water
     slits in the eye of the river-god,
     river of blood, not water
     slits in the eye of the earth,
     yielding paradigms. Split oil of mysteries.
     A slit on palm fronds, on night leaves,
     a slit on the face of time.


Aladdin's magic carpet is made of glass.
I can fly. The genie is a mouse on a desktop
launching-
pad, mine the click that opens up windows of the
world.
Vast store houses of knowledge, floating files
Like sailboats on blue waters on a sunny day.
After this pilgrimage of windows, only one thing
is certain. Not cogito, ergo sum. I know. I know.



STREAM

What does it matter if
today at the round the cleft-lipped doctor
snacked on my innards? Elevenses, my ears!

Awodi bird grows fat on curses,
feeds fat on the fury.

Tight like a sphincter in communismus,
what does it matter, anyway
what does it all matter really?

Hiding behind a copy of Homer's Odyssey
("Perhaps he would have preferred a more
liberal education ," she said)
Editions of "Economist," Beckett's Malone Dies,
Whoroscope,
the trip, lost chicks, seeing Efunsetan Aniwura.
Tolstoy's borrowed boots, purchasing watered palm wine
with cowries, kinsmen of the gourd, the proletcult.
Like the foetus of chapelizod, a coral on old string.

Abiku, Boston, Gottingen. A lance that bleeds not
blood,
not pus. White chalk, camwood, stars in Hawking's
night.
A crescent fragment of Ela's broken calabash, lamp-
lighter in Eliot's preludes.

The sodomy of Higg's particles. Shells. Old Tortoise,
poet, listening to himself, undying, dies to the
crack of ancient-shelled wisdoms. Like King

Ubu, eating iced body cream, in micro-tubules. His
black people lachrymostly, mostly misled . EBT can't
help the only child, poor Mrs Ubu.

Walking into the twilight, ingénue, simple as
life, like Templars. Was the tower
of Babel a phallic menhir thrusting vainly in
search of the whoring skyhole?


II


The old sea-dog with towering mane,
the gong of Meinong, ringing beasts in our logic.
Ithaca (Itakun): Telemachus sits in a hotel
lounge, waiting for his father.

The Jew of Princeton, the Spanish Jew, the one
who did not fight in the war
where Orwell got his throat shot.
There is another war in Cuba-
We will bury you! -bury the capital markets.

No more lies, girl, no more innuendos
About missile defence. Nightmare girl, you dance
Seductively to the makossa of guns. Largo, diminuendo.

Ulysses is a quest for the soul.



ENTROPIA

Whatever is, is not.
Sure as the horse pulls the plough,
things wear out. We watch
the heat of things flow out as time
goes by. Buildings collapse, crumble away,
nothing remains but a brick.
Unborn children grow old and die, under
the shadow of the au pair,
perched on a window pane,
tattling and chewing carrots.
Nothing remains but a tale that is told.

      Two men in a bar talked about the fall
      One was Soren, the other Jean Paul.

Eventualities, linked, by Kronos and Kairos,
(linked,) two monkeys in a circus act.
(the brass belly-button of the page seeks to obscure
this tale, but it must be told, 'cause sure as)
This also is called time,
this, the elegy of Rip van Winkle,
the headless horseman riding backwards.
The future is a guillotined Miss Easypiss,
flowing into the past.

That clumsy angler, man, head a can of grey
worms, swears a reversal of principles:
order is the serendipitous  harvest of chaos sown -
stately houses, recycling projects, immortality gene.
(His name is Roger, he cures the mind.
He heats up his tea when it is cold.
"I do not like Digestives. I do.")

This also is time, chyme chiming
to the belly's rhythm.
The dialectics of multiversalism:
"the earth is a closed system, or else
a system of closures." The worlds are
bubbles in God's bath-tub, the Universe
 a great ball of akara, saara
soaked in goat milk. Bubbles.