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.