I often run out of notebooks. I am always jotting down phrases or small insights. I return to my books when I need to write music and am in need of a phrase. Or I write letters to people I love…
*
The revolution is female he said,
pumping his fist in the air.
Love is revolutionary enough
I thought as I got into bed
…. and waited
*
Gypsy
He marches  in
black and red
And leaves me with a
heart full of Saturdays
And last minute
     kisses
*
Jefe
Under the half moon
     sky of Zambia
Foreign hands cured
      the mud
of its madness
        and
flooded our skins
*
Last First Night  
I nervously lit my cigarette, stared at the moon and waited while I heard him sing in the small house next door. I was rooted… to the spot, to his voice and the percussive sounds of a bag being packed. My body, a bundle of anxious desire was strangely silent. Calm, even though I barely understood the words he sang.Finally the door opened.
With a bounce in his step and a twinkle in his eye he  lit our path and smiled..as though the imminent collapse of our worlds, our bodies into each other…was fait accompli. Something the gods had foreseen and pinned to the sky, to light our way in the dark.
This way Jefa, he said gently, his voice filled with laughter.I nodded. I smiled.Damn this man and his laughter that feels like water wildly cascading down the mountain on a hot day I thought.
 Of course I followed him…

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