the immanent imperfection is decay and death
and no wonder colleagues in ethnomusicology
not embracing the participatory discrepancies
'the show crept' was a jirgba ahire phrase in 'guy'
the language of makurdi's beat generation
before we found igbo young men eviscerated
intestines coiled like giant caterpillars in fields
this is what state force inevitably yields
"new blossoms, full-blown, withered, gone to fruit."
scenes from the fertile 60s force these daily appeals
for goodness, long-term-thinking, tire-on-road & stuck-pig squeals
for drumming circles, dances, prayers, everyone kneels
for strange sonnets on a g-string singing death, ax, equals
don't give up on the poet inside you; make life feel real
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