Within The Confines of a Beautiful Mind

Poet. Dreamer. Fool.

Chapbooks --

1. Word. Art. Warrior. Thought.
*Done*

2. To: All the Robots and Pretty Girls.
*Done*

3. Jive Turkey Renaissance
*Done*

4. Polymath.
*Editing*

5. Ronin: an Odyssey
*Editing*

6. Sucker Punch: Fear & the Inner-City Blues
*Editing*

7. Sunshine Cinema
*Editing*

8. How to: Fix the World
*In Production*

9. Indigo (Dark) Carousel
*Editing*

10. Homeless
*In Production*

Novels --

1. Heartbomb Meta Blues
*In Production*
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think quick, secure the abyss
there exists an exit that exits existing
an elixir barely worth mixing;
but this thing — search for the truth;

a bullet can’t go faster than time,
I mean, a clock can’t go faster than life,
I mean, being aware and being aware that you’re aware
are two different…

pain is the only thing I know capable of magic;
utopia exists when there is nothing left to liberate —

smile marathons go — keep going on.

Emmanuel Njomo Jr., Interstate 95, Homeless

I would take the high road —
but the low road is so damn pretty;

look at all these people standing in line,
waiting to trade in their halos for crowns;

I wonder if space bikes are better without brakes,
does it matter as long as you get to see the stars come home?

hell has got bells and dancing devils;
why does heaven need gates?
to keep you in or keep you out?

Emmanuel Njomo Jr., Space Bikes, Homeless

looky here —

a black man,
black like a dead fire;
black like Congo jungle;
black like the space between the stars —

new black, post black, almost-kings,
with wings that ain’t meant for flyin’

lost in the eternal sunshine of spotless vaginas;
lost in the snap dragon quasi braggin’ — porcelain satisfaction

lost in the 4th dimension self violence
swallowing sour stones while brigades of silence follow —
all the good for charming ghosts don’t you think?

don’t you think? don’t you think?
don’t you think? don’t you think?

Emmanuel Njomo Jr., Clay Lions, Homeless

what do you want me to say?

that the only thing vices do
is remind you that your’re human?
that life comes wearing boxing gloves
but kicks you in the shin?

the cure is the plot twist;
like flowers growing on a grave,

I sit next to my corrupted valence,
with a heart beat gorilla baritone;
wishing I could unset the sun,

my stomach feels like my ribcage is gone,
my bones feel peripheral —
like the big bang blew the blues right through me;

I’ve always liked playing cards,
clubs, spades; two things you fight with,
diamonds, hearts; two things you fight for —

makes sense, everything in life is a metaphor —
a metaphor for life.

Emmanuel Njomo Jr., Watch the Kicks, Homeless

anguish is a language
only known by those who can’t speak it;

the big toys and shadow machines,
play acoustic covers of pain —
while the dull eyes strain
against neon silhouettes of billets of futures past —

again he was drunk on a bench
overlooking a thin tree
with courage faced leaves whom knew of September
shotgun blues; both were bang enough to fall —

sable dj turn tables take vinyl words labeled:
the past and tell fables fast but on rhythm
a schism from the modern isms — but still music; religion —

peace ain’t a bill, it’s a receipt —
look, you only charge a penny for your thoughts
and your talk still ain’t cheap.

Emmanuel Njomo Jr., Things That Happened, Homeless
The first thing you learn in the real world: smiles are clearly meant to destroy.
Emmanuel Njomo Jr., Heartbomb Meta Blues

concrete carpets, dusk bonnets;
archons vomit — machine gun non-fiction;

poor diction, new species
peace free chief tepees divide our shivas —
the trumpet tribes are longing for rest,
sadness nests; their dragon’s breath
remains a dragons breadth;

an ear’s death deaf to death’s ears
shadows step near
razors played with razor blades — scars are soil

boil the virginity til done,
no sun here — sunglasses?
funglasses for the masses,
you can’t look directly at it
too much or you go blind.

Emmanuel Njomo jr., A Vial of Polygons, Homeless

happy birthday —
trick or treat —

meat is whatever the lion says meat;
“stay silver” the mouth said to the spoon;

keep cashing them reality checks —
I love looking up,
the night sky looks like a giant black velvet buddha,
deathdancing like a barracuda
on a dirty deck —

put wings on whatever’s next;
with a throat full of triangles
and a mouth made of spiderwebs —
the vice ether called me father,
I stretched farther as if to hug,
I stretched wider as if to love —

the courtesan of suicidal thought,
brought, daguerreotypes of futures wrought;
stopped: the crystal thoughts and spontaneous space —

entry.

Emmanuel Njomo Jr., States of Grace, Crickets, and a Chainsaw, Homeless 

preach brooklyn; whisper manhattan;
best believe, makeup is warpaint — in she walked,
hot enough to bake the sun; high midnight
attempting to slay the darkness; she was a fire still learning
burning, a quake shake on a moon mountain;

preach brooklyn; whisper manhattan;
jazz is the opera of the block;
a block filled with lips that have a talent for not telling
and berserk half-empty saviors still learning that
it’s hard to do a rain dance with an umbrella in your hand;

preach brooklyn; whisper manhattan;
shelled ghosts strike —
unsure whether fear is the sword or the stone;
viva la bedtime — few kids bother to sleep on their beds
most sleep under them with the monsters;

preach brooklyn, whisper manhattan,
it’s rock and roll all the time,
it’s vodka in flower vases — on full bookcases;
it’s sipping molotov cocktails
with a rag longer than friendships; slam,
in like a lion, out like a lamb.

Emmanuel Njomo Jr., Preach Brooklyn, Homeless

city nights, flashing lights, hollywood bright
reality-lite — the great maybe mighty might,

born to die, die to fly; dead immortals;
life, major domo to strife, a deus ex machina arena;
a wrinkled rectangle was all it was —
a distorted door — a liquor pour; a tangerine world; peel —

that ceiling fan just keeps wheeling man,
it spins with a tenth avenue attitude;
I am in orbit but disregard altitude,
bottomless but stuck on the ceiling,
crawling like a young wolf out of a snow bank;

there’s a conga drum on the tips of tongues
of those who speak in full color,
with dry eyes in a savage world,
on a mystery train,
reciting one word love stories
as they dance to music no one else can hear —
that is my rhythm — those are my tribe.

Emmanuel Njomo Jr., Deathcloud, Homeless