Streets Everywhere Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Streets everywhere. Eyes walked
a street. Ears drank watery
sobbing sounds over bridges to death.

Under trees with leaves, ribbons
waved blade palms to cut
through muzzles' mouths talking
like cranked-up engines on dining tables.

Yesterday, red lips of death
were pasted on every chat.
Clipped on every soft pad, into which
faces had melted and hardened.

Every whisper gripped and leaned
on an electric pole, where a young man
made palm sketches and finger prints,
dying, sighing with whispering birds.

Denizens rolled along on wheeled
feet walking to trees and lakes
on office tables. Hands were washed

and rinsed in blue water crawling
on streets of writing paved on paper.

(ii)

The writing crept and whispered
and sobbed over streams, clerks
and executives watching their shadows

in sun-glazed water wrestling
with silhouettes of weevils eaten by nibs,
the withered schema planted
in their heads after a storm of soldiers

had churned a young man like marsh,
molded his limbs like dough,
lurking death in a corner devouring him.

Down glistening cheeks wet streets
led to hooting docks of conscience,
every ship loading up cargo
for a trip beyond storm waves brewing a desert.