Wednesday, September 25, 2013

in Woman I trust

"not that i have to explain i go ahead and do it anyway. my work bears no image other than all the stories thrust on my psyche as a child's way of sowing, and comparing it to what i see readers of the same books reap. i wonder in writing, are we creators of ourselves through stories or do stories create who we are?! i'm driven by the knowledge that the first story told is by a female. the mother. and its first form of communication is emotion, or rather, feel. the story is told through the stillness and roughness of the waters we first wade. maybe its an explanation of why the moon moods all of water. staying current, but bear with me as i digress. as consumers of our environment, a child born of a mother, a celestial being, will absorb all of what its host does. as does gravity with fluid, it keeps it tethered to a center. a seed hangs on every rhythm on the umbilical cord as it serves as the image of all actions through life's first musical string communicating temper. sound moves as a rhythm. i am my Mother's son. so in the silence of our first communication, i write. write about all of what i have collected as teachings or lessons with the loudest sound. coming from a place where my learning was limited to the faintest signals, the womb, i equal in measure all of Her actions of a calculus full of open bounds. the physics that filters sound to create a brew of thoughts. noise collected to drown inanimate word since what i must utter is the right pitch to match Her emotional paths. let me ingress. the words i write here at make up the unifying randomness of my existence. eerily so, ours. those robbed of a shade yet blessed with cover. it is as though we are of the same Mother."


"struck a green cord"

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

dung huts

"thanks be to the plant that gives an animal purpose. giving its leaves freedom to determine their destiny on how they should exit as carcass. omnivorous beings playing hunters. gathering facts about how soil determines its coffers. they are the artists of wood who offer conniving carnivores options on what to do with a tree's hide. its supple sap sampled only by carvers' desires. sculptors of the contours of water as it gains form in form of dye. water conquers light just as dreams conquer the night with refracted memories of our communication with the sun's ire. green pigmentation on a leaf show how the artery and veins of a body is full of life's artistry. i see my skin and hand prints on a leaf's pattern as flattery.
a product that moves the furthest distant as its own existence can take its seed alive or dead through digestive systems of earthen tapestry. the foundation of what is treasure. shelter. living quarters built with rings as walls. ceramic tethers. clay pots used to give back to dirt as it cooks using the blessings of burnt turf, not for separating broths. a unified bowl with roofs thatched. going natural. a household built with the ground up. this is my dung hut. ghosts busted as the shining thing i've chosen for my build is the door no one can shut.
compounds of scum summed as slum means trees have little to fear as its home is well taken care of in every gut. Lazarus, the natural king. subjecting His kingdom to Her royal sphinx. the pride of a jungle with self-cultivated ink. animals penning everything in depths as deep as water can think. water thinks?! yes, these are fragmented moments of a breathing fish. the belly's beast. dormant scenes of a dark berry's valley echoing what whales are seeing. the higher the pitch, the fuller the well. lower sounds exude pride while the higher tone break glass' knell. barriers that mirror water giving off false depth perceptions on how space must exist, with bounds that swell. a tree only expands as far as water can tell. this is my dung hut. feces building what the mouth can't stomach or strut. mitishamba writing for Her to start living as what her nose and mouth must trust."

"speaking of green!"

the leaf and Dinka pic are thanks to and robert lankenau for being witness

Sunday, September 15, 2013

storytelling the lasting spirit....the preservation of a soul. moments shared in the absence of one's existence. its the thread that needles society......

"mitishamba is i, ishmael, observing how the real story of crossing a river is not the water, but the stepping stones. sort of like ants and their society, the names others continually use as tread for their paths, yet lack the gratitude of even planting an ant hill on the other side of the banks. it speaks of those that utter, yet lack sound. i write in observation of silence. the fat Lady that sings is suffering. unable to exhale Her beauty as all of Her mind's language is caged. so i use this tongue to exhaust. shit. that just means tired. since i know if i spoke of what i think, the person reading this at this point is listening. a writer is a silent speaker. meaning the only person capable of hearing me knows how to literally consume words. so my literature is on blades of grass as i know how they speak loudest with the lowest sound. revealing how those that graze from the same field of thought turn into greedy animals and thus milk herds. followers of anything that does not consume from its grounds, they await for what a servant of dirt produces in blind urge.........."

......preview of how my thoughts travel as i tell stories of storytellers lacking stories yet......

mitishamba glossary:
tree - lineage; connecting two to one; soil's vengeance to air

a bird's morning song is being piped by a hundred and forty notes of absent earths in each tweet, abandoned records, while a tree attempts to provide a branch for its resting place..... @mtishamba

mitishamba  ~ my perception, once upon a time, someone thought a tree grew on air because the branches mirror the roots.
"the green floating toilet"

Thursday, September 12, 2013

war without women and children

the battle of a conscious vs an unconscious heart ~ mother vs child, my father's war.

"i once was a child.
also with a Mother.
i was armed to the tooth with a future as a brother.
my arsenal brought grief with the brew of time as i separated from the two safety nets of my birth.
mother and child.
a brother turning wild.
left to lead the destiny of my jungle as my Mother only marveled at my wise.
egged on to carry Her bark, or rather shells, casings of evidence battled in drive-by courts.
residence in the bloody pivot that holds fort.
protecting lethal legal bars that see saws from loggers eager to perform splits.
dismember beams of a tree's trunk to isolate the source of water from wind.
they are the close relatives of firing squads prepping walls for kilns.
you see in this wild world, being blind is sightly to others.
given eyes, a Woman's clock, a child's paths are conscious.
driven guises impair the unconscious road paved with dreams, making grown children want to play watches.
keeping time on every beginning and ending shot fired, but not taking into account where the lead torches.
listening to a fruit full of fictional pulp as it poses, 'you wanna play blind man? then go walk with the shepherd'.
lost children follow footsteps molding dirt which imprints dead beats into their half-grown hearts.
they become hyenas stuck at the fork of a forested path.
spots on the hide of a greedy animal in the midst of sheep virgin to heat-needed sheering, turns it tethered.
sheep now free to be nomads executing harvests oblivious of whose heart among them is tender.
raw, green, evergreen, emotions on the sleeves of a Mother who's leadership is abdicated to a seed scorns all levers.
so she swings Her sword of names carved on a farmer's playground for planting scepters.
measuring sticks of what carrots mean when Her shelled ones scatter.
left stranded but growing in accordance to the book of wills, chapters, and verses bound by Her granulated lectures.
Her sword limits graduated rulers full of emotions from going overboard on a ship fortified with numerical censors.
a calculus to challenge the constant follower of fertile soil and its green shrapnel from stepping outside its boxed, geometric ebb.
solice in the know of a tree only grows in a circular web.
like mane on skin, a conscious organ that sheds.
as does any mind that doesn't give life debt.
a warring hyena being given a small view of what a lion dens; cenotaphs which mark the open place where the idea of dirt being conquered by an iron peg, decks.
names in thousands meeting an endless end.
carbon blood of tied fears lacks the unifying ingredient of decay.
not soil, the lusty stone that is diamond instead.
trapping light rather than through chlorophyll, expend.
the element that absorbs the air's tongue left by those that rest on the same pride of a roaring sound-bed.
a loud vacuum of word catering to Her silent screams as they are the first sign of the introduction of ears to death.
the fulcrum of balance works to sustain growth even while concrete hangs on its roses' shield of thorn.
made ready to defend the liberty to rest a soul in  the pieces of what gravity makes one, observant ~ the server of orb."

culture ~ 'be honest'
mitishamba ~ 'children grow to wage wars while preserving future fighters as violence cements the image of what path life should take. life's destination is a name. mine, ishmael. fully grown, mitishamba. made through the violence of dirt's peace.'

".....every little thing, you run gone to the station. not telling the officers anything bur really making public mischief. if you know that, lion story, never run straight. three sides to lion story......." culture #josephhill

Mitishamba ~ talking to the Woman of green
"for green, dig deep."