I saw generations of Americans grow beyond their skins
Dragging themselves down unlit streets looking for egg and bread
Who, poverty and unwashed, homely and happy, went to bed early in the last light of dusk, counting unseen stars, staring at tin roofs and considering hip life
Who bared their souls to Mohammed and saw nude angels racing in front of mosques, playing house and catch
Who passed through ambassadors homes with red tinted eyes hallucinating jobs
Who were expelled from spots for obscene and dancing like an idiot
Who covered their heads in the north and their knees everywhere, listening to the Advice through the years
Who drank herb afrik in cold air hotels, or ate street meat on unlit corners, cried or hugged their drunk night after night
With dreams, with drugs, with waking early, alcohol and cock and endless breasts
Incomparable deaf streets and cloudless skies with lightning leaping towards baobab at village end, illuminating sleeping forms and moments between
Bad weed solidities of homes, bush green tan burials, akpeteshie drunkenness along tamale road, container store and pothead taxi ride lights out, sun and sun and sun roaring every month, always, rubbish chaos and bright non light of mine
Who paid tros for the endless ride from tamale to Holy Accra on diazepam until the noise of dagomba movies brought them down, shuddering mouth wracked and battered, bleak of brain and eye bleary
Who drowned in bottles of local at giddy pass, stumbled out and sat through stale beer all night at point seven, listening to chris brown on the television
Who talked, continously, every minute there was another English speaker, from tso to tro to spot to Shoprite to accra rest to the airport
A whole army of americans, climbing up trees, off low stools, off taxis off hitched rides, out of latrines
Whole intellects forgotten in seven days and nights of running
Who snuck into nowhere Quiet burkina, collecting local currency and baguettes
Suffering malarial sweats and fevers of unknown origin and diarrhea of parasites in ma fati's bleak, unfurnished hut
Who wandered around and around in stations knowing where to go, but not how to get there, and left only broken hearts
Who lit cigarettes off matches matches matches, chain smoking to keep the fire going while rocketing towards dawn
Who studied Marx, chairman meow, islam, jesus, and capitalism because the cosmos had forgotten them in ghana
Dragging themselves down unlit streets looking for egg and bread
Who, poverty and unwashed, homely and happy, went to bed early in the last light of dusk, counting unseen stars, staring at tin roofs and considering hip life
Who bared their souls to Mohammed and saw nude angels racing in front of mosques, playing house and catch
Who passed through ambassadors homes with red tinted eyes hallucinating jobs
Who were expelled from spots for obscene and dancing like an idiot
Who covered their heads in the north and their knees everywhere, listening to the Advice through the years
Who drank herb afrik in cold air hotels, or ate street meat on unlit corners, cried or hugged their drunk night after night
With dreams, with drugs, with waking early, alcohol and cock and endless breasts
Incomparable deaf streets and cloudless skies with lightning leaping towards baobab at village end, illuminating sleeping forms and moments between
Bad weed solidities of homes, bush green tan burials, akpeteshie drunkenness along tamale road, container store and pothead taxi ride lights out, sun and sun and sun roaring every month, always, rubbish chaos and bright non light of mine
Who paid tros for the endless ride from tamale to Holy Accra on diazepam until the noise of dagomba movies brought them down, shuddering mouth wracked and battered, bleak of brain and eye bleary
Who drowned in bottles of local at giddy pass, stumbled out and sat through stale beer all night at point seven, listening to chris brown on the television
Who talked, continously, every minute there was another English speaker, from tso to tro to spot to Shoprite to accra rest to the airport
A whole army of americans, climbing up trees, off low stools, off taxis off hitched rides, out of latrines
Whole intellects forgotten in seven days and nights of running
Who snuck into nowhere Quiet burkina, collecting local currency and baguettes
Suffering malarial sweats and fevers of unknown origin and diarrhea of parasites in ma fati's bleak, unfurnished hut
Who wandered around and around in stations knowing where to go, but not how to get there, and left only broken hearts
Who lit cigarettes off matches matches matches, chain smoking to keep the fire going while rocketing towards dawn
Who studied Marx, chairman meow, islam, jesus, and capitalism because the cosmos had forgotten them in ghana
