elsewhere in the bellybutton of Africa, I approximate as a misnomer
you do not want to measure in litres of normalcy
people say my body is already colonized by an influx of strange audio-visuals
which are toxifying its fractions with syrups of misinformation
& they say my body is festooned with antonyms of realities because
every filament of my thoughts, they think, is naggingly nauseous.
But, I swear, they fail to understand me—
that it is perfectly normal to find heaven inching closer downwards
riding on the mien of regal attachment
& mimicking rapture whenever outside is endearing enough
to see me walk my leisure in abridged sunlight.
they insist that I’m a man with compromised brains,
saying heaven is immobile, a remote delicacy of the surreal.
they do not understand how a cocktail party tenants my room
at the invite of each fortnight when a saturated mind squats
in an emergency suaveness of the wall clock & the standing fan.
I won’t tell them about my dead father whose throat is always guesting
at my luncheon table;
I won’t tell them since they must be mad not to see the things I see.