Confessions of a post Obama expat

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Confessions of a post Obama expat is about living abroad and reflecting on American contradictions.

Confessions of a post Obama expat .00

Remnants and Ruins
abyss of contradictions
deciding to decide drives us mad
not deciding bounds us in regrets
no mistakes in our labyrinth
open paths lead to graffitied walls
narrated by Cy & Beauford
saphron streets paved with
abandoned smartphones
graffitti drying dripping from
the ceilings of my skull reading:
As it is so it isn’t As it was so it ain’t, now

Lotused chain smoking
with healers over seventy
and their grandparents too
and their grandparents grandparents
and so on until those First Parents of
the First World remind us,
You’re too close to our cauldron
First Mother and Last Grandmother pass the joint
we inhale every life we’ve ever lived in any form
we exhale a swarm of terrorists nutriculas
chasing transparent great whales into
whirlpools that wash us out with
Ahab transformed into turquoise pebbles
lodged in a wooden treasure chest buried
in a sunken pirate ship in the remnants
of a inoperative aquarium in the burned out tunnel
underneath my great great great great great great great great grandmothers hut
also known as Cahokia later known as Yoknapatawpha later known as
Califatzlan later known as Mississippi, Arkansas, Georgia, Texas, Louisiana,
never ever called (by me or anyone else from our home) America.

Confessions of a post Obama expat .002

Confessions of a post Obama expat

Our religion is surveillance
Our science is suspicion
Our money is magic
Our bondage is invisible
Our sex is ambiguous
Our cities are smart
Our identity is internet
Our soul is a lie
Our children are born on Facebook
Our leaders are assassinated in adolescence
Our leaders are bought and paid for in scholarships
Our warriors return unconcerned with condiments
Our chins peel the rest of our faces off our skulls and selfie that
Our pupils dive into the rest of our eyes and never return
Our trees bullwhip the bark off themselves and bleed antlers
Our men awake tomorrow dickless balls deflated and tell no one
Women who notice their deflated men, go check on their sons
Who overnight transformed into vengeful girls who
vow to violently reclaim the entire world in the name of
all abused goddesses who’s cracked torsos stay on display
in museums and burnt libraries all over this new world

Confessions of a post Obama expat .01

A freed inmate cannot miss prison
Will not nostalgically recall their cell
Desperately attempting to rid themselves
Of names, events, daydreams in jail

A freed slave cannot miss apparatuses of bondage
Will not nostalgically recall the servants quarters
birth, parties or laughs, for the place itself prefers
To remember bondage devoid of joy

A freed mind cannot miss suffering
Will not nostalgically recall abuse
Hopelessly ridiculing the spirit
That ignorantly enjoyed cruelty

A freed body cannot miss pain
Will not nostalgically scorch its flesh
until fat and muscle sizzle
While bones crumble and smoke until all is ash

Every now and then, though
A freed being may marvel at their resilience
And laugh about their scars with all the other unashamed ghost


Each year’s 365 days, right? Each day, 24 hours. So, each year we archive 8,760 hours of experience. (Sleep included.) 60 minute hours, right? So, that’s 525,600 minutes of occurrences. 60 seconds to a minute, right? So, every year we gain about 31,536,000 seconds of proof. (Dreams included.) Now, there’s 1,000 milliseconds in every second, right? So, each year we archive 31,536,000,000 milliseconds of encounters in our minds. (Blackouts included.) No wonder it’s so difficult sifting through all that information just to achieve one simple sharp idea.

for those of us who have difficulty lying
to ourselves, to our ghost, to our strangers

for those of us who refuse authorities
sentimental symphonies when admitting
how we continue to humiliate ourselves

for those of us who chain-smoke
& drink until the bottle’s empty
& eat until the plate’s clean
because it’s good for us and good for you
that we medicate ourselves in ancient ways

for those of us who can’t stop
criticizing ourselves or the world
for our inability to change either one
in any therapeutic way whatsoever


the country has returned to itself

Obama airbnb’d it for eight years

his debt settled, he now returns to civilian

ways of participating in the malicious circus

of powerless activities done only to entertain

children gorging on caramel popcorn

cotton candy and assassinated toys


Malik Ameer Crumpler is a poet, rapper and music producer that’s released several albums, short films and five books of poetry. He founded the literary journals: Madmens Calling, Visceral Brooklyn and Those That This. He is the new curator/ host of Poets Live, Paris. Crumpler also wrote several musicals, ballets/arias commissioned by Harvest Works, Liberation Dance Theater, Firehouse Space, Panoply Lab, B’AM Paris, B’AM Vancouver, and Double Wei Factory. His new EP, Cloaks & Codes is produced by Thatmanmonkz, the other half of their duo, Madison Washington.

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Published on: February 1, 2017

Filed Under: Articles, Essays & Poems, Poetry

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