Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

Giovanni, Run

Are  we     even        bending   over   to   touch   our    feet   in   the  morning       just   out of  bed,    sleep crumbling in the     eye   crease      reticent         crescent   sun   flinching   from    kettles         releasing   the lumbar   spine   arms   hung   like   crimes   head   caressing  the  feet  with shadow        are we   even    over    ourselves      by    the      time     a    rich    man   pulls  out       his    lumpy   phallus        sneaks   in      from   behind   promising      we        like   it.          Retracing   my    steps.     Yes, I had doubled    over            yes   there      was    a  second      version   of     me     who     needed     to    see    the world     end     in   this     disheveled   matriarchy     yes     it      was  a    good   excuse      for    all   this   running     no  I  did   not   like   it        no   your   cum        wasn’t     sweet    and    right    where    it     landed          in a corpse   of moon.     I didn’t    confess   because    you   didn’t    confess.    It’s   better    waiting   for   the    secret  to   eat  you   the  way I taste it  everyday     as  our endless bluest    intimate.    Palming   the   velvet      then     clawing     it  then  laughing   like backwater  at   an impasse  about to blurt itself out and be everywhere,     Fuck   your   couch.   

Saturday, November 18, 2017

Friday, November 17, 2017

Ai, Run.

She sits there like I didn’t slap her a few seconds ago        rapt in the smiling copper/mine    and sniffing   dust   for the  final bit  of   industry    could be bartered   for         a  night   in the    square    with   no  morning.    If   she    hadn’t   died young-like     all    the    ones       she   left   for   dead     in   the   field    or  cooked     into     the   confessions,   confections,   infected   suns,      aestheticized.   If   she   hadn’t     treated   the   brutalization    of   women    like   such     a   problem,    been   raped   on     prom   night     and     then     again      and   again      for   as  long  as   she could   count   to  zero.   And dissolve,      be  solved for hollow  peaches.  So if I seem   broken  and blue.   Angela Davis’   brother     is   the   CEO   of Xerox,     I heard.  Bitches  be  copying, niggas too,  everything,  desperately,   keep  this  record      you’re  disappearing  and    disappointing   me.     I heard  she’s  a narc    and the   narcs    are  heroes    and   don’t    get   killed  off by   the artificial   intelligence.   It’s   all lies    and   scorned  rumors   of course,   everything  important  is    by  now       so  numb     it    howls    in   silence with  Julien Priester and them  and me,     keep  this   record.     .   Ai    the  poet        not     the   pitted  plum   of   our trophy   hunting   and     unintelligence,      not the   dead    sardines    that   keep washing    up   in   cans   and side   by   side  on   Dr. Oz.   It is in her   lavish  violence  that   we   recognize  the   depth   of   our   need   to    be  loved      to   touch  devils    with   feathers   that   unnerve  them   and    sever    the   red   clay        of  gender   with  knives   as patient   as   mirrors                cracking  inside   the   flesh    like wasps  nests                  hatching     as   the  disease   you  catch   when    you  outrun     everything     and  can’t  forgive   yourself     this      delirious    and  lonely  beauty              

What is it about the negro?

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

He keeps me

He keeps    me   sipping   pearls          fingers   in     the   socket            feeling     for    his     wet   corpse    and  crying      
       I     insincerely   can’t    remember            I    do   remember       wanting      him     dead     but       I   blank     at   the        going   through               and   then   I kept      wanting       him     back                       Never   remove      scars      

Card  game     suit    of  flowers       in  the     cleared   out     sugar     factory         when  you   fan   them   down    and     declare           defeat        I’ll       be      watching      like    a    lucky     scar         from    the     show     window     on   the         top    floor        with   Jim     rotting       invincibly         becoming      a   crime            He     keeps         me     criminal      minded       and      I    like     it       very   much                 to        capture    Patty  Hearst   in black      who   one      day        will      start      craving       babies  of  her   own            That’s     the  difficulty    with  being    a  woman     and   militant  tender        one    day      you’ll       want     to   breed        something     innocent         of     your        disordered     longing      and      a    world     that   doesn’t     need    remedy        and    you   might   have    to   settle     for    amnesia      for       taking       someone    out     to   make   this    a    safer   place           and    you    will    consider      yourself      innocent       and     reborn          

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

You don't resemeble nothin' (1)

You’re a poet he said, and you don’t believe in love?
And he put his head down on the table and began to cry.