Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Let's talk about how everything is everything

The flagship metaphor so subtle and boring it jumps the spleen at 4 in the morning, for kicks, recreational criminal, the swollen third lung, thug lung, hurried lung    one that never loved the door slanted shut on a phony ditch  and rutted there with records (memories)   needy corners in a circular life    bright as iron in   the   ice    storm   bright as    earned forgetting    errand in the manner of pleasure         You have to be careful with iron supplements though, because they're acidic, and you might get more bonding than you actually    want           that    said     none but the   righteous    none     but the      like us?      that said     can   this   be reportorial   without being   linear   a motherhood in letters        that   said    when Tony Soprano  ran from the all-his-teeth having, coca cola slurping world war 3 veteran  black preacher   who's  son he was fixin to off    nevermind all that    what had he   seen in the soft dilemma of      irony  :    see the iron   in there    see the runner again,     the mineral  and the   dash         perhaps my Hatian Sicilian blood  struggles with how jazz was the    nigga mafia   and    now   what  about    the     gospel   falls as short  as  dusklight   and just as unnoticed    Noble   tokenism      we call it      and   this is your life    it replies    all casual      another clot of abstractions   sprung into matter by a desire so strong   it can't even feel itself think    the   longest   battle   is all that      spark   plug  attacking   the   water    it was unnatural  to worry or the world went up in flares  of memory   it was  unnatural  to call knowing   remembering   and we are caught   there     maybe     at the advent of blame   where we act out our own ghosts   and dangle them  out    towardtheheart    like   t r o p h i e s          that said    no use in pulling back either

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Sharper Now

In the power of the image of power      I purse my lips  and the lights fade        to   a   source of patience          the mint brigade      brigade     brimming   with     the rage of a source   and penitence and remorse    both   foolish    both    lazy   and lavish    both ways   now   chase one another in the power   of the image    of   power    I trace my lips with my middle    finger and the symbol whispers screams  

lentement     the French onyx way to   say slowly       really says    holding back   retrieving dignity through the discipline of the so antisocial refusal of it       an erotics of denial   and     sin         and denial of   sin.     I love to sin.   Like the time   I pretended  the music   was a vat of my daddy's blood and    swam   in   until I   remembered    the pot was on          water smoldering  to   mean rust       like the time    I  shrugged   off the fantasy  and it came back   real   like the time      I       planned the reason and it came   back   matted   in my belly    almost immaculate       I'm trying to figure out what I'm talking   about    too       the muted muscle of  logic   flexes   a legible blues    like the time I felt my own   conception   happening       as    it was happening            watching my parents   from the     crack    in the    atmosphere        how   I came here to save   them     through the kind of understanding   the shield   leverages when the    sun in    silent            

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Jezebel Said (1)

It's common to feel illumination from within, as if thousands of little lights were burning inside your body. Just accept your sleeplessness and enjoy it. Call genius a mask for stupification, flat fiction of a race lost in the stupor of transcendence. And black genius and incremental forms of settler colonialism go hand in hand, love the colonist for forcing you forward in a blue dream like Kierkegaard did and Charlie whistling a field order you ignore in spirit I remember it I remember ignoring it in spirit respect duality but don't land in it and dance like a fire deity too proud to come to her knees your karma has risked burdensome doses of pleasure to moan this yesterday through a body to recite what Jezebel said to the saints and release the meaning as silence

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Mythogenesis (2)

And that's why you have to watch the jackal

Dear Dad,

I found the big purple grapes with the seeds in them, just like the ones we used to share out on the porch before you lost your voice and I lost my appetite. Organic too. Two lifetimes ago. The first bite brought tears to my eyes. Could be the way the tambourines and tender harp strings in the chants I've been listening to on Alice Coltrane's Transcendence, through huge encompassing headphones, could be the way those insistent tones mingle with the silent almost mimed grasp of my tentative bite and time my ambivalent cells for reaction, rational pleasure. I know none such. What about the communities and minds in which the idea of longing is being reproduced all the time? What about that memory erases the chalk off your silhouette again.

The other day I hung out with an Italian friend, writer, one of Amiri Baraka's old friends. We talked about the subtle revolution of releasing his collected poems in time for Black History Month. I was a little crestfallen by that cold capital precision, and then yes, we got to the topic of children, Amiri's 9 children. The way this man put it, one was by "a re-educated hooker." I looked on unphased. A "re-educated hooker" who had been living in the basement of the home he shared with his wife and children when they conceived this child, whom he took in and raised as his own, for this was his own. I once heard him say abortion is genocide for members of the African diaspora in the US, that no matter what. There's something about it I find heroic. There's no scandal to boast of there. It's beyond scandal. There's no landless population or listless copulation or say what you want Imma raise all my children to the royal hemisphere and back again from now until after the last sky I am, I could hear Amiri thinking, what is wrong with groovin? What is wrong with groovin?

And back in the globe of these grapes, I've lost my appetite for tension. I've stopped pretending I can't see the past like future and I see them side by side approaching their favorite porch to tell a wide mobility into the stillness. It may have been the ruthlessness that brought us to our respective voices, it may be, it will be, it is, we demand it thus, to a new sense of what the present time might be, to the empathy that some dispersions might be, to the silent fable of a seed.

 The steepest love,


Sunday, July 20, 2014

Three temptations

They're not the same temptations, but they are three temptations