Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Dear Babylon,

Once upon a Summertime by Gil Evans is as irresponsible as a fairy or free niggas. As us hugging boats and smiling. The way his tone leaves you stupid as blue lake no. 1, an additive, sped up and pitched down, ducking bullets and big lights, another Adderall addict, healed of attention as a broken child, heralded in the wild odor of shy lavender and burning servitude in the service of not anarchy but some hip nudge between brothers about to leave up out the rhyme. Don’t ever let anyone break you, eyeshine, roulette, you, and I. But did you want to recover (anyone)? Did anyone want to, or the new earth too, recover?  Did you want that self back, the patented only-the- impossible-happens one drowning in Sundays. I had started to see paradise in mass extinction  a jagged winking mirage of new area codes,   new hoes, hoses cobraing in black and white photos  above the protest as   you chew the dangling leg of an octopus, gather its eight hearts in afterglow    in   Agharta, in the middle  of us   tweaking  on the cusp of  the moss agate on my kitchen faucet like a lost gate parting    soft dirty green    be  mine,   earth    sleazy minor key,  be gone.  I had started to like us again. Slanged as candy good as gold, us. Letting life imply its opposite, I had picked a side. Bye bye, daddy,  and Babylon, to  be alive   there is no wrong  way     to  be the song so longed for    to slaughter  all the others   

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Saturday, September 2, 2017


M a   a   f   a    trusts      a      song               a    whole   wrong    note   don’t      just    disappear      Ma   hops  on a bus    with   Lonnie  Holley     and    bends      metal       into   what    arose          A sort   of   tenderness     that   is   almost   grotesque      were     it     on    display  so he hunches  over    gives  me       a    way       to    rinse     off      in      the   morning        and     leave     before        he    wakes   up,       already     be     making   time  on his  fuzzy   ass      Already   asking   about Berlin.              Whatever     was   inside     me    then,   whatever    akashic     shyness    released   to    bleed      in    silence          it    disappeared    on   that   boat   on  labor   day       Melvin  paid   me   in kelp   and then         crept   into     recess   with      the    other    patterns      ruby  jade   plaid    and   laura   dern   in   blue    velvet       was   she    in   that ?              She  in it  now    

Monday, August 28, 2017