Thursday, September 20, 2018

Maafa's not distraught

My negroes,  I say they are mine because my father gave them to me     the story  begins    

Are you still waiting around for the happy ending?

Wednesday, September 19, 2018

Tuesday, September 18, 2018

Monday, September 17, 2018

Vivika, Run

Suffocating     supplicating    once I hung  a layer cake from the   ceiling like it was the   queen’s chandelier and I’m the     queen and I tested anapest   with a bat hinged at my shoulder  jabbed the new sugar loose so a mess   of white would splatter on my face jupiter jupiter   the matrix has you cake on the floor no more
                                        
        Pretending
 all  temptation     escalates for   the fall I  may not be safe     in my rage I may not    save you a plate later I  covered my face in that battered   frost pressed it against the window   

She  knows    church   she knows    all about it              I   heard  the neighbors    yelping at a ring      one man was on his back  in satin shorts arranging  their feelings have you seen  the fashion we wear polaroids     on our stomachs now the ones      taken from the slopes of roller coasters   because you’ll need to identify one another screaming       with nothing coming out of your mouths but cake and     a loud red maiden pressed against the window is that   snow is that motive is she where we meet under lemons   to watch those glaciers disappear into the sea and be glad      and be ruthless with me

Thursday, September 13, 2018

Earth Rot


As  if  it’s  habitual  ^ that   terrible she    folds the camels  into jesuit adults     and all the hoes are barren     andthen Maafa buys a    fast Mazda she forgot there’s   no more crude oil to guzzle so she   stands on top of that bloody lobster playing   the flute a lot of bamboo a jot of   Bambi surrendering to her inventor’s reputation     heal yourself from all knowing heal yourself from all knowing     heal yourself from all knowing

Sunday, September 9, 2018

This is the clearing he once spoke of

It’s wartime   there’s no gasoline       everybody’s on bicycles              and he walks out into this garden   this is toward the end and he  feels like Adam on the first day       And he’s waiting inside of her to  take shape shoes under water a   dozen representations of harps in stones If you feel  like you’re going crazy or dying or your ego is dissolving   go with it don’t fight it if you fight it you’ll make   it worse this is what spin is when all the gospels surrender

Thursday, September 6, 2018

For Maafa for whom grieving isn’t a fantasy everything is

Where e is  called   the spherical   excess a    pall of media is     always not even enough    to say something justice  like    they  love pickled   cabbage on a bagel  or     something    taller THEY  LOVE THAT GOD IS BLACK              we love playing west coast shit   in the backs of school buses on the way to Magic Mountain   one white kid named Jared is with it too one laughter    is too many chickens in Dave’s last day on set too many       dead birds on set too many onslaughts of secular mercy too many Marcy Projects    reciting but not Jay Z types I’ll fight a clone but then what? There’s genetics   in every tension a fantasy in every release revenge is just panic panic just     that this isn’t mount Fuji yet
make the next mountain a sinner with no rails  


I   suspect  we’re being     quarantined and    beamed up on double   crosses I suspect we  love Jesus and don’t    even claim him or have the   sense to clone him suspicion   makes me laugh and dip the   thigh in batter


Where the growl  of oil in mouths    captivates empowers
the earth  spills    some more  into a quarry   

Quarantine     Josephine     Persephone whatever the mania of clarity can occupy without killing