Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Lies should be very simple, like the truth

Sunday, August 24, 2014

I always wake up

At 3AM        smiling broadly   and looking generally symbolic     Sun Ra rants about harmony and

      John Cage whispers   about dreams        each   with   his theory   and the burden of genius   :

liberation        can   lean good in the transition from ideas   to beliefs   I   always wake  up   clutching my grandfather's id card from the   Freedman's Bureau   just to be   sure    our capacity   for hallucinatory   relief    is still   in tact       and    Duke Ellington is still a Free Mason    and anguish still acts  surprised    

Funny how things can get away from you     for years  you can't remember anything     and then   one day   it all comes back

"Your father was a slave?" he asked.

What kinda foolish question is that, 'course he was.

Friday, August 22, 2014

To take those encores

As if the cult of self presupposes either optimism or a dilettante's attitude toward life

With the righteous showmanship of a depressed addict       As if your   isolation is staged   and emphatic    cave   for one   alliance         in a faded California      

Do these niggas nurse sadness for soul

Or are they     ecstatic   and you ain't  been told

Next, we all warmed ourselves in the evil of opinions   and the fast ones got emotional   like  exact histories   of the lie    that reliable    lie    told your hands to rise  like this was   the other   routine

I saw Biggie Smalls strolling through the other routine     smile  on his   meaning       said he just missed   holding   the   pen   sometimes     and can't remember anything       clumsy   like war  and bookeeping   as if   the  slated   distance    means a future  

Monday, August 18, 2014

They Shook that in Los Angeles

Put the good brand on television      with   a live studio audience      watching him repeat    the same rehearsed affection    to   sell    beer and candy          And right in the middle of my laugh I felt the crazy   urge to cry  

Papa                      look at my shadow   

Mama is no hardworking         martyr by the stove