Sunday, January 20, 2019

Ma's Blasphemy

I    am rabid       and I won’t  eat his ribs        refusal itches because   it is a pest turned inside   out

I  practice  the boss’   monologue while     dragging his softening    body across the earth     with me

I  like    his shadow       company that’s    a lie I like pretending     a repentant evil angel follows

each of   us around        on his knees  and I think of   Thebe I don’t like   shit either I don’t

go   outside   on easter      but I’m never late  to the resurrection I     don’t believe we’ve made  it this

far     to scar   the grass with  vinegar one April   afternoon too many     drug immunities we eat   

the    bird’s  babies   guzzle the   yellow pulp      and then wonder      when our own sound   will

hatch      of all  that patient     cannibalism I     tuck boss in a   mudpack beneath a drooping    

thicket    and practice    his monologue back    at him limpness     that he is I return    in three days

to  pick   the gnats   and worms from    his muddy flesh and  later add them to   the cake and

potatoes   on his  widow’s menu       they skip no days   of food for the dead       a miracle of evil

you     want  to taste    impunity so badly      you want to feel the consequence     of fake power

in      your belly         I am very generous     about teaching you how   you want to feel until      

you   don’t  want it  anymore  beg away  your desire          I’m not even angry I’m  just very generous

I     practice    the boss’   monologue    feast on your    own dead feast on     your own dead eat

your    own dead        and one bright   necked morning   you’ll see a rooster       and I’ll be

running            no more game      on you escape     is blue escape is spring     lazy eggs

decorating       the new likeness        the new parallel     in hunt in relentless    distance

Monday, January 14, 2019

My danger as her

Handlers          lurk for saints        such scams

And I became a saint when  I was seven what   plans we have!

                  Revolution feather   pillows foam ones former   slavers for lovers

Resurrection   cuddle here     and there and     here again for salt      all infinite

   In  the trickling        water a tall     luxurious gentleman  who is always nervous

About    his card      trick always         sticking clubs in    the bushes this paranoia   

Other    than being     vain and homely       at the same critical       moment of disaffinity

          Makes it       easy to sneak       up on him with   analgesic soothe ask rude  nurturing

Questions             nurse his addiction   to himself and run   out naked in the throat     of night

To   tell on        him I fell   on him

                            you know I’m Corintha         you know I’m Maafa you know  you’re trapped

In    a cloth     dark empty    parking lot with        god your dealer and       a lot of sodom’s  moonlight

Sunday, January 13, 2019

Friday, January 11, 2019

Monday, January 7, 2019

RiRi, Run

The smallest hollow of the earth will take on all meaning   now owls folded into the skin and have clichés  for eyes for eyes you have razors you  have rosehips for eyes for eyes you have emeralds       you have ruts for eyes for seeing you have    crescents rolling hits landing in lipstick lips tipping      the ground apocalyptic hip switch I mean if enough  of us do this fickle wisp with yesterday strict          to the island capitalism we might not even need the revolution
                                                         I too wonder

what   it’s like           to colonize ourselves     I too get lighthearted   and belligerent in the      hinged swoop of twelve midnight      and haven’t been pinned down right       since I provoked him to drown the     priests to break the curse what a fool!         now the bleached water waits to eat the  West and foam lethargic on golden feet and the    feet that wish to be ionic nickels become the  crooked will of approach so rich so beautiful          so broken won’t you perform the crevice again the slick     part the yes yes lesson the burrow borough the part where our exemptions        show

Thursday, January 3, 2019

Tuesday, January 1, 2019

Lonnie Howling

It started neatly      like a private fetish  so creviced it could never   boon and tread said monsters    

Then   all of  sudden the   singer who   makes sculptures   out of throwaway   had a reputation

In white   heaven and   nigga heaven   was clamouring for    a new freak to personalize  and trade

Everyone   weird enough        to be a savior    will be taken to the   market and sold with the   sugar and gear

        Shrug if     you hear me     don’t come near    me with a picket    and a sleeve I don’t  wanna see another punk nigga   Ulysses make it home in no  peace

Be  meaner       be brand nude     and ruder and    hipper and worse  worst and firmer    and blacker and tactless     with nurture and curses    and crescents figuring out  the fist that circle bone  is no match for this yellow    early this merciless matriarchy    this year’s Lonnie Sonny Liston Holly leap in         this time don’t listen to anyone smith       or thistleless his voice was as flat as the   tires he stacked into black tears but
                                                                                                                          here we went at the purchase

Greed   don’t make   you hungry
But    what  a fat thing     for the having
What    a bad    bad wolf   

What    a lather     of babble  so cool to sell