Wednesday, September 17, 2014

We feel unqualified for our roles as symbols

We feel overqualified for our roles as symbols

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Monday, September 15, 2014

The thing that always aroused anger before, this time inspired a raging tenderness

And I forgot what he had said about having never heard of a crime he couldn't imagine committing himself  /    and    finally       we   were well on    our way   to understanding    one another's    dainty /  sublime   / blame  ed for     prayers about       what ecstasy   our daddies   died   to    and   in          the fits   of  demented  sugar rubbing hoods   of their wooden blood   like private  leaders of the occult order we shrug  off as    pop  or   patent leather leotards   that zip v's  in the  front   of weeping   grinning  idols  or  subtle  abuses   of power that add up to     numb          I had   some   to say  /  some - thing,  I  mean  or  (thingness of the thing )  I had that and was about to bring it on stage   in   blind  pink    apertures      I  was  drunk   in a way where you do the Cabbage Patch   on the dance floor in public    and   genuflect    to invisible ghost  soldiers   as late   as the door shuts   behind you at sunup,   at fast   justice /   faster       cuddle with the newspaper  until it   makes   musty  tattoos   on your radiance  or don't  be           Puttering around in the proof of our oneness ,  all these new attitudes   toward    your very own     and  so coveted  / dissatisfaction    /    have  become the optimistic masks        that  keep us elaborate     clowns   in the cattle     feeling   guilty     for   joy    for sorrow     for the grotesque irony   of nearness these days  when      nothing will ever end     again  

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

What is the question you almost heard

Sometimes I weep at the beauty of our collective ideology, how ignorant and eventful the afternoons become when we really listen to what we believe in like it's the difference between now and danger. Some wry synthesis of speech and place/ image of a stuttering wave that crashes as the blades I mentioned earlier and forgot about daddy's hands stuffed in his slack pockets on a paranoid rocket number 9 in the Amarillo, Texas parking lot waiting for the knot in his heart to burst or resolve itself as chamber music, a lonely black man standing in a parking lot with his wife and infant waiting for the train to turn the corner so he can beg it to stay 

I've been waiting all this time in a tawdry shrine of utter forgotteness      to  situate the voice locked   in the scene locked   in the dream of fear  of the dream   I've  been weighing all this value    against  the shrug   of a comfortable demon      wanting   so much to be loved   by a man  who   could outdrive   any fugitive   on the innocence   of his  scandalous    commitment to the   good     and   then   one     double     hooded    element   could turn   all that   time    into   temptation        

                         There is something I've wanted  to tell   you  And some men do like the movies         If I rollerskate up to the window again   in   terrycloth and linen     maybe   a bandana  hugging my    spirals    and the fries and shakes and burgers  you   ordered even   though I don't believe   their   food   anymore         will  you still   be    there          tucked  behind the window waiting   for a friend   to notice      that sweat  is tears    that gun in your hand is aimed  in every direction    and the panicked hostages   are smiling   into  a pink and violet   sun 

Monday, September 8, 2014