Saturday, December 20, 2014

The disorientation of sweet violence (again)

Kill    /  For the Echo      


Our silver lining word  immortal   with the thrill  of it           the settlement   millions 

           the right to say beginner   and mean    we  recur     and  find comfort in 

recurrence   otherwise I'd   watch him  burn   jive  the oracular  rains  back to shore   and   treat  the brief epic  like a  glaring alternative  you wish you didn't require    you cannot  live   without.   

I'm saying what is the sweet thing aching in the eyes   of the lifeless    that we risk their   envy     their fit   of  ghosts    to  invent    the hero   who disappears     them      Who is the hero  now?   

Your power's all dirty  and  a rapper out of Miami, calls himself   Clams Casino     he reached   out to Osiris   got him     off  that Al Jolson  Jazz Singer   horror      was you hero  then  fisted chorus of a negro  entropy empathy   trophy   immediate  and sober    who is  your    hero    now?      


I'm a peaceful  girl   in   spite  of it   all     but   I'm   considering    spreading these  limber   things   into a fine  and mellow dynasty  while  it's  still  supple   will and wine     I mean    on a couple   covers     I mean   that seductive innocence  that makes the men touch  themselves    until   the clouds  swell    while whisper   a faux submissive who's  your hero now ?      Going the healer   route       is power  beautiful   as it ebbs into  duty   how is your beauty  now     automatic     I'm  howling      against the urge   to  be proud   of   war     when  it  coordinates   my  people      and the lure  of the solo  is    who are  my people   now?       Patient  for crime.   The disorientation of sweet violence awake   in   us   again      

and we are expensive  
we are so expansive  
and freedom  isn't even  romantic   unless it's by accident     we wondered              

and the will only  fails  when it opposes   the imagination         so  much           the lucky trickster  tricks  himself  also          He wears  false diamonds  as willingly   as real  ones



Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Monday, December 15, 2014

I work best as a fetish

And other things nobody ever says  (aloud)    are  audible    and heckle  the soul    bait the madness of great ones     into  the tame Monday   blues   I say blues   too   much   I mean it    usually    as  a fetish  working   its  crease   into   my     awakened spine    I   mean    I'm one of those    stageless in fancy polyester   man  says     queen   and means       breakfast together   once  in a while   in morning after lobby purple    when  his wife is out of town

Saturday, December 13, 2014

Friday, December 12, 2014

Alchemy at Daybreak

Wake up craving terror and Buckminster Fuller  is there on a trapeze and rapture as majestic as torture was  yesterday,  as   yearning   as    one   love    one  lo  ove    Marley  singing  while his skin   betrays him   his sun betrays,  his many women stay, which is betrayal  for what he is capable  of  is too obscenely  just   to be human or imminent      two  pieces of one :     what of it   he mutters like an apparition     disappears walking and clapping  into the spotlight's past black gimmick glowing with absence and merchandise.   He was practically sauntering   whisking the spell into song  and some sublime  apathy        as the searing  fix of babble  becomes the one  valve  of clarity  do   we  fear  ourselves becoming  whole.   If only we  were all a little crazier  more soul    just to enough to say what we aren't thinking    how lonely it is to overcome  ourselves   and the choreographed oppression    mellower   and more comfortable  some days    I'm tired  of the resin   in every great black preacher's voice,  the perfect  sanctimony  of manhood is better    pimps   are better   than holy men     at convincing    me  of anything   worth risking the illusion of duality  against     but you'd be surprised  how many of them  pump  the resin   at  daybreak