Friday, July 21, 2017

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

Boy, ain’t it time you was thinking about your soul?

A baptism consists in words and hands pouring water over the head                   strings plucked like wheels to make   a   chorus      the stabbed-in-street-war boy  running   home to mama   and the  balm of psychobabble   and peroxide, cottonblood clung to ribs as he dies in    her arms       Disaffected  disinfected  affect   of   going   under    of   struggle with Siddhartha   for just one  grand    mushroom   or to prevent  china    from   invading Afrika    with  roads  and coal     and  rugby     a huddle of thieves  buttering  the iron       muttering  runners    thin  with the grief, flabby, ugly stampede of good unwieldy  dreams  of what to become on all that land    the skirts  of hay  on stilts    to  pray to    or burn   to       Bernadette     churning  in the chalk  like a redneck  wrestler      we  loved  her   prayer /  we  struck   it   down      terrified of  such   a  love      of the glove of    recitation     of  the resuscitation  into a place  the smells  like bubblegum   and  graves where proudM a a f a   gobbles   silver   from the earth to stay   alive     her  hair  growing  like a  weed   skin  shedding   into  some peach  horror   peach tree rotten with waiting    flips on its   gauntlet  hue  and  harmony   is reduced   to miracles    to the mouth of the fruit  opening   and  heaving  you  into its  sweet resume    to resume  sweetly     and need to  be tasted   




 Maybe  not cannibalised  in  the jaded  ward  of   gardens     but  gorging  the mouth  pathological    what is sickle  cell  ?   Indelible  hip bone  feeding  on itself    until  he was  in near constant  pain    what  came to the center    when  he yelled   and twitched   for help      what kent state declension had them reenacting that rape  in the fields    forever      

Thursday, July 6, 2017

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Monday, July 3, 2017

Sunday, July 2, 2017

Guided Meditation

Cover the table  in junk newspaper    and shut up about protest  and  communal living and the way it feels to touch thin ink and weep    Picture Cuba Gooding Jr. with those silver balls weaving his palms in Boys in the Hood   Maafa   are you  good    are you    here     and you good    here     Lady be good   be here   and be   good here, do you hear me, ma?  Looking good ma,  thick  and  brothel clover  occipital  killer   but not really    you  want us to live.   It’s 1995  in Compton and you have the nerve  manipulate survival, to call it forth from the sandalwood smoke, to  know how we’ll live when the tension between two greens is hunger  and   it   bit into the grass  like a natural out there on all fours  ass up   testing  the  melasma  of  slurred verdure   I heard the blades  snap on your tongue   I felt the mirrors   home in your mouth   I know   it hurts   and be so proud and beaten  cover the newspaper  in the corpses  of crabs    make a bib of the real estate section  and let their flesh  melt through  you  in some  crude glory in black and white Noriega stripes     do   not  do this  hock the gnawed up grass onto the headlines  and pile  numb  melons  until the sweet stench  collapses     don’t listen  when it acts  as if  there   has to be a naming   of the devil   that’s a trick   don’t call nobody  you don’t want to come