Here begins what will be an ongoing meditation on the Favelas, on the brilliant, austere decadence of their oppressed and intrepid occupants, on the hypocritical taboo of both witnessing and not witnessing in cases of forced geographical seclusion, on community music that does not loom in the stupor of fame, or does it, does not pertain to income or diminish into genre, or does it. I'm wondering why the rhetoric of discovery is continually re-applied to inveterate geographies/societies, and if it's as much to spread awareness as to spread biases. The trappings of empathy: always ahead of itself telepathically, always trailing its catalyst with that needy savior sheen in its catchy eyes. There is no safe way to discuss that which is not yours, hence appropriation for the sake of credibility/celebrity is a common practice among actors and activists. There is no safe way claim something as entirely your own either, hence, so what? Not exactly so what, more at so what makes anyone think he owns land besides the antonym of safety. A syllogism for landlords demands violence/as long as there are conflicts there will be landlords to annex wars into buildings, to consolidate workers into flocks and fighters so that they may work like a nexus of soldiers, so that they may fight like oppressed workers. I suppose it is an abstract crime, then, to abstract music from the favelas direct into danceclubs and leave the favelas' residents in obscurity. Or is it a good deed. Or benign. Why are we eligible listeners/consumers of a music whose contexts our maps won't even enter, in any event? Are there times when making something available for disparate interpretation destroys its purpose, or is this a naive and antique view of ritual/justice, misapplied to a modern exchange of entertainment for understanding...
Here he Sings, Here he Sobs (A Rent Poem)
like a child, says I feel like tears instead of I feel like crying
His fractal-tilted head, on brick castanets, observes fat clouds like critics rowdy with apocalypse the width of blacks' lips hovering over fast youth, fast math, crop acoustics of cruising, so demure, clean enough to sort into profit-roosters in a cathedral who fear their wives some kind of celibacy, celibate kindness that gladhands treat as lack or order, chivalry- Immaculate rumors about more earth retracted, for Octavia, in the name of limits, scrawny infinity, didactic take-back three Octaves, Monopoly applied to muses, brave thugs, her husbands Here he plays the drum, here he places the drum like a trapdoor/daughter in his lap Restlessly the night closes like a trapdoor opposed to secrecy as soloists/ close sleepers, moving closer to one another, keeping warm, shuddering, tucking, total, in that we all know there will never be peace It furthers one to have a place to be I feel like a hero for knowing you It furthers one to have a hero who feels like knowing, you, just some place
