The Acoustics of a Coup/You have a dome why dont you use it

George Russel and Ornette Coleman discuss thinking with the heart, feeling with the mind.




Charades/Break (room) Orchards/In order to Survive

I am not an entertainer. I am not a black entertainer. (Honor. Range.) I am watching each other back into the syntax of a cool blindfold, linden, Prime Time out-of-print vinyl lining the downhill queue is knowing I cannot tell you when the time comes I tell the time I'm not telling and we start to group around a stubborn unanimity we are only just inventing I am/I be a blank fame on a telekinetic thesis of risk, Stokely, it is not necessarily so though it is, though it will never be any different: Lana Turner has collapsed, the traffic which was acting like the sky, still is, like the habit was acting like the black entertainer you went blind watching, and still is

Headquarters/That is when we sobered from our patriotic spree

(A Duet for Howard Zinn and Eugene McDaniels)

It dawned on us :
the price of sugar
that obscure meat and bustle of


the blurry horsemen circling my budget /pleasure/so-pale


Let us not destroy these wonderful machines radiating from homes, spindling and groaning, embroidering the heart with sorrow as big as I dare Spar (beige cloth over a brick tower to suggest change/smuggling/ the quarantine that was also home to grail as brittle and intimate as share farms go up to where

the principal of air broke fat choirs into perfect crowds, mimes, rich ministers

and that we craved the premium, we craved the cure

Labor is a funny word for vesseling, say, take me with you on your best carved cane I can get invisible-sane, even, female, a lithe sempahore on the path to the disorientation of sweet violence...

Which is when the line became

you are the man, you are my other country dear hero, dear headless hero of the nearby.., the lord is black, I wonder if he exists, nice work if you can get it, and so on, until the sugar was too easy to want and to not want: on the sheets of brief attention I built a hill of it, an agile legend, dumping cannons into its basin like Polaroids taken while jumping rope, the impossible coordination of a Gandy Dancer adapting to leisure with regret/ privilege. It's all only propaganda for other sex. Fall in love, fix us, fuck. Only when you're lucky, the erotic is not sexual or somewhere else.

Darkside p.2

Darkside

"But I'm saying that that's the whole point, that thinking is a hallucinating process separate from drugs. It's not that drugs make you hallucinate, it's that thinking does. The bad news of my book is that thinking can give you bad trips more than drugs can." K. Eshun



(of course, nightmares can quickly shapeshift into dreams):

Coconut Junction /A glossary of the joy which tends toward unbecoming

...Once up on a space there was a runt ice cream truck resting on the curbside in a bewildered parade rest. After a riot. After the Watts become objects of their own dry. Bafflement. Illumination. Praise song for the daze. A modest proposal about new roads. Trade. From its speakers came the, Bodhisattva. The po-lice came: canes, rocks, doppelgangers of the apocalypse. Strutters. Crooks. Papa's looking out the window waiting for them to pass us. Employees from out-of-pocket. Collapsed to beneath their gazes. Currency came. A resuscitation of the vehicle. Its speakers reeled Sun Ra, EPMD, Donald Byrd, Toots and the Maytals, helices of always and forever, these moments. The Moments. The river is moving, the black bird must be flying. Capital ING. Gerund. Bunting a word off its axis. Fly bird. Gin and tips. I almost forgot how brown and elegant. This was. Belafonte and Jim Crow. Mom and the Man. Sharpen your pencils. My first gig, mopping tunnels. From the truck, wafting, the thin sculptural aroma of young coconut. The five circumstances of a Bud. Powell. Fingering the ivory tower, tenderly. The oriental bow. No, Asian. No rent. Party/parting. I beg your pardon. North, then farther North. Then Shango. Shan't go no father. The smell of shins after recess, tar and sweat. Carbon and tears. Shank and clover. Techno chalk. Lady dont't. Bossy kids. Thirsty kids. Offering the silver dollar, washing it down with the clear jargon of an honest salesman.

We have recovered these treat trucks, lost during the Watts Riots but extant in memory, and we will be revamping them. Listen closely. Catch one and get a coconut, some fresh fruit, some new music... A mood

For how rare is joy and joy is rare. For what's theirs is joy and joy is theirs. Though what air they've poised is poison air. For what's paramount of theirs: hymnal ledges of the voice, skin of the swan, uncommon of the look-upon, uncle tom of uncle tom For how spare is boy the boy is spared For whats theirs is his and he is theirs joy. spoiled. son. heir to what's paramount of theirs is him spread into gimmie sums For how raised his void is, his void is there where they oblige him a store of helium he rides to when

The Recovered Liner Notes to Hampton Hawes' Universe

I soldiered, I soldiered

You see this spoon/Her eyes installed like cartwheels on sharp grass
Cured of any desire to voluntarily enter
a desert again

You see this moan/Bossa nova shaped and pursed
with the radiance that carves itself out of ofays' stares--
a pressure that mends my character

short, of senseless, my interpretation of an airforce suntan comes out the color
of limpid Los Angeles smog or Hampton Hawes' gorgeous crimped seventoned ebony/wind you'll have a terrible time smothering my clarity

On adagios the bass is supposed to swell/dislocated and comfortable

like I was a civilian, a Sevener too, clean: how
you're the reason
I stay clean just looking clean

I heard a rumor about more earth or that
the universe is expanding and
you're the reason
I stay clean just looking clean

Prisoners of Love

Muting/Morning: A Sequence for Weldon Irvine and James Weldon

I'm lonely--
I'll make a world

My obsessive finale--
raised drawbridge/courage/rage

Spans the stiff drab distance between two ready castles
shrinks in a good dream, backs away from itself. Video.

Elegant. Street-boy elegant
Andthenagain, an infinity, which is pending and also vanishes. Penetration.

There should be at least

six trumpeters on every roof.

Fine to keep spy cameras in their anatomy if that makes them employees of the universe or magnets in their rhythm-n-ning if that makes them reciprocal voyeurs, fine

Loyalty is fatal to the soul, so is betrayal, so
Phonies are as hopeful as priests, moaners, pioneers

Prisoners, seminars, fifes, whores, maidens: Prizes for birth are miming themselves onto your every contradiction with the haunted ecstatic wisdom of everyone's mother

And in the space between my needs and my desires

there shouldn't be any.

(Fits) Six trumpeters

Black ones, broke ones, experiments in a backwards draft for a voided war

on exclusivity and on fascination as specific as one face-d

Princes who squander(honor) their fortunes rerouting the wind

Feeling U

Jah Shaka Soundsystem

The Acoustics of a Coup p.2

It's been said that the '79 revolution in Iran was heard before it was seen; it existed first as a sound, a pressurized charge of multitudes that first resonated in Tehran without a single visible body. In fact the ghost of the future revolution had come to haunt in advance, and perhaps due to the overproduction and overcoding of images in our milieu, by the time this revolution and others became visible, it was apprehended, co-opted, territorialized. Affect wrought into a seemingly stable surplus.

We want to be cautious, however, of thinking that sound can transmit any more information to us about a revolution than images or text; in fact what we are interested in is how the acoustics of a coup can show us how little we actually know.

The Acoustics of a Coup

"But for power to truly feel itself menaced, it must somehow sense itself in the presence of another power--or, more accurately, an energy--which it has not known how to define and therefore, how to control"

Fairy Tale Gossip/(Liner Notes for the Millennium)

(Miles and Betty Davis: Lost Transcript from the Filles de Kilimanjaro Album Notes)






Range(Reign)


Betty: Runner You-

run in the trine of a curtsy, up the miniature ladders beamed into obscene nylons.

I find you on the fire escape looking deliberate with some Rapunzel blond neighbor of ours

...and even still, I love the way you hold your head, high sort of, and a bit to one side

Highlights your finger wave, how you wave to me from out there with only your fingers, leaving the palm on its scheduled decrease/symbolism, mercy or stunt, we become equal and therefore rivals


Suspense enters the phony distance between us like a circus pressed against a jury

I forgive you by disappearing and the circus collapses...

And my hands flew up too, How the sudden romance of a cruel error... It was romantic to watch you with her in scam privacy, our first candid exchange in years

It's an accomplishment you manage to accent with pride though it diminishes you-- My mind flashes to the time I found you shopping for lottery tickets. With fiendish, whispered shouting and a stride so plunging it's invisible/desperation like money and slander, which spread at the pace of your interest... Messenger, Brilliant Hypocrite, have you been seduced by the race, into letting your legs ignore the paisley footprints of princes in the ghetto, and

so that they reach

Here comes/here goes, which is to say, so that they come to seem interchangeable and better secrets that way...


During a riot: loot water and diapers/ cigarettes and ice: idols

Did you hear the one about the brother who ran into the fire to rescue his daughter's favorite... Ma Rainey was playing from a Marshall law megaphone nearby and the newsman blames the riddling starkness of her chant

He lived, He didn't just survive

Wearing my most shredded stockings, high tops and a neon midriff, I set out to flaunt my new assimilation to your having a mistress, in all the places I find repugnant: supermarkets, nouveau riche mansions, army bases, freeways - I want to be blamed for this I am rewarded - deputies, suitors, muscular cars, a career:

Your regret is nearly erotic and since I've forgotten how to shrug, I cast it across my drive like dry wind it settles in my eyes and turns a crisp red color of a wet July in the hemisphere, cover for the virgin lion,

wanna trade Miles: burdens-

are so pretty, they trip over themselves, are so pretty and huddled on my heart it needs them

Speed/Birth

Observe here: http://efsanity.blogspot.com/2008/06/worlds-experience-orchestra-beginning.html

Wake up World,Yerba Maté...

..is Nonstophome's beverage of choice.

I go all the way to Trade Fare Market in Astoria, Queens several times a Year, and carry several bags of Maté back into Manhattan. The fact of these expeditions makes drinking the Maté more enjoyable, for it takes considerably more effort than would a trip to one of the Starbucks on every other corner in the vicinity of my apartment. I first encountered the beverage in the vivacious home a childhood friend of Uruguayan decent, and I assumed that the charisma in her household must have had more than a little to do with the drink, which was testament to her family's ability to preserve the rituals from their home country and to reanimate them in the unlikely landscape of west Los Angeles, a place often so hostile to authenticity that you would think it a prism of Disneyland.

When I finally made the journey to Uruguay, during my second year of college, I realized that Maté was more of a staple there than I had anticipated. On the boardwalk people of all ages carried special bags that held the thermos full of hot water to steep the Maté and the gourd full of the herb, a type of tea that is more like coffee if coffee made the mind lucid and cohesive instead of just more mechanically awake and kinda nervous. Hot water is poured over the herb and it is given a moment to steep, and then the steeped water is consumed by way of a metal straw called a bombilla, which is perforated at the bottom so that only the steeped water, and not chunks of the herb, arrive in the mouth and do their unique work. In Uruguayan homes, Maté was passed around the table at all hours like an inverse ganja. In classrooms, students sipped Maté and listened attentively.

Besides nourishing the mind with a molecule similar to but distinct from caffeine, Maté is full of potassium, the mineral that has us calling bananas 'brain food.' Something in the alchemy of minerals and molecules allows Maté to soothe the nervous system while still producing a sharpness of thinking superior to that produced by drinking coffee even in its strongest or purest iterations. And then, when you go to sleep after a day of Maté consumption, delta sleep states, the deepest, most restorative, and most lucid, are enhanced. I find myself dreaming up such aggressively parallel existences that I awake feeling as if I am walking two paths with the keen reconciliation of the sinister with the earnest that brings the oneness we yearn for. Maybe Maté is mildly psychedelic in that respect. I also awake feeling refreshed, and ready for another batch and another day-in-the-life.

Ritual is at the core of pleasure. I think we need the muscle memory ritual supports in order to effectively improvise on what we know by heart, and feeling, and so when I was in Uruguay for the first time and then a few years later when I went back, I made sure to embrace the graceful choreography of Yerba Maté consumption, and my mind and my body, thank me.

I have many thoughts on what it would mean if something like Maté became a cash crop, suffering the caricature-making of globalization. Of course, my fears are not futuristic enough, this process is already underway. I am at once detractor and beneficiary. Tea companies and health food grocers are selling mediocre versions of the herb, pre-bagged and displaced from the customs that accompany it in Uruguay and neighboring South American nations. "Everything is always changing and the measure of our maturity as nations and as people is how well we are prepared to meet these changes and to use them for our health," James Baldwin points out. In the case of Maté, now that it is being made more widely available, lets us not alienate the product from its past as we have done time and again with anything marketed as an agent of longevity and stamina, anything vaguely lucrative. Part of the agency of these items lies in the ways in which they can host rituals that create a more thoughtful community. I wonder why we are so eager to accumulate things and so wary of their legacies, as if having a history threatens the fiction of surplus and expandability that we cultivate in industrial societies, a fiction that makes us vulnerable to proliferating out of existence.

Wake up world. Drink Maté with your compatriots. Embrace old ways beneath the sun. Stay woke.

One for John La Rose

Slowly, Surely

Arvo im Andrei

19,000 Tickets to the Eclipse

The Territory Shall be the Universe...

Is what contracts say when their terms are made to apply to everything, everywhere. Usually these contracts concern belongings/property/resources/what's mine/what isn't yours.

Today is the day of Michael Jackson's funeral, so we're told. There will also be a lunar eclipse. Life imitating life. In each one of its maneuvers, exists all of its maneuvers, atomized into a unique proportion that allows singular identity/identification, i.e. everything is everything, i.e. I find it absurd and unmysterious...the dead and the abducted/fugitives/recluses, are not losses (completion is the true definition of loss); they are right in front of us, blocking us from ourselves with our own gazes, the orderly melodies of mobiles above cribs, remember those, shrill sounding menageries meant to distract us into internalizing them..So we reimburse ourselves for disappearances with symbolic behavior and this is comforting to such an extent that sometimes we even forget what we are trying to recover, so busy we become with the effort. This is how I talk myself into accepting the spectacular things I find grotesque, like funerals in stadiums on television. I think more than anything we crave the feeling of gathering for a common, legible purpose. When that purpose is a loss, we feel somehow more actual, more vivid in the act of compensation than in most others. Please be everywhere, we ask an icon, and could it be he obliges us by leaving

Chances you are my Chances/Albert Ayler's Wild Alertness

Patriot :Meditations on Myself and Albert Ayler

Suppose my father's rich and my mother's good looking, I have never suffered and I don't intend to suffer and I can play the blues/ One day I surrender to rumors/ good fortune with the empty hegemony of an abandoned tenement/ Suicide hints at baptism, besides,

what is wrong with this country
my lungs, mild glee from just functioning, gasp and plug me like a junkie- My daddy's rich and my mom's so good looking that I don't intend to surface and I can place the blues in my nerves like a landlord, What is wrong with this city, on the first- chances you are my chances my sweepstakes my ever-since My father's gone and my mother's still looking and I don't intend to panic or alternate or turn to you, vindictively polite, talking about a crisis in the ribs of a whistle frames a woman, Halflife
If I had my way, I'd have been a killer My mother's rich, good, looking father
Eames chairs and rare records quail feathers in his Stetson, or a different bird

Sweet Sweetback's San Fernando Valley

Sweet Sweetback Baaaaadaaaaaasss
Uploaded by TroubleMan00. - Classic TV and last night's shows, online.

She was all in Favor of the Millennium

Anodyne/sensational Josephine Baker all but plagiarized the future. Where would we be without her brand of psychic... and all the zealots are watching us rediscover the spaces she already occupies. For instance, what would happen in a duet with her and Beyonce? What is so effortlessly sophisticated/ain't misbehavin' faux innocent about playing into the cumulative fantasy that a black female dancer is a conduit is a heartthrob is a lady is a freak is a matron, fierce, docile and appraised for her body's ability to tease and thrill onlookers, discretely graceful, patiently vulgar, every verb, every inertia... In honor of "Independence Day" I suppose it's time for some Josephine Baker/Judith Jamison/Beyonce/Lil Kim/Dorothy Dandridge...mash ups, soon come. You must believe in spring

Social Attire

She Was All in Favor of the Millennium

Josephine Baker Meets the Worlds Experience Orchestra

The Assassination of Patrice Lumumba

"The day will come when history will speak. But it will not be the history which will be taught in Brussels, Paris, Washington or the United Nations.

It will be the history which will be taught in the countries which have won freedom from colonialism and its puppets."

Duets

Herbie Hancock and Richard Wright

Fairy Tale Gossip


Pssst... Bigger from "Native Son" is on the hallucination: man at the fender rhodes yanking the days out of hope (no) delay) along with needles frantic silver man on the cushioned heels of his dope A chorus


all-the-lonely familiars, accordions in the mill of his come down Hometown stewards sloping portraits of isolation like from that kitsch painter Bua, slow motion pin-up in all the smart thug dormitories and even some rented houses and feminine stereo faces stare at those gumbi looking characters like overgrown visitors from the ancient future The spook who paces my threshold shouting fuck all the vigilantes, shouting look out (four) country torsos hunched toward the seed Cormack McCarthy era typa phobia had us grow two bellies each That makes 8 ways to call one for hunger and one for fear which is the same one for church (love) which is the cure for the other worship which means somebody knows you were a healer/starved/an informer/docile/unconcerned with the manchild wearing the hallucination on his notes like a wave cap or dribbling agape dreams of a well behaved afro wig wind proof and super sheen bouffant laughing himself awake to the phrases

Im telling on you
you're wrong for that backwards cascade blues bullying in the fray of a used suture nursemaid type savior complex it was Bigger's duty to prove in you

How you can say anything useful just cooperating with silence

Bigger

is my shhhh, justice

bigger is my hoodrich telepath in a rigorous woods I don't dare enter