I'm black.
This is not a Coalition : They never let me forget it : I'll never let them
And there is no tempo, so you don't have to worry about losing the beat or anything
When I said, I would live in scratch houses improvising yard into my far off dowry. I was telling a story, recklessly candid because the heart had been sealed for slow time, when all of a sudden
You say 'in general' a lot, because you've been injured for naming names. Not the names of soldiers, the names of battles. Blackhawk, Waterloo, Help me. Places I knew dad to be in. The radio. Hollywood. Focus. The Delta. Always. Always is a place. Finessed violence. July. The big sliding open van full of groceries and electric pianos. The weight of his hands on the invisible. Keys. Lantern elbows. Poking around his manic in the dark looking for Saturn or cold pancakes or a clerk to take the wallet from his mouth when he was seized. We were afraid. I guess this means, I guess he spent his last days in jail. That must have been like the yard, clenching broken stove pieces to keep a pedal on the ditch or was it a well, or was the barley leaning down your malt letters fluffier after every sip. It would have been useless to visit. It would have been you, looking pretty in your memory/desire. Proving, you're still five, someday. He must have spent them on the rise, the whistles that used to come out of his collar pocket, help me, Im rich tell my daughter to stop playing their lottery chasing their loss. Loss is a dangerous necessity, also. It measures the imagination. And it is ruthless, and the imagination is ruthless. Mine is through mumbling the titles of weeds across the unnamed we, starts to breathe the blue pause out of its visage. Vertigo. Let's it go as if to pursue it, coughs it up, says where I would rather live is full of months not days or hours or built up hundreds, floors in your circle of fifths cushioned with radio, not to mention, the fund
is cold for them, radial (it's called for them plosive names: paper, papa, wants to say pages into the gap between bars but is too exposed), a void taken on as a way to count moments by what they cost: the house, the jailhouse, the studio, outside, stayblack. He must have been outside mangling his solitude with you.. And without you, it would have been useless to deliver news like, this is our music, who else would wear prison to the grave dragging it behind him the way the shiniest shoe of a fine and mellow pimp is usually slow dragging, holding the waist in a mopey, jubilant L delay. Safe asymmetry. Anyone can place a mister in front of his mercy and raise a lady to watch his feet spell, doo-wop or cake walk or Jake limber. We are. Getting rid of ownership, replacing it with use. It's cool, I'm black too.
