Harlem Nocturne/My Tiger, My Timing

Rigged to find these giddy binaries coiling

If and so,

he hollers let him go,

Between cause and hypothesis,

trip and trick, pretty and grotesque, giant and just gone

Triptych

There is a hippopotamus, smile

Doubt forces you to touch it

There is a sweet double hipness, runfromit with your skepticalest stride

Up the Sisyphus hillside, then back down

Running is what forces you out toward

All the didactic solitude, all the involuntarily daylight

All of the things you pull back to accumulate chase

They all bloom in the cripple city moonlight as in the fake Van Gogh

who will always be dizzy and accurate with ecstatic torment, elaborate quickness

Saying: I have the greatest expectations

I expect nothing; everything happens to me

This is how

we walk on

the moon

He continues, stepping on the wet painting with his hands until his feet fall into the ceiling like chandeliers

My applause breaks his concentration which was made of warm glass and the associative trivia on the hinge of his mind

(phillip glass, "Two Moon July"; Cover Girls; "Wishing on a Star"; Bjork, "Cover me")

My Trigger, My Timing; My trickster, his timing. This is really dangerous, he says, pointing at the blatant dawn as he smears paint on my lips to keep me as obvious and quiet