This is a (Phonetic) Feeling

Halos show through blindness, then knowing: a chapter called How (come) Howl come Oh,Well (willing the days, the hours come out, are clung to) become the arch you unbuckled to make up a kind of toward or (our) skeletal (watch) tower, how I got over

I can tell (like reporting, or purposed grapes spinning their tenuous ladder) from your salty eloquence, that you've been drinking, from some local sea (she), sheets made of unreasonably soft controversy) and every caprice is a caption about tattered wings, taglining (tingling), dispatching, and how you can

too fly. Your disease is trying, stop trying. Ours is easy, see
-easy (you're a sleaze, I'm a lady, and on savior days we alternate. I'm an easel, you're my one-and-only drawing blue to greed, palate--

Briefest color shade: perspective without expectation. Grace, the great race, takes a loose but no less tense tone, this is-- a fling (ownly), you two, both of you, fast and black and certain to disappear on any (only) morning, this morning

I can see, everything, with my eyes closed to the phoneme hope, (moaners, screamers) each phony apogee apologetic for its absence, so from now on nobody can be discrete if I can't so I can, I can. I'm the earth's ventriloquist. Hip enough to the conversation to lift the numb emblem into a body, then blame it--- punish it, for having a soul I can't see without you

One if buy..
(black maybe)
Two ifs buy..
(or maybe I'm just
what you say




Joy is.




Sorrow unmasked.

Songs that are sung, in the Morning

In Pharaoh City

In Malcolm, State
How come you await catastrophe like it's an opportunity
To be black
Everything is a prop and a brink in the shifting kaleidoscope of tonight
and insignificance
and radiance
and since you've been away,
so long
When I see horses running I disassemble their motion to compare them to one another
I horde unreality
Relative to you, I am home, check the diploma, check the diplomat, things buzz and I move toward them as Ive been trained to be
An exact coincidence with myself, always running into her, we end up in half
we fall into one another's carbon noir holes absolutely
and the rest of humanity seems very remote in comparison
with this man whos company I left but a moment ago,
asleep and unsequenced, I sneaked out into the overture

You broke my memory
You broke my memory
You broke your only-hope
now
is a lie

and sluggishness
and alert
and the letter nowhere
delivered to its most precise absence
guaranteed to punctuate the distance between states of being and places
on the bioscope
with the serene disorientation of a good feeling
I have a good feeling, he's running after me
This is the good forever part
and certainty ( I 'll lead a lush life)
and in the afternoon speeches happen in the streets and play through massive speakers about everything illegal from the train schedule to the perfect circle to all modifications of silence that don't account for ghosts I give this knowing

Images to Shape Names

Use Your Mentality

I was running across the casino out into the sun
(All distance is made of thinking)
At the end of an iconic tunnel came the un-errands: leave the politics behind
Move to a different kind of priority
Without hope and without despair
Why is there a television
In the living room
Right where we are living
Covering our eyes during fight scenes and love scenes
I'm tired of guessing the winner, all these deadbeats and few subliminal heroes
This church is not affiliated with the one on the corner
We haven't been baptized right
They say, the mudslide is coming
That the house might fall among invisible rivals
Am I the only one celebrating
looting apples and plastic Cleopatra dolls from the supermarket
Painting them dark and low hues from dilettante to taboo
Finding my thrill is nobody
That was costume gravity
But it lifted me up
I'm home, again
I won a bunch of money from beautiful old men
To spend it all back to them

Abstract Geology

'One's mind and the earth are in a constant state of erosion, mental rivers wear away abstract banks, brain waves undermine cliffs of thought, ideas decompose into stones of unknowing, and conceptual crystalizations break apart into deposits of gritty reason. Vast moving faculties occurs in this geological miasma, and they move in the most physical way. This movement seems motionless, yet it crushes the landscape of logic under glacial reveries. This slow flowage makes on conscious of the turbidity of thinking. Slump, debris slide, avalanches take places within the cracking limits of the brain. The entire body is pulled into the cerebral cediment, where particles and fragments make themselves known as solid consciousness.'

Blue Parallel

A tender chauvinism
A dialect pattern
I hope we outgrow
Going west
Before we remember how comfortable it is over here
In the superiority of oblivion
A woman's arm outstretched on a couch in
Los Angeles
A very low horizon with nothing above it but--
It'll start to vibrate
Los Angeles
My way-out topography
I can't wait
for you to change

Mind and Time

At left, a bird with huge eyes and a crest: a Heron. The eyes might be mouths. The heron sits, immovable, for hours--then in a split second grasps a fish

This shearing happening to the soul, is language reverberating against action-- members blacken their faces and are given the details of a crime they are supposed to solve with uniformity, anonymity came true

A federated decentralized system of free associations. Maybe not federated. Why split the second. Keep it together. Maybe language is the only action. Solitary as the verb to be. To be black. In the heron's saddle. Magical cunning and penetrating contemplation exerted upon a void slate. You are my favorite. Am I your favorite. Maybe it's not so bad if everyone is a suspect but no one feels guilty or clamors or ever speaks and there is no death or three and the sea slips off our lips into a mercy

A suitable planet
The natural hallucinogen of joy
Tupperware puppets, soul runners
Vast self-assurance, will allow the ghost to deny the reality of the forms that shackle it
such as: from now on (the linear slurring
the heron
statuesque-reflexive
like justice or blood
'til her destination was everywhere

This is what we did tomorrow
This is where we are and how
to say no
even on special occasions
neutrality has been meaningless
we are selling-out now, how we sold
out tomorrow. Because we felt like it
And the mouths might be years from now
places to keep looking: capsules or vaults redeeming
the fatuous still-lives of blackbirds with an automatic
up and
an automatic down
and out,
get out, hurry

Veruca

Everything is happening all the time, reminds my Sheppard in A-minor, hinting that the delight packed into longing has to do with unsurrendoring, taking everything back to all the time where it happens into flocks-- Abra kadabra box sets, a wand is the opposite of gun, you got me there, trying to break out of a room made of marshmallows into a room made of taffy, which I will later try to escape from also, your curtain, your nomadic curtain, opens onto the rotating empty and a spotlight blurts out to the audience, deadpan purple matte to express a pause which is noble and soft stopping to accumulate delight without teasing-- someone has to pretend to be upset about the in between, the other one has to eat all the taffy and marsh and, regretlessly, and then wean herself off sugar even if she lives in the hood, especially, on the hood of Cadillac, no more sugar between her and adoration and the door and the driver ever happened

Heritage Nightmare

You're a philosopher?
Yeah, I think very, vary-- (deep-ly de-plea-t'd)
Here we go again into the breach

In former times 'you' meant 'good harvest,' and 'da you' meant 'best harvest'

and bayou meant, the things which we cannot touch because they are too near, all of them in a clay bucket backing back into the well; veiled, unavailable, all the rose hued mansions swelling, bluing, cooped up in ink, defiant--

The shape of a city may change but the shape of the well is constant and we will always approach it with entitled distance. Then one day the well shrugs and there's a fountain. Allegory is dismissed and you're grown and drunk and you means you
and me
(new songs in the old forms, Dasafio, your mamma's so-- careful
and everyone we know
we won
when
the wells back from
the city--
in plastic
and you ask for ice
instead of teeth
give me ice
in the former you form
from the bayou

As You Once Were/(You still are to me)

If you want to hunt deer, become a deer and live in the forest.
Your avarice loses traction in order to survive itself
Fat off its inadequacy, thin enough to fit on the freedom line next to blue jeans, designer watches, the census. My favorite question is yes--

One risk with fire is that it may burn too brightly, neglecting the central void that sustains it

I've decided. To not desire anything I am not willing to become
This is hard. This is not easy. Your vigilance against mine. I stuff my heart with strategic emptiness so when next it breaks it sets on fire, it sets everything proximate on fire-- Dear hunter/dear hunter; I'm scarce/I'm scarce. Next time you see me while you're looking in the mirror, take the friction of vacancy against vacancy/which will never pass, just take it, take it away without reducing it to give. My favorite answer/A figure 8

Right on, that's what I thought happened

Comment # 1



If 'language is the medium we travel in' -Elizabeth Alexander

'And then they sent me a picture of a black girl with some ashy ankles standing on some money and asked me for lyrics about it' -Kanye West

'And this was the absolute pivot of fame and fortune' -Lester Young

'And comment number 2 is dynamite' -Gil Scott Heron

Yes Yes Yes, I'll do whatever you ask as long as I can do it from this veranda, where I'm brave enough to touch the glass when I sing at its fluctuations. Lazy carols about hope and change. Not lazy at all. Places of moving paralysis. Hubs. Hush harbors. Be quiet. Talk is not language until it lacks itself for a while we just sat on the veranda building cameras and shooting craps, practicing magic, dancing the peacock out of the pelican, and all the captions from then read 'right on, right on'

Church and State

I found all the images here were bound to business,
(I needed it altered)
So I spread my legs and drew them in like scissors (more than once)
I cut at the nerve so the rest just ruptured from sensation,
the body's gated jungle resort, I told the man
(it was a nice exercise but it had nothing to do with my life)
Take me someplace, lush and humble but, Now!,

the leisure hurts me (retaliation) like a newborn
Like just after birth you start to wonder if you'll ruin
what you created like you've been--

Fix me, jesus, fix me

Here we go, stand by

Both White and Black were capitalized, for the hydraulics of the recording contract. Not a 'Work-for-Hire' agreement, but it never overtly mentions reparations, mules or mines or ache or what's mine. These things don't come under emphasis, their absence is relentless. Instead, a straight, chronological telling of dates and sums. Paranoid, with moments of stylistic clarity that were practically tunes you could whistle to. "The territory shall be the universe" was my favorite onelunged moment of exile and excess. To take the archetype where I was kept and really really let it be landless. Cliche in a sinister way like a high-profile divorce waiting to happen for the tabloids.

Sometimes I say if I could just get away from the man
He'd go straight sure as fate for it never is too late for a man

But no one was who he seemed to be in the first place, not in the studio, not on the street, least of all at home.
So on the way back from a sad party
I signed Black and White in cursive in the place of my certifiable name, like a calling from both sides of the Apollo
The apology the poll the pose. Vogue-ing dandy, doting sophisticat, never leave home without a pen and a rhythm. And once the deals meet the page they had better be ready to
break. Honor is such a nervous condition afterall, neurotic, not like Woody Allen, like the mafia neurotic from the groove between love(sincerity) and fear(sincerity) and power(your share) is letting go

One-Way Pendulum

'--And art has its own rules. And one of them is that you must pay more attention to it than anything else in the world, if you are going to be true to yourself. And if you don't do it (if you don't create) and you are an artist-- it punishes you.' ( And just then I noticed your hangover was gone)

Big Stuff

Remember the rainbow bridge
Monolithic but distracted
I couldn't tell the rainbow from the bridge

After Sunset, both elapsed and you had to get off

Now you flash a geisha-smile

criminals are more interesting than babies
(You got off gradually, for no behavior, (ain't misbehavin))
for showing me your harvest, not your resource

In my mind this was so gigantic, I mean it was such a throbbing memory




My thick black eyelashes fluttered against your chest like batwings
That must have been a cave I was onto your bravest circumstance and laughing

A stash of hostesses bonbons, one track grass, a couple kids from fast women and flat music given the dimension of thieves passing for admirers, polite, lifeless, early, deranged. Politeness is the worst part. Of any horror, of anything happening, it's insulting, it chokes the rain until this car is visible and parched, driving off into a cave to play sun for somebody numb

Penitent frontiers
Empty enough to come nearer
Once the harm's done
As pieces of sarcasm obsessed with charm
With withstanding
Deans, bishops
Simple simple sometime men,




Awaken