Progress and Other Guesses

And the necessity for moving forward regardless of how ill defined the destination might be... tapestries, pastures, words like that, ramparts.. stark relief

Free time is dangerous, ranging from tyranny to tyranny including ecstasy, shame, stretching,

jump, turn, rotate, get the knee over the foot

Sand Dance for Sophia

Give your soul a myth

affectionate, haughty, electrical, billow, clone if you have to, twice of you

Once upon at time, he has conformed to what he loathes because he no longer has the passion to feel loathing so intensely

You can't undo this action

Therefore, we are obliged, most of us, to meet the tempo of the present and the future with reflexes and rhythms which come from the past. Change that.

Blame new kinds of perception on new kinds of motion, the good blame, attribution, cross-breeding, somnamblunace, the atom bomblasts, fast car, fat and starving, meridian and meridian, free time is dangerous but if you deprive time of cause and effect by way of fear, does it come to a stop, constrict, the safest most hideous... what time is it ...do nothing 'til you hear from me..what plane this is

because neither knowledge nor imagination comes easily, it is buried in the pain and pleasure of one’s forgotten experience

and the appeal of authority has been that it would restrain us from ourselves, help us forget

But I really like myself

and our theory of time is the ultimate authority, a self-negating monolith we must vary, we must very vary

What makes this a special language is that it cannot really be taught—if one shares none of the experiences of elation and exhaustion which it is equipped to describe, then it seems merely arch or vulgar or irritating. It is a pictorial language, but pictorial like non-objective art, imbued with the dialectic of small but intense change, a language for the microcosm, in this case, man, for it takes the immediate experiences of any passing man and magnifies the dynamic of his movements, not specifically but abstractly so that he is seen more as a vector in a network of forces than as a static character in a crystallized field

But, what is so wrong with a speaking still-life, pictures of people talking, what's so bad about machines translating:

”He was liking me very much. All the time he wants to be with me. I was loving him” into "I really like myself" When did this happen.

When this is happening I can't tell what time it is except not now, way sooner than the past, way past the future, not now

and the necessity for moving forward might be as dangerous as convincing yourself you know what forward means while picturing yourself as a girlchild gliding around the house sprinkling petals on the furniture and thinking that is still happening right now if I just remember right/ now I'm seven and the couch is full of jasmine petals and I even try to eat a handful and you tell me it is poison and all that poison pens around in my blood for the leader reflex capillary, welcome note, and I only survived because I remembered/ the hard color of your hand broke the flowers out of their warp and they were rice paper again and we were black and white and saffron and jasmine and free time and dangerous, you can't undo this action

3 Songs

En travesti, in veer, no corners, no warm gun, no trappings, nor travesty, happiness

Yellow bright bird, very auspicious, to be situated in its traffic, combat, to be made like that--
yoked light heard, every slaughter the shepherd and the killer of sheep switched vocations and this made the sacrifice unnecessary or an aesthetic prance and if you can handle the way it red you were sent the yellow bright bird and told to take her and when you couldn't a romance developed, an intense loyalty, swell, autumn leaves, very auspicious, except were you doing your job, did you bother the allegory, would the job be superfluous if we switched places and you were the yellow bright order, and I was to take away the corner that connects us to the elaborate nothingness of returning, turn it into a nest and abandon it as a form of reaching it. The new thing is that if you can consume the details of my form you will find no constellation of accidents can alter it except it kept getting brighter and you felt very drab about noticing the seven walks as one stride and we watched them diverge to prove it was not worth proving because doubt was the first walk, a dirge so dirty it buckled the golden buckle of the yellow bright bird landing on water to put surface under the second walk

Into This Time

Never Trust a Pilgrim Day (for surgeons of feathers and mineral futures)

I could never hate a land in which I'd seen a scandalous sunset

Nor the things they (setting) dim up
north of the thinking, the timing such
white phosphorous bombs were dropped off like pilgrims on the porch of my momma country
(scream uncle)
Where did all this harvest come from, did you grow it,(people in sorrow) did you pick it, did you pick up, and I put it down
in my machines made of words this one turns power against itself, proudest power, creating an absence wherein you rummage for a surrender so complete it negates itself like asking nothing from others and imposing nothing on others but being others when you need them, and where did you gather seeds and where did you plant and how did they grow and was this survival or a fairytale interrogation or do you underestimate the tribute this dalliance will demand or love the tyrant love the ruler love the king-- A Free Man of Color, now through January 9th only, is playing at the Lincoln Theater, a re-examination of what the Louisiana purchase took from New Orleans which is where I'm from during fever season even tiptoeing over the myth it woke up covered in aluminum in hopes of communicating with somedebut planet to say come pick me up and take me to that theater I will tell them how I was there and what it was like and the price and the seamstress by night nightbus by night white phosphorous bombs were dropped keep your promise, write home



(And in which direction does this most appall/appeal/upheaval all over
a brief history of grace

Ascent

Advanced Work

Democracy came back all, Inamorata, Inamorata, I love tomorrow-- Foucault said we're all crazy in the middle of society, advised staying at the edge while I love tomorrow-- You will be punished until you give up your commitment to madness, and you will be punished until you give up your commitment to blackness, and the punishment is madness and the punishment is blackness, Foucault said. Thinking became another type of labor and if you didn't get paid to do it, you stopped? And if a thought could be demonstrated it became a weapon and the punishment, and you wept. And if you could be hurt by this you were crazy and would be punished until you gave up your commitment to tomorrow, and the punishment is tomorrow, and you pressured peace into a stranger's arms. And it kept going, like voters in line to say maybe, maybe so, but at least we make these choices, I voted, I voted

You want to cultivate your soul? In filth like this. You want to cultivate your soul?

Etymology Dub

Care also figures in many "similes of indifference" in the form don't care a _____, with the blank filled by fig, pin, button, cent, straw, rush, point, fairground, snap, etcetera

motives for sound

and though at first our various establishments tried to prohibit their contact, they could not effectively censor our listening and understanding

no one speaks of compromise

We're changing every former Batista fortification in a school. School cities we call them

The head is up again ( in moderation, non troppo, used to modify a direction via a tempo, allegro, allegria, via a trope, the one, via a knowing, may not seem like Babylon until you speed up the farm and slow down the city, looking for the famine on sugar when it's not on the books

I suppose this is how the word came about, as a form of its disappearance, you were tricked into finding it and this was a good trick, this was the source of all god
and some marx
and most music

Itinerant Troops/The square root of this very moment

The advertisement for the seven and a half foot pre-lit trees reminds of the Mason-Dixon line and other invisible come-down giants Ulysses, Oxen in the sun beats speech into money hungry you'll see but only when you're brave enough to see explicitly, of sedges and rushes but having little to do with seeds' taxonomy and not enough to do with the womb beneath you and the tiny little machines in her hair and your ass reflected in the tv screen, a 21st century love scene there is nothing wrong with our culture there is something wrong with you home depot going mother nudgers and husbands from when god was famous. Will anything survive popularity? If not our love. Not even the meat. The sun itself asks to be disliked as if asking to be saved. Do you listen, queen of all ears, do you hear..Not even the doctor is in... and out and what do you want to cure, to keep raw is what curing means at the root, what the sun proves to its early order of letters and the fuzz of the future, it's morning, we have news from the forest but we'd rather have it from before we stabbed the word into meaning I want more in the form of less so that each individual thing must mean more, sometimes, othertimes I advocate looting for no reason it is too safe to say you want something until you want none, not one thing gypsy of the meter made you pay to be still and you let her

With this hopeful outlook the book of changes comes to a close

Footnote on the Blueprint

The organ resolves itself
of no tunnel, a tone
The Huns marching over their own swooning nexus
of overdrawn attention, to produce their halt in the blood of what went on
and every septic and chronicle they trample is a scream ecstatic captured at the tip of it in the ruby between 3 eyes looking through one especially
There are fiends who get most high on hiding from what they are looking through
then press down the taxi window and scream something antisocial or aristocratic into the crow like
I hope you live forever, your sermon disclosed in an automatic gun for fast continuous firing
Or The lucky scene from Waiting
for Godot,
in which one of them dances while the other one thinks
though there is no communication between the moving and the thinking, besides a tone
A species implies itself there, and what are we doing
wounded in honor, we choose to go to the moon because

Symphony for Improvisors

We've all heard of the word
And while the Architect dreams of scarring the earth
Then dressing the wounds in monument--
Cisterns of audio color such as the flag, court his pedestal toward centrifuge--
Drapeau, See him dream the pose you enter
our denouement, see him undoing the corollaries of what for and what force
re-animating the draft to where the air courses through the house, just passing over strings and you notice yourself as the air and the strings, the heir you are, not just passing

And you study that idioplasma in search of the signifying monkey-- How did we come to call these living things word and these mortal things men without learning the difference cannot be uttered or bridged or marched or navigated, just released--you can't even tightrope up to it with feathers and a chronology but you trust that there are strings-- no such thing as signifying only finding them in-the-absence-of-a-center-of-gravity understandings about interdependency, (now you do the cabbage patch with my body) (practice ridding the imagination of habits besides imagining that everytime you even think of time with no contingency, as a series of positions or an open concubine, you
occupy them



The rest is a rumor spreading inside you like why you so truant you believed it, you be the monk-ease, teaching the fire how to speak to jump
When we've all forgotten the word, how funny to feel in a field together hunting its ghost for hints and getting high on assumptions I heard, I heard that's him over there, on the every side of time where I'm euphoric as a new knot, as I knew not, as I new knock the word from the monument from the animator from the man from the wound from the wounded earth our chandelier hung in the pirate's imagination like a choke or jackpot, inextinguishable and nodding off its own plot

From the Committee on Tiecooning: A Manifesto

To keep our ghettos autonomous and pure
To keep our monuments in the ghetto
To keep our teeth felt and gold
To teach the metallic autumn a smile
can assimilate to anything, but not a soul so- sold
To keep our gods high on dope
To keep the word guessing at its own meaning--
If you were told to pick yourself out of a lineup, who would you choose
To let them believe they got by with something
Besides desire (the heron sits immovable for hours, then in a split second..
Besides longing
To let them believe they deserve something
more kinetic than self-destruction, to put them out of their vicarious
To keep our minds unmediated by the mind's over-vernacular having the reclusive charisma of an attack on all, and nothing
Autonomous
Pure
The private relief at their disapproval
How slow we have to run some intervals
To let them understand, that this is a fight without quarter
and we are very fast

A Gathering of Promises

88 tuned drums
An errand too close for statement
the talking proximity, dumbs and goes human
to meet the Journey Agent
The duty free gift to the traveler
Everybody's hear's heroic
from the point of view of violence
the eternal progenitor of dream/scores and relic
un-enough to tell
The mechanic
oil on his hands, that if he can just get to her in time
the greed will become erotic, and vanish
like adolescence
black messengers
If one of them breaks they all --

They all like
that wasn't mine
I'm renting these vows from the language west
All I own is the bill and the woman-- yesterday's

Revolution
Revolution
Restitution
Sunshine sung
I don't even know anymore
lyrics that don't shunt from allure
and leer and risking your detour for

The 88 wills of maybe
there's a spirit when they combine
this close way we either destroy one another or make one another better destroyers
from of the point of view of royalties
We play the song as long as we mean it (pays)
And when it is memorized (popular)
We blame its sudden emptiness on memory (killer of hope/lore)
I know it too well to listen
Didn't even notice it was on
It is my heart when I wake up singing about pretenders with dingy fists in their signs,
that borrows and burrows
an autograph from a lithograph and when they happen to land in the same pace
promises to live that way in time to make it true

Open Fire

If this were about dignity you wouldn't speak so homely

And I wouldn't be the poem telling you, (see) reminding you

to dream outloud, spend less about sleeping cause it seems like it's made you even

homelier, linear, you make even more sense now, dressed like a clown and drunk like cloning yourself for a late night

on the town? That was fun, at least a paragraph's worth of mediocre Keith Jarret unremembered, at least when he called you a nigger in my head I heard the word

for synagogue ( I wanted to hide from my own thought) and pictured an army nurse and you were a white man for the war so the stethoscope couldn't find your drummer, (seek refuge) (how to love someone you used to like)

I was not that mean, you were not that word except on the town

I was that powerful

sunny never in sin-agog washing the drums in foster english

My grandfather is rich and white, my father was rich and black

they were born in the same year, 19-- they were 19 in the same year of the repeat drinking fountain and there is something too kind about that

reciprocal, two kinds of history, Guuuuuuurl, I see the circus from every seat, a tent so flimsy I called the co-national guard on them
both, and they are my dearest friends
--
What kind of drum his dream was I having the archeology if this were about digging you wouldn't be so close to the surface and I wouldn't be the palm gripping the balletrusse in the air just before an earthquake all the animals make silence, all their eyes make sense to tremor on the town late oneofthose knights in the legends too obvious to tempt you into its depraved nihilism even though it goes on mentioning angels and unicorns you sense the lunge and the violence of some Rumpelstiltskin meets King Midas, everything he touched turned and turned into dervishes retrofitting his curse versus bless rut with leather to express what kind of drum his dream was beating

And those too lazy for telepathy call it peace

seizing, a treatment, where do we go from here

--

It is time to move

from yourself to yourself again

Tectonic merriment, mona lisa lessons, diminuendo, the men go mad getting made, having it made and broadcast and played back as suggestion

What is stark raving as a nation under orchestras of shame-ammunition-wayward-reignblur-manifest-homily-major-separation of kent and state-may the lord have mercy on our souls

--
And they are both veterans, they both fought in a war, and gladhanded their drums as dreams in which they met as champions and supplicants in which I am having in the space between

A cocktail, several roosters, a rifle, scooting through the rough lace of my tutu, my Tutsi, Miles' Tout de Suite where we almost fell for it, we almost taught the word back through itself, and both fathers kept asking to trade places that day on which no girl came between them no nigger-calling, no power plan, all the animals made silence and nothing that made sense was anymore
trusted

even what a soft lie some silence is
even what an ally is if every character in a dream is a representation of an aspect of the self or reputation
even when they are getting along

I keep mistaking you for yourself

You keep mistaking me for myself

We can't tell if this indicates a pact

a disagreement or

the last mirror in history is a murder/scene or

dismissed or

the last murder in history is a mirror/scene

or dismissed

which is a suicide

for witnesses

which are eternity

which is a war crime

(abuse of human freedom)

which is a love story

which is when dieing

restores the will to live forever

Exquisite corpse, rotating

Yes, these men are killing each other

Yes, these men are in love

I promise I won't recognize them at the same time

the two feelings I mean

the two men

(the tired paramour of ivory/black, or black/ivory)

The ten thousand things they meant from "each/other"

Duets (Autological)

I love my robots

Statues with flickering eyes

How else is a man

walking down the side of my building

Otherwise---Otherswives

knowing the same prayers

with rueful recognition

And one of the busiest afterlives in history

It had long been Rome's attempt to annex Egypt

We pray the same prayers

Could you help me take

this man off their train

Technologies of the Sacred

In another box, Ray Charles' original recording contract signed with an X

Then the garrison (guerre-resewn/recent, rescind. No. Gare, train station

Then the road became only three slashes

As when sound reorganizes light

Blue Lake 1 is 1 ingredient in the style I refuse I eat, which sounds so beautiful in your mouth the most

Where blues is the sound of an approach, from above/behind in two time signatures, but also from all sides and behind just became an anagram for the anxiety of wishing just became the rise of it in everything wise and low and wakefulness. It was slick. (That way). The latest lake is like you, the way you are, ice shanks into it like timber or kindling and there's a fire to bring furnace

We froze in the wild rabbit's eye, not a trap, you'd say a trip, I'd say it wishes for us to admit something the shape of it,

That the sound is available if the shape is: and of grammar we plan our city, a planet of I-shapes you can't surprise me except by being yourself . I was almost shy again

and

If buildings spring from my mind what is my mind building, spring or off(in)/spring, the primal office, or Oppen's capitalist, the hills and slings of a silhouette, the softest pill if you let it be not the safest-- In another box, my father's original recording contract signed with an X. I read the city back and all it says to stay is a singer like the heritage has me, to keep/kept singing

Our secret is the power of inheritance

She wrote: 'We remain silent because only we know the secret of the city's power. Ours is the secret of all cities and it belongs only to those who own the cities future. We are the guardians of the old city and our secret is the power of inheritance. That's how we got where we are.'

Dissociative (the endless succession of identical moments)

Don't give me that
Don't give me that
Don't give me that the-future-has-an-ancient-heart shit,
The ancient has a future heart, neither is adequate
Calamity, calm, clan, starship, a barge or badge or cattleman invention or inventory mis-taken of the natural world wherein the recoil somersault fetus rebirth business gets easier when it doesn't give--Give as in buckle, and also concern. To not strap the world around the kind of hope that associates tasks automatically with feelings, as in accumulation, as in if you just do this, that will happen, But thenagain sometimes it did, again and again when you didn't expect it, having worn the corrections of one winter to the next with close to pleasure, the mafia shows up
Salt Peanuts
Salt Peanuts
There are bleachers
There are uniforms
We're all there, eating popcorn in a stadium or parlor, your everest jungle, our far-near young

Rehearsal/Steady the Helm of the Heart

Ok, as a robot gets herself together, and we do It, and we get to the middle, where we have forgotten our feelings of love, you will helpme, huh?


Steady the helm of the heart

Young man Harlem

Steady the helm of the heart

They say every distance is not ours

I cannot believe the conditions that produced a situation that demanded a song like that

Blue man Harlem

Steady the helm of my heart

Surrogate Language

Wanting to be wistful, plus utopia, plus you told him what a pimp was, the dancers who fall so they may rise, (and a movement is discovered), he writhed somewhere in a cave of the heart and re-emerged with a length of red yarn--saved (what does that mean), wanting to be wistful, plus utopia, so far

and bold and deathly white, the day will not save them and we rule the night

Plus you told him what a pimp was, plus utopia
such that he bowed, what is black power, out-and-out silence, such that he listened louder

I dreamed of Minton's Playhouse with a rooster on the chimney and then suddenly we were back in Iowa, the 80s, raisin eyes on the snowman, (hide the sunman) tucking a scarf around a cylinder, then back at Minton's, until I woke up laughing with jazz in my tears and the basket of frozen grapes by the bed had melted permanently. Nothing is quite as timebound as waking up in the middle of a good dream to an even better one.
It only happens
to pimps and poets
so the whole world is at risk

Not wanting to be wistful
Not being wistful
Any/more
The symmetrical flesh of winter fruit
Is just as lush as you remembered
sipping amber cider
It's safe to disappear
simultaneously,
together
so safe there's no need for it
or utopia
the cry of myth has deafened the cognitive aspects of the city,
to speak we have to move
like citizens of one another,
like if dreams don't have climates, admit they're too comfortable
Sideways in the subconscious, honesty looks as obnoxious as lies, admit that too
Don't be so boring, keep producing ideas, destroying ideas, simultaneously,
together

Plus you told him what a pimp was, plus you loved him anyway, the grapes melted into a shaken purple, less royal than earlier, prettier, pettier, not as beautiful, hide them in the snow, plus utopia, plus the socialite doesn't comprehend the difference between outrunning his imagination and he was what a pimp was, when you loved him anyway

Everybody's Brass Fantasy

Heckler to the:

Senator/Nerve-Center-of-Good-Times/Free Person/Big libido/Big Sanctimony/Anchorman reading cards if I ask you to improvise I only have eyes for you do you get up and twirl into a curtsy/do you ever get belligerent about how ugly your ideas are and wish your work could be so beautiful it hurt but when it keeps being hideous do you give up and teach your kids to clap at every transition until they can't hear themselves think and their hands are so beautiful it hurts but you have to compare them to roses fidgeting in the almost rain

Hide Your Time (pentamorphic)

In the literary equivalent of the music, doing the fewgoodmen Watusi parody in acts not of calculation but of the spirit informing the mind, the gig might live in tarflesh and Sapphire or

why she decides to braid her hair, why she decides to braid her whole hair into a statue
while staring at the almanac glossary, while the alms stack up to what-pass-you-don't-miss-you
People get too comfortable, the people who come from trouble get too comfortable with disorder---help (them,be
Folkloric, we fly so high in grey area the hawks get dizzy, hauling the air lean on me I mean it, no binge beliefs
we sleep on the wind
selling the glow off suffering, I swear from the vintage kimono I wore in the morning that my subservience was just about to kick in when it didn't

I love him

That the pride of cowards and coercion can't beat the pride of the one who listens to ice melting for a living and can still afford to make it stop

and dance with me til we scarce running out of blues but there are hue-bare globes frozen quiet for us to be so high you don't know what love is, in the back of the book under Volta there are 2 parallel lines, two floating alphabets, the scent of fresh basil, knowing that it's staged, stays, hanging from the strands of your own mind and never be afraid to kick in opposite directions at the same endangered hope it remains as warm as maybe-- It is spring, it is spring again, I say so

I Didn't Vote for Him, Did You Vote for Him

But the story didn't end there
So we didn't stop there
we have prepared a sequel
Blow the whistle, blow the whistle and
You'll do big ben and big ben is time
has officially ended, we live on the other side of time

Marrionette (suffrage)/He's on the Porch

Run On Buson

Lighting one candle with another candle
He's on the porch
to escape wife and kids
How hot it is
listening as his holiness the abbot whispers
sweet everythings
I really like myself
Everything about myself
The axle- black, don't act so

aloof
bells
(b u y b u l l belt)
a calligraphy of glass, geese
don't get fat on me
3 autumns, adams, crowns in the sand
cannon looking down shells for him
you might catch yourself, dwell
like a ghost
black angel, dwell like a ghost
close-far, closer, that way