Saturday, December 31, 2011

Friday, December 30, 2011

Thursday, December 29, 2011

Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Practical Serenade


Rock the Party, Fuck the Smackdown,

'cause when the morning breaks I'ma get my sound back
and all my native weather will be mine.

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Urgent Messages for Those Who Would be Real





We could make it some cold seasons
We could make it sometimes

Monday, December 26, 2011

Saturday, December 24, 2011

Color him father/(In the) Amen Break


I. Tattooing my simplicity on the pitiable

In this first line of a pledge to new forms I ask, was I not a very successful child? No, actually, the quest goes, I was not a very successful child, the axe halts mid-air, the grind of almost is where I like to go, and stay. Car chase scene. I was twirling, you thought I was running for runway child. The pageant of...you're high all the time, way up in the quicksand castle. I'm better at it now. Now I believe in the invisible and ask every man I meet, show me your myths, and the eligible ones look into me like I'm mirror I grow younger and younger


II. A Black Mass/Mastery

A musician could make an amen track in the morning... and have it in the fast commercial by that same afternoon. The commercial would be for urban living, eating slurs from the journey's register. Selling blackness back to her as self-abnegation, how well its furtive medicine assimilates to commercials. Mercilessly convincing the hits to look honest with suburban eyes, to captivate, but not like captors, my captains for bright mornings. The others have dropped their oars welcoming whatever violence their tribute commands. It's difficult to be the oldest/ youngest mission on the planet, so we gather with our hands in mid-air and plan the silent doves of our lips as they unload us face first onto the rickety plank of entertainment. It's not so bad. The successful child will tell us if we seem fake or too real

III. Copyright Infringement

Any open drum they could find went with Fine and Mellow behind the soap commercial, but when he starts in to love me it is so...The virility scene, the slogan kept going: Wouldn't it be interesting to be two kings at the same time, not the one soul of them both, but two distinct kingly souls...

Counterspells Against Bad Infinity

Untitled from BWR on Vimeo.

Friday, December 23, 2011

Negro, this goes out to chaos



Get out the car, come join the party
Restore us to our natural state of danger
That strong fanatic wind that never ceases to blow
She is a rose, she is together like a wind tunnel and they test their struts inside her
And their torched opinions make some grotesque spectacle on the terrace

Today I went into the hills
To make the get-out pleasure last as long as possible
This is how it used to be

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

The Radio Prays


For these steel days. Since it was all commercials, we won't pay. Some chameleon miracle glimpses itself growing out of a risk and what patrol slid out of sight like a parrot's eyes stiffen to expose your silences back to you and the grind between stations gets loose and timorous and dealing with the myth that men are angels brought a dent in the friction where I'm coiled, hidden, stricken by the calm of re-appropriated ignorance. It brought about the end of opinions. Their ghosts rejoiced for us and them is us again.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

News on the Hour



No Lone Ranger
No Green Hornet and Cato
No Ma Bowes with his bell
No Audubon
No, the Audubon is the wanderer
No wonder the word is commerce, the calm mercenary went there, where
A perfectly good coma interrupted by nightmares clones a dream

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Monday, December 12, 2011

As though the new maximum

is something about realism, he jingled softly about his not not self in a thicket of cross-promotion he jabbed

The Zombies are here and their kiss is deathly.
They are ruining
jazz
spots from coast to coast. As soon as they start hanging
around
certain
clubs, the decent citizenry
avoid the spots like the plague.
They come
with their zoot suits, long haircuts,
reefers and "zombie"
jive to night
spots that feature
top jazz talent. Soon they become the atmosphere

of a greek attic where tender masks go to shatter and cube the broken glide in search of the healing element is something about realism choking the blue new

Saturday, December 10, 2011

Rootwork




I want to take your hands from my hips and place them on a statue's hips
. Call you Ransom Lewis. Lift the dewy crane of metamorphosis from its slum near the alphabet. Am I an open window yet? Broken where the repair swung in. They're not exactly perfect. They're not perfect. My muscles of folded jade. Jade in tidy supple bows. Jaded violin of so-what/Let the heir in. I stand on my toes and they burn and scoot and numb with use. Do dances to the muting tantrum. Be the hip frail damsel. Stretch and rip and go up in burning buildings. Come out done talking about survival. Come out prepared to have not come out. Mouthing It is with such intense joy. We spoke in moans of the colonization of 'swing.' Of the wingedness of the statue's hips I-by-you-put-on



Friday, December 9, 2011

Necessary Submergence

You wonder how to play without a bridge, how to navigate what is no longer song but what carries song, bone deep in the deep of bones, ghost-ship rises sunken ark of bones, out and cut of the (radically excluded middle) passage. You've got to move from the extended interruption of the unbridged, the chance of the synaesthetic and what it marks and unmarks in the cut, what it leaves and opens to the senses like a subject broken and abundant in some kitchen, field, or studio of representation, of securing and capturing:

Thursday, December 8, 2011

This is my traffic over the night



You can't really mean to look like that

You might get psychosomatic

A countertenor calls

but you won't get the mask

Strike the viol

Touch

oh touch the lute

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Aversion to Information

Rudiments of rapture. Great sensitivity to open doors. Loud talk. Liquid speak. Muses. You follow the same paths as before. Only they appear strewn with roses

Monday, December 5, 2011

Both Yards: A Jungle

The martyrs have harmed truth

Must be reborn

Both Yards: A greeting / lied too/ Hello meant, don't be new or double, oh hell no

the number one is skill so rude and wild I come from the prize for vacant rope climbing ripple/ the dealer/ numeral/ broke deck: Too many people standing there with tilted glasses and paper fans giving for grace, after a party answers fell together through a wobbling plank of atmosphere, woke up more reckless, thankless, alive with the tangle of transposed variation,

Sunny: yesterday
Sunny: one so true
Sunny: thank you
Sunny: you gave to me

very very romantic, courage

Drew my face in the seed

Thursday, December 1, 2011

You got a friend in me. A real friend and if.

Every record is about a woman
The sensation is not dissimilar to a fix

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Monday, November 28, 2011

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Mostly



Sobriety, the first enhancing manifest of ravage
Very solemn, making friends and enemies in the time between knowing and telling the future I play dumb and ask how long it will be before the corners of our minds curve into these futuristic foreheads we've both been given and we can relax, loot a few museums, discard the word eclectic, it means partially nothing and when you say it everyone can tell you're a phony or a public radio dj. Maybe both. I'm partial to the way he leans though, jockey between fences unflinchingly disastrous posture of the leap--landing. I pull over to let him out of the car but remember he's the one driving and then I know the second enhancing manifest of ravage, the absolute pivot of fortune, I pull over to let him out of the Cadillac catalog but then remember that I'm the one... The man I love (second take) Legacy Edition. Broken mute. Mutiny. Tinsel on the banister which coils like the gears of a floating bicycle, floating in the night of the purple moon, dopey crescent, so there's a slow silhouette of him looking up at me looking up at him looking up to me looking up to him no it's up to me, no it's up to him, mostly nobody has fathers, we decide, dragging the lens into our hearts for a new understanding of inheritance

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Watching our faith in prayers, will make you see your bones

Or whatever beginnings go back to

By way of an effort wholly distinct from concessions to closure


She begins to tell you what she's not going to tell you and a confession unfolds from the hinges of resistance to it and otherwise rigid adherence to tradition would result in decay. All results are forms of decay that must be mobilized toward their opposite and swing like cave regulars or hitmen at the advantage of oneness-- as for the big luck, there's no such deed as luck as a force of corruption we call it tough and tender, rough, unexpectedly gentle: an exegetic refusal to be done with desire spliced into pronunciation spliced into a place in which every note will keep to its neutral truth


Friday, November 25, 2011

Symbolic Fears

Three kinds of People; Three Roads to Salvation

Those who seek it

Through the manipulation of non-human things:

The farmer, the engineer, the scientist

Through the manipulation of other human beings:

the politician, the teacher, the doctor

Through the manipulation of their own phantasies:

The artist, the saint

Some fascist forces here
And I was never so happy as when I was underground

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Monday, November 21, 2011

The Actual Best Version/Reunion

The sense I have is that we're being addressed by a barely audible witness and we have to keep ourselves clean of whatever romance of resistance would hear it only as camouflage.

Picasso's bulls, cowering into a telescope, swallowing the moon, come up for area, come up for place. A swooning cash register opens on the sky. We get high... We get high. We get in the right fights. Come out more alive. Silver dollar spyLord beginner ones. Collectible hero statues from the quiet troop of uninterrupted myths too. Commissioner of stardust breathing in. Amphibian, amphibian on both sides of a wide-blooded kingdom tucking an indigo into the unknown again and again together I get the sense the onlooker is a lack we instill in our lives to get to one another so what so what so what so what
sense is since I can I don't have to go there unless I feel like it cause I am the actual best version of what is this thing called.. and that's the way it will have been

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

The Man Who Recorded Silence

To control himself he turned on the radio. He felt that he had a glorious victory locked in his heart. He stooped and flung some stolen diamonds more evenly over the floor and they showered rich sparks, collaborating with him. He had a glorious victory locked in his heart he felt that. I have become more militant, because the time is right. He reminded himself. I have become more time. Militancy reminded him of a joy unwinding as a boyhood unwilling to leave for noise is easier to imagine forward in the omnivorous span of itself, getting closer to itself but too near to touch-- it is the balmy young camera in the early clash with image and broke the rivalry into value and them both into hope for the conversation on earth and then we negotiated and then went looting and that sounded broken into togetherness, andthenagain am I blue, you'd be too. To control himself he turned through the radio. A bloom of tunnels. He wore his pants low and had to scoot around like a radio dial from place to place to pose to (I'll) wait for you and he felt a glorious victory locked in his speed. A swollen limbo. Interaction has become a way to create silence, for me and him. We film a still radio by day. At night we watch the footage and discuss a road it isn't on and how come



Sunday, November 13, 2011

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

The man who learned his name

The sad vine of invention is not pretending to be a mirror or revert back to childhood but the science couldn't unbegin and undead stars rise again as supernovae. Malik was meek and lost his belt on your ass. It fell there like a wand he had to lift every time the siren came or the shiner showing or the urge to run. Parthenogenesis, c'mon. Is that really what happens. These black ones come out from the sun like children again. Reborn, a double verb about how and when we've been immortal ever since dieing for them. Ten thousand light years away, the burned-out core of a dead star quietly circles a sun-like companion. Though the stellar corpse shows no signs of life, it is a cosmic vampire, biding its time as it slowly becomes its mate. The word vampire will not do in the corridor, nor martyr nor reformer and the categories swarm silent in the anarchy of ensemble time. Nor will the faint gimmick of western spirituality that stole the romance of blood to describe itself to a pricetag: affordable, blow-up fort, and the people who drag it up get low from it, nor will it do. Honesty is a rude grin. Maybe even violent. Get your myth true. Get it together. Live, you crazy motherfucker, and organize your shit. Not a pep talk. Not another mother constricting with judgment. The glory was only vinyl and nullified by how-- The myth was the event it crowded around and held together as it aged gracefully, disintegrating into better music. The lucky loops of my lips promising it back to him. More graceful than meek. A faker. But also so sincere. A sinnerman, where you gonna run to kind who never panics and never runs and is therefore far into the tone of arrivance. Getting there. You know, just about at the place he's expected when a veer rips the page off the rack. A trance of seven colors and come out huffing wishbone ash and draconian and pale as the wind and making up a color or hue for the pause of the unword coming through as love, they like it when a nigga is unreliable. Listening through the vent to him mumbling, can't tell weather the voices are joyous or despairing but I get the strong urge to ask them to stop praying and stand unrepentant in edgeless robes. Malik decorates his choir with a flood of bells felt sane again and fell down in the elevation of it



Monday, November 7, 2011

Sunday, November 6, 2011

A Tribe of Starts





Something else is going on; people might float to the ceiling

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Monday, October 31, 2011

Your Mama Don't Wear no Draws



Words that we both know are what keeps you, on the stable floor, from the years I saw, nervously beneath you, and now we'll discover a cello with every word that we both know, in between a stunted flow, and I couldn't care less about your mother. Do you know that I couldn't have won so fair, just last year, and as a foreigner here, excuse my longing for a limelight and not a hope in hell, cause it's sad that I'm not at home. And if I change it's nice to know that soon, I'll change back to use words that we both know

(We was there when she took 'em off)

Sunday, October 30, 2011

Society Gig



aristocrats among fiends and prostitutes
before the intellectuals, waiting til snow
falls and only then hiding
. Signaling out for each its contoured tribal burden
until they come alive in one another like fountains and hints and we shiver, kiss wrists, fit perfect into a nightshift grocer's routine anticipation of hope for the conversation on earth. New York, will you give up your death for us like a mimic prophet buckling on the grid of yourself. Become less significant and more meaningful. Disappear to be everywhere I mean. Go against the delirium of reputation and become sane and empty the guile into a river and go on to hire detectives who will re-invent the suspense we run on as they solve the river for the static they inflict it with nerve. I dream of pirates bold enough to hide their time. Your thrills grow dull with glamor, theirs grow high on militant anonymity. My meaningful other. Block party, corner store. Celebrate the brilliance of wolves.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

The Man Who Went to Chicago



If you think about me, and you ain't gonna do no revolutionary act, forget about me, I don't want myself on your mind

Monday, October 24, 2011

Poem for Speculative Pharaohs




A great free--
Soul for rent, faculty
trembled as those light score-board-speckled pamphlets about the audacity of disembodiment rippled in the palm wine tannins tempting culty ever since types: sycophants, climbers, to mercilessly reveal how time hurts in the speed of how you see in no time
What I'm trying say-- how you see it so and numb it total, patiently, trial after stoic trial until a child must exist. The inevitability of where we roam is where we get to. Shy arrivance accused of privilege and compliments until the circles got huge like black continent free souls for rent and we went on wanting
Obedience, to convince itself, of itself, but it didn't and so on and so on and 'all songs are crazy'

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Things we cannot see appear, singing songs we cannot hear



Value haunts our lives, they're chanting into the arms of riot police. These are at least embraces.

The trite machine gun wears its stupor into the middle of whispers like a testing/testing microphone and tells us so, sudden announcer, cotton curtains in the singer's throat and the blank stare in stereo of a voice inhabited by justice is so appropriate it disappears

Sunday, October 16, 2011

Coming Together/Maybe There's Enough Thunder





Friday, October 14, 2011

The Oasis is all in a Clamor



What happened to destroy the cathedral happened to become the cathedral

I pray in those, pet the bull chasers with race records until the patrons notice a theater machine and I'm selling its stages back to them as black Athens as I can– an impromptu festival

Stage 1.

There comes a time to wake up to what's happening
There comes a time to get out of what's happening
I love you more than what's happening


1.5 (It's only true if I believe you)

Stage 2.

They lied, but not enough

Stage 3.

There comes a time to wake up to what's happening
There comes a time to get out of what's happening
I love you more than what's happening


They say the cathedral's repeating itself and life is elsewhere



Thursday, October 13, 2011

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Cabaret Tax for Dancing

Fat dawn, get back into bed

Where the effort to put the fragments together transforms them into what he said it won't ever become like all the ready-made ever seen daybreak revoke itself

On the slopes of a petty, loving, request

Could you create an era that decisive and then behave just like it. Slim dawn, tender wandering, dawn, my jury, the black mass surrounds you hoping to be invited

Monday, October 10, 2011

Once he was asked to describe the revivals



He called them dead copycats of the apocalypse can't stop myself when I'm real

Saturday, October 8, 2011

Thursday, October 6, 2011

One mo' Gin

The moonlight's but a spotlight



Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Antenna, numb antenna

Prodding the air in a marionette-ish way, catches the Day of the Mariner in black and white on a major channel, one of the stations owned by Time Warner and soft drinks, I think of watching as a kind of duty of the quarantine and looking away as how it got beautiful/his both-ways veil screaming, live, you crazy motherfucker, live, and organize your shit, he promised both ways. Men cry the fists out of their faces and land on the doorstep cradling an apologetic used television. Some women want appliances. Stationary, masculine. Geisha stay up late tuning all the gray aura in praise of aura geisha stay up a little later pretending she's tiptoeing across a lake to rescue miracles from the bravery complex and hope no more televisions show up on my doorstep. Some women want silence. Phonograph in a climate of heroic tinyness, that gigantic time, a fine cylinder uncoiling the words I'm learning in a marionette-ish way up late geisha way too late to tell him the way she thinks the silence is the best thing between them. But Monk knew. Blue Monk. Light Blue. He drew it to her vague and in charge like a governor or mariner he'd say. It just falls, it fills that hunger for seeing or being someplace else

Sunday, October 2, 2011

What is really this?



It is the friend. Neither violent nor weak. The friend.

It is the beloved. Neither tormenting nor tormented. The beloved.

Friday, September 30, 2011

Occupy All Streets (theme for the reanimation of the blue in green)







How does your heart feel late at night. Won't you tell me, tell me, legislator

(He pictures Man-Man staging his own crucifixion)

Sticks and limericks ticking the syllables out to drill and bolt the outside 'til all he can speak is like a child. Pride and road and pride and roadside

I'm a reasonable man man, get off my case. Get off my case. Get off my case


But late at night, how does your heart feel, won't you tell me, tell me legislator

Meet me tomorrow at the studio (two for Slyvia Robinson)



Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Two Script Circumference



After that I mastered the anonymous feeling between my anxieties and my desires I mastered the feeling of transfer and I drove my husband's car in the garden and the lawn turned smashing from the affection steady malachite with health. To hush him, love him more than duty. There was a kitchen and my mother was there while I drove his car in the garden. No animals came into the meal because we leave the parody in the factory working for itself plush wealth of the slaughter, can't go for that unless I came a hunter and we wear the mask in the sure-shore factory of sense, you send me, spondeeing, to leap vowels, to wipe them animals out. But when one says "animals" so generally one has already begun to not understand anything. So when I am paying attention to my language I don't talk about animals. One soul or another. By cool or some other lure or lore, I was distracted into showing my wheels. As domestic as the the railroad station I pray in Sydney Poitier Heat-of-the-Night era mystery radiance and an air-raid rated R for scenes that contain historic smoking and I am not afraid of anyone or anything pushed the FCC over the edge and the idea was banned from movies until language was ruined and rebuilt in these honeycomb moments we have before us all the misplaced quotes poking around in the garden vehicle like cobras and fiats.

As I went on my desires got stronger and my anxieties got them feeling like prices, precise, risky, veteran in purple heart jingle pinstripes at the bar reminiscing over a game of darts and lanterns. Set as ringtone. The leading role goes to the train which makes you enter some destiny between the kitchen and the garden the projector gets tangled and tingles so silver, so close the door of a horror flick everything placid is suspect and we haggled with our ecstatic comfort until the radio would play it and call us gangsters, hot wheels on the garden floor.

Blue Trane for 2 heading west around the harvest got kitchens the size of fame and just as empty after we master the feeling we practice getting it wrong, bending tempos, staying black-- and all the cliches fractured at the clutch.

Say she was to walk out on him. Say it was his biography and he didn't get a role. Say it was his country in the future (romance as backdrop for revolution) and he had pledged her restless propaganda and too many songs caught on camera, caught on fire, and when we learned we could get faster in afternoon of a Georgia faun and get to ourselves that way, we'd shake like rental machines for a remake. We'd have secret historic smoking parties in the train stations and shake then. We wouldn't even invite each other until the train leaped into a pile of cards and shook us together near Detroit. I've kept in the garden, engine running, when he calls to say he's on his way I make up a sigh and a tape deck and it's 1968 and I don't want anyone I'm not afraid of

Friday, September 23, 2011

What's Really Food (Equinox edition)







Do you know what hunger is, I don't know what hunger is. I mean, I sit here, I eat, I don't know what hunger is

The harvest entered single file like a sniper had planned it and one by one their weapons turned them into patterns-painters and our colors stained the earth with hunger/hunger

Do you know what hunger is, I don't know what hunger is, I mean, I sit here, I listen, I don't what hunger is

The orchard-last(s)/ regular place, tawny colored pace of children hunting.Bluster of us consuming what they junk. Sun spine, sun ribs, sun kind, a race of minor divas grows up believing in middle classes and the taste of wax on water just beneath the skin of manufactures who are poisoning the new of them. The city is safe from view though we hear it kneading

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Devotions



To have had this hazard on our hearts get bad enough
to have had this discussion appear suddenly like the song scenes in Carmen Jones used to seem silly like a rut in the plot but now I get it and I thought about singing aloud too

A saddle fell from the sky and smashed a hydrant. Gallop if you can't sing, run the answer into the bleachers like a scandal secretly appreciates every indulgence. It's dandyism, it's trendiness again. A sophisticated comment instead of riot like the body fell out of a sad oath

Later on camera I panicked and picked my father out of a line-up to keep him safe from time. He sings for us when we think we're waiting alone at an Augusta bustop and the saddle is on its way down to peg the broken water for hope it has our blood on all kinds of tracks and they take bets on who's bad enough

Monday, September 19, 2011

Personism, A Manifesto

Just go on your nerve

Sunday, September 18, 2011

So much depends upon the red wheelbarrow



I can't find the rainwater, or the glaze of white adjacent chickens adjacent, chasing the voodoo down, without him

Saturday, September 17, 2011

A Participatory Inquiry



Used revolt as the backdrop for romance to get toward stunning facts like being we called a job a slave, I'm sure you know about that, and whenever someone on the plantation burst into song we'd break out laughing. The text was a set text, a sextet, a group of round players with some antennae at it alleviating the gaze with graze with me, tender pulsing sun squeezing the eyes into yes-- be as when the usual is suitable and dialog is home. So much torment until you just love the doing. A beautiful story, a human being story

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Fitted Whisper (Notes from The Art Tatum Archive)

If you have eyes, the slave is yours.

A cartoon in there. Propaganda for true love. 88 Solo. Characters. Sure things. Creating the common language as they go. Pier. Dope. The cozy soot of near survival. Stallion approaching Bud Powell, Monopoly/arrhythmia/ my country 'tis of thee/sweet land of liberty/ land where my father was stylized into leopards and leaped.. of thee I sling, land of no narrow trance, no narrow trance in the lantern reflex of being noticed not noticing land wearing any person/ promise /mistress/standardized, you can't plan a crooked entrance into the rubble of bending down at the last minute just in time to admit the balcony mid-air in no-land-care, wary. Quarry between two open hands. We stay there. We look like a poster for staying there cushioning the look with gimme that stallion steal me back from them, can you

(Imaginary canopy, nope, actual anchor image down in my glands limitlessly digging them fountains, smokestacks, capital L. puff the magic ofay dragging out the riddens. We had the kind of time you can't tell when it amounts to space but it keeps expanding until the slave of your eyes shuts at the edge of labor, an entertainer)

Pretend to be jumping when you're actually falling and get called Jordan cause that's as far east as your gonna get without religion at the edge of labor, an entertainer. The omnivorous church door is blank neon octagon minimal coil c'mon and believe oral evidence only from now on if you have eyes the slave steals me back from them when he can, reaches for the edge of labor and palms pick up in applause, bossman, an entertainer.

I mean every witness is responsible for the slackened boundary between devotion and no narrow trance in the blindfolded midair performer, no pucker in his gift, working his way up your supervision



Sunday, September 11, 2011

Denoument In Monument

It seems that the only two happy people in this movie are, ummm, slightly crazy

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Are you a little bit addicted to magic?

By coming into a supernatural family wherein the word should should never arrive with respect to building a bridge and the word obliged I pumped and deflated ladylike huffy tires while I

uttered it with a sophist's harmonica kit-trophy, not lust, wuthering, custody, my lucky exhalation playing Monk's Suburban Eyes plus you don't cry enough

In a dynasty-shaped fieldway of what backlash exodus painting disappearance into its return/Some myth/ is a filthy brigade I'd like to claim an addiction to/ traces of joy so brave in the tension they break it into that silly hunger to be unknown famous Monk, forever. I'd grown up calling it trust, found out it's just inventory you keep by not keeping count, grown up calling it a county family succulent fairgrounds, rides and prizes, slow down an isle. And can blow listening through this miniature cage and come out singing about a ballgame in reporter cadence: mania, jolliness, dejected charisma, real paid. All you have do is go blind to the sight of yourself to find the idea was crowded with memorization which came to mean looking though you couldn't see anything you didn't remember being told to see. Or pretend you're the announcer at ballpark figure and say what's happening and how much it's gonna cost us



Because you should

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Venturing to wonder out loud one day...

what kind of trip they were on

Monday, September 5, 2011

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Monday, August 29, 2011

Sunday, August 28, 2011

The Earth's Caught up in our Movement

The child asked to draw a profile, draws both eyes. And a caption dancing around the vision reads: All of our heroes have blood on their hands, a demand and a a pride thing. He--row row row ism, is a man denied his own blood and becoming a composite of symbols, thus spoke, thus the entire wheel. So maybe if the symbols would bleed then they won't have to-- prove anything with another man's body. And can imagine a slow anonymous evening in the company of astrosonic friends and the only holy frenzy is that I Respect I Entirely and both eyes lean out to greet the drawer of these weeds kneeling and bowing in a sudden garden simulation of work during an act of pleasure in the ecstatic semi darkness. It was only me, late to the movie, body traversing the screen to look for a seat to turn into it





Saturday, August 27, 2011

Wilderness (Fear not Man/Radio)



you are the man
you are my other country
and I find it hard going

you are the prickly pear
you are the sudden violent storm

the torrent to raise the river
to float the wounded doe

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Drums in the Medicine Cabinet/Love Letters in The Last Hide-Out

Spike Lee has a real geologist's hammer, he can hit a rock and split it open and look inside and utter some mantra



Kissass is part of peace, America will have to kissass mother earth






Monday, August 22, 2011

Sunday, August 21, 2011

This is a poem about the body


It's trails leaping from trait to tadpole and feeling thus saved and ever more beautiful to be more ravished or ravaged or the way the starcraft flinches and saturates after this (becoming morning) is a poem about the spirit coming across itself on a friendly day
No Sanctified Terror
Back row ears
Staring out at the mind and quoting it three things

My great grandfather behind the pharmacy counter shouting only an equal can mend me and holding out a tiger rag and a key to the 8 ball shooting itself into the take-me corner, pocket across all the green you could pick, an acre, trigger, and call it in praise of the catholic church of John Coltrane which meets in the Fillmore District in San Fransisco across from the Blackhawk, a club or nascent county, every Sunday. They play his fame from, from. But the pharmacy was in Chicago and the hawk was no where to be found in the picture, just Porgy, not seen, but implied by his surroundings. The song loved him, not me. And the fuzz got a cut of that. Until black was the color of worship and willship back and forth and steamships and fishermen pharmacist pimp musicians with library badges sewn into their rhodes like ladders. And the shells of pirates getting away with it, and the soul of a child transforming into a tiger and then back into a costumer who had that dream

Thursday, August 18, 2011

The Autobiography of Malik Flavors (Index Excerpts)

You're Fooling yourself.

See, when they gave us that nigga astronaut, they lost him in space

Sapience,suspicion, spinning plates; and when even the allied radio is afraid to sound his way and when they play him, how the modest question (what is listening?, What does it mean, to listen?) begins to render the shuffled bridge a deck in the house's hand with one club missing and one spade shipped to the casino, no answer,

(the more inexorably the principal of exchange-value replaces use-value for human beings, the more deeply does exchange value disguise itself as the object of enjoyment)

The Raven and The Coyote:

You should never resort to violence if it's at all possible to out-think a man


And from this moment on she is the soft master of every scene, she wins the movie

Malik, Is every negro
a potential blackman?

Intra-Mortality, the ultimate aphrodisiac The treble halo/

Pointilistic embrace (she knows her husband as well as she knows profit)

Every negro is a potential blackman. A few shadows and showdowns, ragged grace, poised raggedyness, the middle, gall

Barrel, roll out, Shango, cut to soap commercial or rickshaw, shield, clearing, celebrants... "you did it, you did it"

Reefer helps me focus. And her nerves, are never ravens and never coyotes, and weeping waterless tears

When was the first time you saw a man remember, how he is

the anarchy that silences each category with an ensemble time, what did he do next..get your silence together

(Music serves in America today as an advertisement for commodities which one must acquire in order to be able to hear music)

Forgetting makes it last, but, what's after the future..

Oh yeah... cool my bellhaven/meridian, I do too, forgetting makes it last

The illusion of sorrow narrows into a docile flute I can hear through the wall of potential blackness. Something suitable is about to happen. Forgetting makes it last-- or feel that our knowledge is a fluke out the category toward an ensemble time. You're fooling yourself. Forgetting makes it last





Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Wake-up Occasion



To the the odd post-expectant way we have of rolling promise and prohibition into one



There was something like the feeling of the idea of silk scarves in the air

If I were the big town I would be calm and debonair

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Moving towards an anarchy that silences these categories with an ensemble time



What's Really Food (Mode 4)


Saturday, August 13, 2011

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Quartet


Virago/soft coal/pyrite/no caste/no castle/dig that/some goats/trade songs like I'll trade you some soft coal for a noble, everyday/verifies/my hope/a bright circular spot on a solar halo/is brutal

The earth is the enemy of the classic army; it is too vast for them, they get lost, in the fields these princes are distressed, surrounded by solitude. The wilderness that the mercenary crosses without meeting a living soul must be transformed for the rebel into a swarm of allies.

And then, an ability to see each peach-toned company twice at once, is efficient, government, or, leaving the movies, as if the void between terror and the people is what is blurry about release. We get in there and keep sounding-- like loosening the bricks in the word affiliates and replacing them with benevolent cliff/sides

I start a Cuban dream, my sweet cylinder plows the earth looking for looking...

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

At least a button-up (shirts and skins)

The earth throws against the sky these solitary sovereigns, royal palms, huts, tom-tom tom-toms, my what-kind uncle-who-are-you-calling-a- In a regime/ everything is missing but

The calm of common language you gimme, at least there's this/ scarecrow destiny on the outskirts of what we do--What we imagine ourselves saying we would do if Stokely Carmichael

was listening. Groove merchant. The density of how close we come to dancing, thinking, before abandoning the idea 'cause we trust it so far. Like a boss keen on sobbing to himself in the dark, which is the fountain of youth until the brand catches, trademarks like loose fists. I'm sure of the word hunt, fountain, youth is the button they confuse amounts of in between land and wand and epistrophy. They offer buttons for/ I keep peering into the darting echo of your hope for the conversation on earth, and a backwards narrowing occurs like lanes and lanes of muffled pop songs go up in fortress, and the ashes and shuttles land in our cars on the way to work. Where should we go instead?


The earth throws against the sky her solitary sovereigns...


listen. It's a commercial for the pharmacy again. Sermon. Carnal sermon. Repair tastes like failure. How come. Balloons and candles, unless there are cellos going into the iconscope and what we did in there was confidential, and confidence is emptiness, then empire, they warned, gulp by gripping gulp

The sky fidgeting with its swords is you is the rain, I think, you're drinking again, my love and propaganda, I hear a bell, I feel a bell thinking in me


Monday, August 8, 2011

Friday, August 5, 2011

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

On the two types of premises



In an excerpt from silence or fear of becoming a professional negro or this is a sportscar, this is a such starlight, this is a prostitute, not you, the beckoner, or, I was on one, or, one of them was in the beginning let-there-be-light-like, as that is a way of being, hollow voice, wristwatch wearing, not you, the bleak one, Come Sunday stumbling upright on the cracking jade of mercy.

Easily, the pollen is limber, the limb is heartward, the hand from, shatters to play the good sport, score kind and plot kind, you shine kind and you shine shine, what a pier sounds like:: funnel, caramel, whole mouth, plus about it like a cross spinning the day Hess left his pipe and his maiden, history, to get to the retuning. As you say impressive things, as you settle into doing them like everyday with a mute on the.. out-loud silence, time ends like everyday/ the pollen/ shatters/ getting better at itself

Sunday, July 31, 2011

Narrative/The Appeal

If the system is maintained by its consequences: gypsy, recluse, hamlet, ledge--

Then wear a gold hat, if it will move her;
If you can bounce high, bounce for her too
Till she cry, "lover, gold-hatted, high bouncing lover,
I must have you!" or green, green I want you green the wind

The heaviest form of rhythm in speech is how it ascends into motion , not lip motion,
the body moving in its ledger of jokes, lies, songs, said the Reluctant American, to the Next Original Hipster. They danced out the jailhouse of chords sold separately into different fields for breeding and looming, met centuries later in jokes, lies, songs, and recognizing one another, are back together today. There's no such thing as reunion in a Happening Endlessness



Does it mean the crisis is a good time to express danger as, love, like, or priestcraft, lane, land, cul-de-sac, Sappho translation, or having re-read The Artist as Criminal and Victim looking for signs of The Hollywood Ten or Hamlet or mutant, your sequencer, found Langston Hughes promising the courts he didn't mean Good Morning, Revolution, he meant I'll win the way I've always done, by being gone when they come. There's been a terrible mix-up, having had all the persecution he could judge, he called this reaching into speech for an imitation of himself and finding the club of warnings-- the system will suffer its twin and move in him



Saturday, July 30, 2011

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

The future profession of spring



Where massacre is thought practical, rebirth is inevitable
Where inevitability happens, eve backs out of the cult

I know the other world was not like this

but both are sacred: massacre and the choice on its back, both bloom and mate in a daze and waiting to wake up, waiting

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Entrance




It was the wishing hour on t.v.. We discussed the technology of wishing. It included a mutilation of the present that I found inferior to knowing and even ignorance. Or because the known and the unknown touch/dreaming has made stricter terms of dreaming. To stutter or to lose your scars or to occur as a cluster of beginnings. I admired these efforts in the words that pierced themselves to preserve their union letters; wholeness being too close to dismissal, revolution forcing you back to yourself, a leaving you propelled through proper/names, tags, goals, gutters and plugged your form of or joint jesus is smoking or listening from and you're petty enough to see a difference against the shattering effigies of slum geese, your grace pursed as the error or terror or urge of maybe makes a symposium to replenish each joke landscape with stoicism and a cube and a horse and a person. To the brim of grammar where my real companions hear immediacy as the wordless slow jam and tendon it is, driving you over its candor and into it like a bribe or a token or to show him where it drops and

Eagle celebrating road, gets flat
Road celebrating eagle, gets black
Stoic celebrating memory gets that memory ahead of when what matters to the myth is not the rule of fidelity but its song, and remembers it was like that all along, it was the wishing hour on t.v., we tested the technology of wishing. It left holes in the words labeled literal unto the rubric like 'coming true' 'granted' 'I wish a nigga would' 'star required' and we were so sure the machines were working we took up singing and gave our faith a price



Monday, July 25, 2011

Saturday, July 23, 2011

This is no Mortal Business

Full of fathom five thy father lies
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.


Thursday, July 21, 2011

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Pure Sympathetic Magic/Some folks speak too clear

A music we think will save us from their eyes



Dedicated to restoring fresh looks at the world through
Cathedra, thug fussyness, and the lucid speech of a common emptiness




We take unholy risks to prove we are what we cannot be
For instance, he is not even crazy



Westwind enters and a team of suggestions about which heartbeat is an opinion and which one opens the minutes, skins them, ends increments by incurring them as crimes against the vivid dream that everything/everything

Some verge is a rival, arrival, some verge, where certainty is no longer encouraging, noir not whithstanding, some entourage is a dandy, some deep is restored/ he / is not even instantly worried into dancing or warred there, just is by the time it looks like some guesses are made before knowing what at. I guess in lilting sevens, you guess in huddled threes, we count up believing

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Shrine

In addition to the mysteries recited it went, worldly friendship is a farce network but everybody catches it, netting, nothing/ kneading nothing into what it wasn't willing to admit it was the discreet charm of.. what I want is a little cosmos inhabited by the two of us, he warned me, but I strive to make my listening flat, indifferent, impervious, roadside, trip to the movies, pull over to make out/ the cosmos, but also I must go away once this desire, having formed, I might be in its way. Tar, tar, tar, tar, feather, indoor kite flies its telepathy into the book of noir breathing and inhales the moving picture of a discreet nothingness/ hieroglyphic for love is still a plow, slow value about it, but do we doubt the ceiling

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Journal of our Reverberations







Myth is a wound, laceration in the conscience. As if I express my deviousness as fantasy to do away with exile. See that. Slope in the plan/ heap/nova, Bam! Banner year. Begin its smash into witnesses.

And some Insignia or gut reaction, says I should have been, have been, weeping in the laughter's arms

Myth is a mend or if you lie to honor premonition or a lure that ravishes and is endlessly affirmed against everything. In no love story I have ever read is a character ever tired. Fatigue is numbed to infinity. Nimbus, bustling, the sling of your knowing is faster than thinking but sound is thinking's shepherd. Myth is where we rest

Monday, July 11, 2011

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Liner Notes for the Millennium





Porcelain or sullen or happy again, can't tell... that way you can't make it hip to its price, bounty and

ambiguity will light the way to coincidence, the Sovereign Good, which makes it vain, bizarre, low, an idol, label, delicate, trite, subject/bright subject bright, does not volunteer information. And it's true that the mute figure is an angel. And language will only train it to forget. The question then..How to repulse a demon (language) (an old problem). Tell it how it good it is. Teach it to coincide with itself, be coincident, the sovereign good, good from inattention, good and bland functional meal. Sound content. Sustenant. Grain, green, gathered. List the pulse backwards and it doesn't matter that you feel continuously increased by silence, programmed, induced, beaten out, battered, reversed, discovered, brought back- and an approximately infinite universe recurs in you- porcelain or sullen or happy again, can't say, it's true that the mute knowing is a savior, fathomless, fatuous, window thing, calendar, each day in its preemptive coffin, neon, gothic, wakes up and walks out on you

Friday, July 8, 2011

Behavior in Lines

It's the dreaded ghetto of strangers again

I get the vision of two peacocks spreading their tails

A shock that capsizes my own language... if given permission to be itself...

Jazz could rebuild the hybrid/
city before improvisation
like noise, like slaves... can simply run buckwild and get out of hand... I heard the mayor thinking.. so it was with the levees and the techniques of falling (a freely chosen conceptual silence) amidst the acoustics of negotiation/initiation/proportions recur and the union determines them, two heads, state, and what you don't say... sound under slavery was called noise in hopes that it would vanish against the law, is not safe for water or to have been waiting in... Walk on

Fear of a Black Planet.. I heard the mayor plan.. dancehalls, famine, entertainment


The silence of his huge hotel is echoing, indifferent, idiotic

It's the dreaded ghetto of strangers again.
I get the vision of two peacocks spreading their tails.
If given permission to be themselves, they break apart, sport dark glasses, not to be cool but grieving is a soft enchantment, a slice of mandarin on the tongue felt before it is desired and longed for once consumed.. a celebration left midway

and when we just stood there tasting of balloons, their urbaness, their business, their attempted disappearances

and when we ran after them singing, practicing their names

The fetish does not reply but is talked into your thinking and acts that strange if given permission to be itself, would run out of people to dread to fear to talk about to feather to tar to bait to wait for. To hear the color first I thought of my father's voice lurking in his eyes and thick with form is emptiness form is emptiness, evacuations are blue, returns too, form is emptiness, form is emptiness

Thursday, July 7, 2011

Beautiful Thing/Natural Thing

Past semiotics, foreplaces grow into one

Impetuous/Moody/Infuriating/Reassuring... great person/great event

An interval, swoops, circumlocution, and a certain number of beats, softens the love between us..

As for how you can look both ways in a subconscious and see the yoke of Orpheus, who was willing to throw it all away for certainty, learning to disenact such thrashing, to replace description with simulation, to become the throwing and tell no one of it as it fixes him midair in a rare chorus of unhinged names

And to avoid the false places imposed upon him by language he makes background music to soothe the angst of a disaffected generation of white American intellectuals. Not on purpose, but to expose the false places imposed upon him by language. Even them. Especially them.

Damballah becomes Engels becomes Orfeu becomes the curve of a so-what shoulder puppeting concern for the looking-over. Yours. A retributive thesaurus calls to certain mystics with the same shame/clone/doubleness/accumulation, of an unforgiven plethora of spinning songs that forges infinity from nothingness

Right thing/New thing/The unthinkable is something ordinary like believing in people until they come true
--
Ultimately there is no country. You make your places into the sound of calling for me on the great-getting-up-morning

New thing/New thing/ New Thing/Nothing isn't you



Thursday, June 30, 2011

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Call it Everything



Toward an era when not to care about the meaning of a word was not to care about your life. Isle of Wight, Isle of Wight, it'll be alright, it'll be alright-- When to not care about the use of a word was to not care about the meaning, so speaking became triage or fodder on her wings, Coptic, particular, you're making too many friends, you don't know any of them

Magician, you're in a groove

An arsenal of letters and surfaces sufficient to propel our bodies onward, where we will set things straight



Someone's infinity machine humming in the corner
No more subjunctive
Keep the sun

Saturday, June 25, 2011

A Broadcast Poem

The poet's clan has long lived in submission to a more aggressive group, but was driven at this time, to rebel. And what you hear is the he-goat I skin for them. A lyric of advantages. 100 camels. And if all that I swear does not as I swear it, come to pass... May those who of their own free will performed menial tasks for infidels, babble prayers of exact reversal. And may those who were forced gain the will of 1000 camels. And with a memory as short as that of a kept woman, a young dandy sets out to choose. Or maybe that fate is too vulgar. A longer memory, but with more effective distortions. Like the city we live in becoming a safety and a colony avenging fate reaching a fact the heart can feel ahead of the intellect. No more unjust, in other words, logical, thought. Such a generous limitation evidence/evidence/lyricism/ leads us to ourselves

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Wet Hot American Summer, Radio



A mule is emulating us all, tenderly mentions the land malt cocktail and the temperature of a rooster ambulant dawn. New Order. L'Histoire de Melody Nelson. Utopia is church bells, university bells, any belltower, Gainsbourg. Is-was-is. Telegram starts in the elbows, to anybody who... Comes to blows. And elephants. And Phantoms. And sell outs. And stamp collections. Slum Village. Beej N Dem. Playlist as entropy. Worksong, worksong, worksong. They waited 'til you were asleep to start saying the truth-telling. Some plants are exploding nuclear bonds into families, Nebraska, was it true, new you up in gangley fields of smoke looking for what aches, inhaling, close enough, he was, to 40, and far enough from me to believe in villages, roosters, slums, songs, the stamps on my eyes at dawn, car radio, green acres, is it early or late, we don't know or care, something official loses track on purpose, in order to improvise the memory of itself like we were there

Sunday, June 19, 2011

The path the slave took to citizenship




Something emerges that must contain both ideas
First, they thought of themselves as captives, they did not think they would be here forever
Soon mothers began smothering their children to save them from the
Fertile crescent, in any anonymous field
Gloria Gainer-Polydoor-Can You Exit
Nightmare begins responsibility
Confirmation Confirmation Confirmation, Bird Lives
Negro in Algerian Costume
Life itself was of value and could be made -- perfect

Cannons of Satisfaction

Friday, June 17, 2011

Provenance: I'm moving forward toward my myth

For most people, myth refers to Jung's concept of myth. (the subconscious, stations that only play the hits) That is not what I mean here by myth. The point about myths is that they are open ended. They are open ended when they are true in that they suggest new arrangements of human essentials based on the contingent human experience. (stay where you were being where you are) Human beings are capable of all kinds of possibility, combination, and diversity. (read a book, nigga, read a nigga's book) But if one has a vision of history as myth, as lie, one has a closed reductive view of things. (I can't remember who wrote it first, but he wrote it better) Of course the fantasy of white suprem(ac)ist America with its closed myths has always been the fantasy of a white country. (I can't see nobody) Out of that kind of fantasy came genocide, Indian massacres, fugitive slave laws, manifest destiny, open-door-policies, Vietnam, Detroit, East Saint Louis, Watts, the Mexican War, Chicago, and the Democratic Convention of 1968. (What are you thinking, who is your thinking, what is yours) So one ought to be careful about myth as lie. (Except the Bible, accept the bible, not to believe it but to accelerate what is, believable) When it's stereotyped, when it's reductive, when it freezes experience and denies freedom. (Listen to better music, make better music) Myths are true when they suggest new arrangements of human essentials confirmed by past and future experience, when they evoke modes of connotation and and implication, when they open/ended (make better eternities, make better slaves, make better saviors, repeat... and you have to be lazier, less protestant, beneath the pressure of linear thought, the body becomes a liar, less the nearness of you, the body becomes something you approach at the day's end and it can't go anywhere when you're that awake

Concentric Asterisk (But don't stop on that account, keep going)



Subject Bright, does not volunteer information
Cactus sun, improvised a hunnid times in a row but never rehearsed
You still look like a furnished room, in sympathy for everyone's point of view
With a television in it, insulting your grammar, Hummer commercial, girl wearing mesh something climbs a ladder onto the hood, I look like you when the room is gutted, becomes a studio we slow drag in or speakeasy, it was all commercials, or borders are too simple for this century when everyone pretends to be mingling so we call them when everyone pretends to be mingling... the heart is trained to handle deprivation not unforeseen happiness, so we call them less, or just tell them less or just predict the asterisk, the prickle of its octomatic wings claps in us like what love is, laugh track, plausible motives, applause,

are we happy

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

The Even Teeth of the Mafia


Preamble in an attempt to transform classical myth into modal myth

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Sunday, June 12, 2011

I am in the Theater. I am in the Water. A wall you wore in winter. A will you walked through walls for



If elitism, a theater wall painted red symbol loud about the fury few read on the eyes of misbelief, wet painter, my brother the wind, walks between the two of us looking for an awning to time the rain and lean a long plain time, casual teachings, distractedly touching one another, a plane long time
When he isn't in the theater, he isn't in the water, a wall I walked off winter, a will I wear through walls for, for, for, and against and for again. We are in the atmosphere. First person demonstrative. Second person inverted. Third person progressive. First person second. Third person inquisitive. First person elitist. Alleged. Imperative. Impersonal. Microscope. Periscope. A goat song's risk. Boat to Paris. Theater's there. Walls there. Free's there. Maybe. Every person omniscient. Quartz patience. First person dispersed into a herd of his own spotlight on him in the theater, not always a speaking role, but seen as something safer than a voice, a void goes on filling in with vows the settlements between theater earth and her trapdoors. We came together over that exact chasm as the wall in the right spike lee joint bled with conversation about no place I'd rather come from

Friday, June 10, 2011

The occurrence in dreams of material from fairy tales

There was a haunted stillness in the air, which smelled sweetly of chestnut and locust blossoms. Across the street. Clouds of gnats rose and tossed of slanting light as two stout women swung scythes into the walls of weeds. The liquid notes of a nightingale's song mingled with operettas playing on some unseen radio. Overhead, I glimpsed a swift's black silhouette splitting the sky. Two swifts, you corrected me, flying tandem. And they were mating you said. It occurred to me that despite their ignorance to the corruption of the earth passing beneath their wings, the amorous swifts, like every other thing in their range, were probably radioactive

Some joys must be shared, you said And the mutant emblem looked just like the other trees, and everybody loves a good mutant story

Now maybe we can talk about different sequences, deferred sequences

Just for us. I like this forest, almost jungle.



Ezili from Jennifer Pritheeva Samuel on Vimeo.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Hoops

Words are hoops
Through which to leap upon meanings
Which are horses' backs
bare, moving


Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Don't Blame Me (sons got tired of the heart and left the South)



...Or anything as strong as the sun and as cool as the moon



Monday, June 6, 2011

Neon Sins

Since you've been away so long
Not a movie, tell me numbers, dancer, tell me why you can--

Say my numbers are in the amphitheater encouraging the martyr to make the lion forget his appetite so we can just hang out, for fun, before genius is over and we go on our nerve once, twice, more and over and over the so long numbers give their names for our timid lectern-lit western eyes learning their guilty pride and a league of.. Like a wide -eyed child I naively and innocently trust in the goodness of others, this brings out their best and their worst, in a lazy confrontation mantra where the house always pretends it wants to win the neon off a window and call the theft a disappearance... on the record, on the beautiful piece of spinning material you'd need to outlive every lie to become and then, heedless and passive, lie again to regain your grip on reality

I love a man who tells me movies, and now and then I count how many

I love a man who tells how many and now and then I count the movies too

Friday, June 3, 2011

An approach to the mastery of many languages

1. Mind and Time



2. My ships, My ships, My Ships



3. Prototypes (and does it enlarge their lives)
If your sanity be a totem for the freedom taboo, rasa, blank people copper with uneven languages but the events have their mercenary symmetry. It bothers me when someone forms an opinion deliberately. Trying to be mature or major and all you gather is the burden of stopwatches make a graph in the track more cruel-aphoristic, competitive, the line between the two runners is a country, and the metal they try go toward first is to free the taboo from the boogie man and put it back on him in ways he can pleasure them

In other words, sinners and saints running after the same vacuum of rituals in different costumes

In other words, afraid to disagree with himself, one man became a preacher, one became a screamer, one became a runner, they were the same man, after the same woman, telling the temperate fables for how to out-think a feeling. Brought caution and carnality and cash and a surrealist Omega

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Was I to have made this far journey

Only to find the very thing which I had fled

Will augmented reality usher in a post-language era

From the point of view of translation

How many streetlamps make a soul


in a quiet city

Where we're all part Cherokee

Variations on a rookie

Does every collaboration need to be explained

Suppose every man is a time machine



Tuesday, May 31, 2011

The Beautiful Ghettos of Cyber Space




Now the story goes that Robert Johnson sold his soul to the will/full at the crossroads in the deep south. He sold his soul and in return he was given the secret of a black technology, a black secret technology, that we know now as the blues. The blues begat jazz, the blues begat soul, the blues begot hip hop, the blues begat R& B.
If you shoot a-arrow and it goes real high, hooray for you.

This figure is a thief, he’s a data thief.

Anything to keep from punching the clock from nine to five because, every time I’ve punched that clock from nine to five it’s been a job that’s such a drag it makes you sick! (and you can’t work out weather he’s getting out of the spaceship or getting back into it)

And he’s surfing across the Internet of black culture, breaking into the vaults, breaking into the rooms and stealing fragment. Fragments from cyber culture, techno culture, narrative culture.

And these are cats that get into your business. you know, and you gotta be hip to just how much of your business you want them to be into

It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. And at any rate, they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live, did live, from habit that became instinct, under the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.

I’ve spent so much of my life being sexy, (as you can see), that I haven’t gotten anything else done. Now I wanna learn how to play my base. That’s been the story of my life. So now I am, you know like, pleasing myself you know. I think about where I’ve been and how groovy it’s been and, ah, like no more too much, carrying on. Maybe on special occasions. Like, ah, Valentine’s day. Your Birthday. And a full moon Saturday night.

So next we had to find another place that they hadn’t perceived black people to be, and that was, on a spaceship, so I pictured laying in there like it was a Cadillac, slidin’ through space, you know, chillin (and they’re finger poppin and carryin on…

Nobody beats the biz (I always had hopes of being a big star) nobody beats the biz! ….( I love you in a place where there’s no space or time… we’re still talking about slavery… music is the only comforter, I’m telling you the truth man, from my computer-room)

--
Can you get down can you talk trash can you get nasty, You got the job!

But the fact remains… There are no places for us anymore except these stupid discos, and I’m not saying I’m anti disco, I’m anti the mechanisms behind the discos, because, we don’t have any, real conversations anymore… But if that’s the only place they can come to see me, that’s where they’ll come (It’s a miracle how he gets so spiritual and proceeds to move the crowd like an old negro spiritual…)

He has an arrangement, that insures him a permanent supply of cheap labor, I call him Get Low, because the question arises, how low can you get, Get Low…

He had a way of talking.. . was a language all his own…

We have ceased to care, we are things we are cogs, we are close to being dehumanized in this great country of ours

(and love does count, and you can’t turn it into a commodity)

The paradise we dream of and write about in our books where we sit by the throne and live on milk and honey

This was a blueprint, a blueprint to try to address…

And the message, in the final analysis… You bled my momma, you bled my poppa, you won’t bleed/believe me pretty baby, it's not just me I know, I just can't keep that jungle, outside of my front door

Monday, May 30, 2011