I think the Experience is fixing to split
which is what they called Jimmy Hendrix and being hip, my sweet double hipness
I repeatedly lift the reputation up to the christian where my flaws shine with the heroism of absence and love oh, love oh careless love the repeated experience of fixing and splitting
The black man did not labor for this land out of love
he did it under the threat of the whip
the threat of the gun
and the even more violent and subtle threat of the Bible
Weather I go
to Saigon
I don't miss you
I go to Hunter's Point
I don't miss you
I go through the Georgia Faun
to don't miss you
I got the truth to don't miss you too
But soon's I'm gone
Your gun miss me
All the eloquent previews of a nuclear tomorrow, hurried toward the
ease of the news that stays news
Usually where you see tragedies I see just a stack of records
My archives, your archives, our archives, and the flappingest water in the entire cul-de-sac which threatens to wash them back to shore out of order or chaos exactly as they belong to the back of the mind where you are told not to speak and to say everything so you shout hippopotamus and point at the crypt space, or hypocrite or perfect human on the tip of some urban mountain calling the fog: asymptote, asymptote. So infinitely often we plan to cross the ocean and it matters what vessel will hold our memories of the future accountable, what book will do that, what music, what catastropic happiness will do that, will not have to miss you
