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

Who is the miracle of our mutual pressures

In one scatterd extravagant complete aloof moment

Love is a company
And when you like her so much you don't know how
to desire her, and sometimes the reverse--Now he sings now he sobs
now he beats the drum now he stops

Theme for Two Jupiters

5 for the Omniverse

1. Folk Hero. Gallant Outsider.



2. Thus evoking overtones of love without destroying its life giving vulgarity



3. There's a man goin' round taking names



4. Possibly Apocryphal folk heroes (I did not know I wanted to hear those voices)

* King Arthur - Legendary British warlord.
* Cúchulainn - Ireland, folk legend and the pre-eminent hero of Ulaid in the Ulster Cycle
* Fionn mac Cumhaill - Ireland, warrior, leader of the Fianna. Primary figure in the Oisin cycle.
* Till Eulenspiegel or Tijl Uilenspiegel - Germany and the Low Countries, trickster
* Fong Sai-Yuk - China, martial arts folk hero
* Hung Hei-Gun - China, martial arts folk hero
* Nai Khanom Tom - Thailand, master of Muay Thai
* John Henry - United States, mighty steel-driving African-American
* Robin Hood - England, outlaw usually associated with the motto "Steal from the rich, give to the poor"
* Rummu Jüri - Estonia, outlaw who stole from the rich to give to the poor
* Hua Mulan - China, heroine who disguised herself as a man in order to join an army
* Molly Pitcher - United States, heroine of the American Revolutionary War
* William Tell - Switzerland, began the rebellion against the Austrians
* Juan Bautista Cabral - Argentina, soldier who supposedly saved José de San Martín's life during the Battle of San Lorenzo against the Royalists in 1813.

5. Never no lament

Catalyst or, Our Fathers After the Grammys

She holds you at bay with a charming tautology... A gate bothways not sure if it's the closing or the opening that's delayed. Either way, this is the sound of the gate either way

And sacred harp music. And are they confusing you, is the truth confusing?

Some reporters are going to ask you some fluffy questions, just answer them

They sense a pretty game. Vernacular backed by rumors like I heard a refugee population is hungry for language and aware that anything can happen

So it's true, then, that words will do what they have to if you let them, not always in the service of truth, as not all needs are, some are just beautiful, so he went on very far looking to be nearer. Speeches were:


"It's really very, very real

to be here tonight in relation to life and death, and I'm sure they both love each other"


Acceptance was:

"Isn't it amazing that sound causes the idea to sound like what it is, more than the idea itself?"

My idea was the swell of compliments doubling back on themselves, becoming insults,spastic and dopey, the way the trends have harassed us changeless and what we due back and when and now when and how to assume the reason you asked me and the reason I didn't answer are the same (reason)

What is the achievement in life that you are proudest of?

"I'm gonna have to go way back to answer that one. Way way back. In fact, I'm gonna have to go back to the moment when you asked me that question." The interview stopped

Portrait of a Monologue in Audio Color

When I was comin' up playin' in the band, I wasn't reading music. I was bullshittin, but I was in the band

And my father got me an alto out of a pawn shop, and I just picked the mother fucker up, and just started playin' it. And that's the way that went . So he was a musician, he played all the instruments, and all this shit. And my sister, see, she was playing, and I'd get close to her, and pick up on the parts, you know. Playing marches and all that shit

And then finally my father said, one day, Candice play your part


I knew god damn well that was my ass, (he knew I wasn't reading) Play your part, Candice


Now Lester play your part. I couldnt read a mother fuckin note. Not a god damn note. He said, Get up! (you know he don't curse like I do) Get up and get your fuckin' ass, and work you some scales. Get out.

Now you know my heart was broke. I went and cried, gave a bottle of tear drops. And shit I said, well I'll come back and get these mother fuckers if that's the way they want it.

So I went away and learned how to read the music, still by myself

I came back in the band, played this music and shit. Cause all that time I was copying on the records, also with the music, so I could fuck these mother fuckers completely up

So I went in there and they threw the goddam marches out and I read the music and shit, and everything was great. But what was in my heart.. Why all the motherfuckers laughed when they put me out, when I couldn't read, they would come up and say, would you show me how to.. play like that

I'm not gonna show you shit, you rusty mother fucker. So that's the way that went down.


(Imma take my time Imma just try a little, if it don't come out right, fuck it)

Isometric Projections

I thought he was doing three things. Five things he was doing escaped my notice.

Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall. Feel (nothing more than feelings, trying to forget my...

There are two ways to improve your chess game. The other one is to accept the consequences. A brain, an upbringing, soul mating, somatics to mitigate the thinking or trace it to its vivid origins, Jasper Johns, John Agee, Jean Toomer, suspicion--John Cage, John Akomfrah, Angela Davis, him, no sadness, just devastation, Mechanician, Fender Rhodes Scholar, Westerner, holler!

War and grace, in that we all know there will ever be peace, never, nigga, not even in the heave, but always generous enough to let itself be imagined. Cabin in the woods, cabin in the sky. Thief who sold his sad days as folkways records

The Ginko tree, that's ours. The thaw it wears is no worries

The blood it moves, believes it

Sometimes I hear it, then I write it, other times I write it, then hear it.

That's nothing compared to doing both at the same time, which amounts real improvisation and the consequences, not understanding one without the other, not othering ever, utterly, which make us very childlike and integrated. Not truly shy, Just sure. Structures, not subjects. I like it when you ask me questions. And then answer them for me. Like you want to save me from anonymity with prejudice. What are you used to? You're used to this. The only cure for your inexperience is a quiet walk across an unbuilt bridge.

Do you go out? She admitted she didn't. Not out there. They laughed. They grew silent. In between, something believable was not said aloud

Tones for Malcolm

Stolen Moments

One.

This disembodiment: Capitalism

This hip reprimand: Pretend it doesn't exist, admit it to a mushroom

This interruption: Whose myth are you

This panic: Pick me, pick me. Candlelit camera phone dinners and the inertia of ownership. Is that beautiful? Not usually. Let's not, usually

This capital: happy body

This pretend: Primal hipness

This Myth: Whose rupture you is, what is the republic in the quick of what happens, pyramid amid a crooked riddle and everybody wishes

Everyone.

Near to the Savage Heart (close to the wild heart)

I thought, if there are horses left, (or even heroes) their soft hooves will hurt on the field trip to the moon. And if there is memory left, I'll use it to forget the auburn horses quivering from flesh to shield, lift, if there is shelter left, not the shelter to want it but the turn. The end of wit will be a good common subconscious and the white fell out of they sky like ripple fruit, a fist, for stillness, for the cradles in my legs that they may continue to cause themselves the way words do away with wit and get me to a submarine

The Territory (The Big Room)

You play the changes. You make up new changes. And we'll play all-night, all day, all night, all day.

You can disremember what the hard stuff be. The territory. The adventure. Tender things we push toward the big room.

Velvet Fog (ain't it)

A fig tree in the rank of lucky things, nears oneness and soft thanks to the moment meant sifted ginger and we skipped church, played hooky, hurry, they'll see when the bells hurt of togetherness that every sound means language and language means nothing-- (hubcap, lapdance, fat Saturday) that music, that lucid shrug of fresh fruit in the ready weather polished into the surface of a song hallucinating its past lives onto the voice of, by-now, shrines, witnesses, fastcared Vesuvius went rolling into its duty like a youthless spouse and the aged future Now, the new lavender comes in fog and matches the shape of just saying it together in the same phrase and then backing away creates echoes and those are sold separately and kept behind the glass, glass, glass, selling-out, which goes on breaking bills into tickets, entrances, trances, trenches and so-forth

Then we snap out of it, back to be-bop like nothing ever happened

First Position

A negro stands in a doorway with a toothpick

O'Hara wrote it first but what gives me the right--

I once repaired a man's idea of himself, to have him

What was typically a limp anthem, became... you're shattering all my myths

replacing them with falcons, reasons, come to think of it, another way, I am really a

woodcarver and my words are, come to think of it, another way, sand houses and floorplans to swing from like uncandid archetypes, daguerreotypes, the first thing you picture, the last thing you see, and, to rid ourselves of symmetry, dandy/dandy, a head pitched down a little makes you sound like a canoe in calm water, or masks to ward off manufacturers, damn the thieves, destined to get there just in time and face it all: all the thresholds, all the soldiers, all the silver thinking which aches with freedom and soothes with silver falcons, falcon, kinship, action scene, cut.

A negro stands in a garden with a toothpick.. he loved him madly... the lady nearby looks appreciative in headlights, she looks like she grows more beautiful the more weary he reads her face as lyrics and that is all the silence between them and all the noise and news of what's next

Susserating Minimalism

Do the words, do the lovers' bodies, do they confer, if you were an interpreter, if that were your task

You, Radical (you have beautiful hearing)

Roll Call of Returning Troops (Cruciform)

(Manifests weariness) Both personal and national

None of the sadness was surreal

Some of it was a fashion. Walk that way in this dress, on some prairie home companion

Some of it was a way to listen: ecstatically, but not let him notice just how happy

She was aloof

She was me, professionally, her. He was her, lucky (manifests what-if I never came back

Which crosses you, which covers you, fret, fact, a useless question, here I am again

Leadership. Code, for run. There I ran again

Every man in the shape of a cross, misses it at the last minute, crumples, takes a pill or hilltop for how they say don't mistake the moon for the finger you use to keep pointing at it. Telescope, telepath, tattered repetition

For the pleasure of never knowing exactly what it is, in the shape of a calling that lets a prayer mean everything but its reason

The sheet was blank a document, proctored by (no regrets) to stop itself before becoming a record

To be drawn toward.. What is a public space anymore, what ways we stay home

Becoming Real Like Me

(notes)

Offerings beyond the law and the unlimits of practicality

Plato's Tripartite notion of the soul ties me to ways

There is a first step: devotion. Say Discipline, without self-renunciation

And then, circumstances, a time, a place, would bring them together

Flying from the nest, no other bird's wings will do

There is a final step: step one: there is a first step: step three

We waltz a street into a legion, ledge, a new limb, lets the heart reach visibly

as though you had your feet off the ground to movements set above the sound on the basis of emotional timing

Days that are the good flesh continuing

We seem to be gossiping, and I think we've gotten a little off topic

A swarm of dawns

A flock of restless noons

Mostly about empire and multitude

Vulgar clues into pride, I prayed for fire and found it right

Days that are the good flesh continuing

Think of One

Various attempts to hold onto certainty: Miracle: A coma of miracles: Meeting House. So-many announcements and they might negate one another. Think of one.

He sits in a rocking chair on our veranda. Soma. Machines can't replace muscles. But the keys dance a famous horizon across each mercy, easy. And we grow stronger with less effort. And the weightlessness of machines can make it so we don't need to waste the body's strength when going back and forth. Then we realize we want to, we've grown used to the exertion and shown language how beautiful a mistake becomes in the middle of itself, perfect. (Knowing how to say yes)

Ver the prefix for toward and truth, setting, undoing, new river, forgiven, vergeben, a version of courage, yes

I ran up the side of the sunrise wall looking for its angles and suffix, and found the stains of flying all over my spine the next day, other than down,

was a holiday, so it's fine, native, rediscovered

triumphant playfulness, (true love waits)

intent on things invisible, inaudible, we have other spineless virtues, flexibility, fluency.

But when I believe in pleasure, you believe in it too. Various attempts to let go of certainty but keep the muscles in its grip on history, don't go as well as an honest contradiction. Think of one.

He sits in the sunship on our veranda. Silent is my favorite idea of a true companion. Idyllic hymn. I plant a honeytoned shadow on the wall and make it dance and mumble the lyrics of some future memory. I can't feel my body, my machine, very heavy, some time passes between their switching. Not trading. Making two into one, genuflect, no- country. Then making oneness various. Attempts to prove how certainty is irresponsible.

Our proper work now if we love mankind and the world we live in, is revolution

Justice is What Love Looks Like in Public

Either the Iron Mask or the Cosby Sweater

Migrate
My greatness
My gateway
My black maybe
Be cool, Clay. Be cool

And So No One Doubts the Infinite Beauty

Some fetus, some such-and-such, loses her name every time you speak it. Which is why I prefer the secret of me to the subject of me --- chief/chief/ lady /chief/
Hypocrite, if you're boring enough to trust that word which in a former language translates to power or something worse than a name performed by impostors, a scene you lock to see if the key works, and when it does, what disappointment doesn't enter is never relieved of disappointment
My headline read Where is Silence Sacred

I broke into the words we waste on approval: love, war, wish, you, diluted clues into nothingness
It wasn't a question. It went in the shape of tombs and tom-toms, the battles that built their letters to outlast their meanings, the ones who go vanishing between him and no one. At the speed of desire, necessity. At speaking of necessity, move very quietly in every direction

Texture/Texture: Structure

All suffering is distance

Most of it

And telepathy is the only distinct thing left

By thing I mean, texture

By left, I mean, what remains of earth

By texture I mean... sho' nuff

The path hurt like wool tugging away at a lamb, but we made it

And did you see it too, each way the word nigga screwed itself onto the word night to stay dark and ubiquitous

Thank you. I feared I was the only one who saw it two. That fear turned into numbers, numbness, a suburban afterglimpse of passing days and it was too safe for suffering and too dangerous for distance. Thank you. I'm not the only one. All distance isn't suffering. This one shuffles across ourselves like, hush, now, don't explain. I'm glad that you're back--BlackIvory--, don't explain