A Key to the City

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

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

Commercial for as cool as one wishes to be

Colors take the form of wings. Vous Êtes Swing

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

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

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

The Even Teeth of the Mafia

Preamble in an attempt to transform classical myth into modal myth

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

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.

Hoops

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

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

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

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

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