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

The Sugar Quota/Your Blasé Magnanimity Fools No One

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

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

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.

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

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

Slates for later/First youth/Slaveship docks on the radio

I have to adore the earth. I have to adore the mirror of the earth

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

Wet Hot American Summer Radio

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

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

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