Virgo Reds

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

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

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

Getting back into the machine

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

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

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

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

What's Really Food (Mode 4)

Fictions of the Interlude (phase 5)

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...

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

And then we arrived at the territory belonging to our eternal fiction

Out-Loud Silent

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