Friday, September 30, 2011

Occupy All Streets (theme for the reanimation of the blue in green)

How does your heart feel late at night. Won't you tell me, tell me, legislator

(He pictures Man-Man staging his own crucifixion)

Sticks and limericks ticking the syllables out to drill and bolt the outside 'til all he can speak is like a child. Pride and road and pride and roadside

I'm a reasonable man man, get off my case. Get off my case. Get off my case

But late at night, how does your heart feel, won't you tell me, tell me legislator

Meet me tomorrow at the studio (two for Slyvia Robinson)

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Two Script Circumference

After that I mastered the anonymous feeling between my anxieties and my desires I mastered the feeling of transfer and I drove my husband's car in the garden and the lawn turned smashing from the affection steady malachite with health. To hush him, love him more than duty. There was a kitchen and my mother was there while I drove his car in the garden. No animals came into the meal because we leave the parody in the factory working for itself plush wealth of the slaughter, can't go for that unless I came a hunter and we wear the mask in the sure-shore factory of sense, you send me, spondeeing, to leap vowels, to wipe them animals out. But when one says "animals" so generally one has already begun to not understand anything. So when I am paying attention to my language I don't talk about animals. One soul or another. By cool or some other lure or lore, I was distracted into showing my wheels. As domestic as the the railroad station I pray in Sydney Poitier Heat-of-the-Night era mystery radiance and an air-raid rated R for scenes that contain historic smoking and I am not afraid of anyone or anything pushed the FCC over the edge and the idea was banned from movies until language was ruined and rebuilt in these honeycomb moments we have before us all the misplaced quotes poking around in the garden vehicle like cobras and fiats.

As I went on my desires got stronger and my anxieties got them feeling like prices, precise, risky, veteran in purple heart jingle pinstripes at the bar reminiscing over a game of darts and lanterns. Set as ringtone. The leading role goes to the train which makes you enter some destiny between the kitchen and the garden the projector gets tangled and tingles so silver, so close the door of a horror flick everything placid is suspect and we haggled with our ecstatic comfort until the radio would play it and call us gangsters, hot wheels on the garden floor.

Blue Trane for 2 heading west around the harvest got kitchens the size of fame and just as empty after we master the feeling we practice getting it wrong, bending tempos, staying black-- and all the cliches fractured at the clutch.

Say she was to walk out on him. Say it was his biography and he didn't get a role. Say it was his country in the future (romance as backdrop for revolution) and he had pledged her restless propaganda and too many songs caught on camera, caught on fire, and when we learned we could get faster in afternoon of a Georgia faun and get to ourselves that way, we'd shake like rental machines for a remake. We'd have secret historic smoking parties in the train stations and shake then. We wouldn't even invite each other until the train leaped into a pile of cards and shook us together near Detroit. I've kept in the garden, engine running, when he calls to say he's on his way I make up a sigh and a tape deck and it's 1968 and I don't want anyone I'm not afraid of

Friday, September 23, 2011

What's Really Food (Equinox edition)

Do you know what hunger is, I don't know what hunger is. I mean, I sit here, I eat, I don't know what hunger is

The harvest entered single file like a sniper had planned it and one by one their weapons turned them into patterns-painters and our colors stained the earth with hunger/hunger

Do you know what hunger is, I don't know what hunger is, I mean, I sit here, I listen, I don't what hunger is

The orchard-last(s)/ regular place, tawny colored pace of children hunting.Bluster of us consuming what they junk. Sun spine, sun ribs, sun kind, a race of minor divas grows up believing in middle classes and the taste of wax on water just beneath the skin of manufactures who are poisoning the new of them. The city is safe from view though we hear it kneading

Thursday, September 22, 2011


To have had this hazard on our hearts get bad enough
to have had this discussion appear suddenly like the song scenes in Carmen Jones used to seem silly like a rut in the plot but now I get it and I thought about singing aloud too

A saddle fell from the sky and smashed a hydrant. Gallop if you can't sing, run the answer into the bleachers like a scandal secretly appreciates every indulgence. It's dandyism, it's trendiness again. A sophisticated comment instead of riot like the body fell out of a sad oath

Later on camera I panicked and picked my father out of a line-up to keep him safe from time. He sings for us when we think we're waiting alone at an Augusta bustop and the saddle is on its way down to peg the broken water for hope it has our blood on all kinds of tracks and they take bets on who's bad enough

Monday, September 19, 2011

Personism, A Manifesto

Just go on your nerve

Sunday, September 18, 2011

So much depends upon the red wheelbarrow

I can't find the rainwater, or the glaze of white adjacent chickens adjacent, chasing the voodoo down, without him

Saturday, September 17, 2011

A Participatory Inquiry

Used revolt as the backdrop for romance to get toward stunning facts like being we called a job a slave, I'm sure you know about that, and whenever someone on the plantation burst into song we'd break out laughing. The text was a set text, a sextet, a group of round players with some antennae at it alleviating the gaze with graze with me, tender pulsing sun squeezing the eyes into yes-- be as when the usual is suitable and dialog is home. So much torment until you just love the doing. A beautiful story, a human being story

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Fitted Whisper (Notes from The Art Tatum Archive)

If you have eyes, the slave is yours.

A cartoon in there. Propaganda for true love. 88 Solo. Characters. Sure things. Creating the common language as they go. Pier. Dope. The cozy soot of near survival. Stallion approaching Bud Powell, Monopoly/arrhythmia/ my country 'tis of thee/sweet land of liberty/ land where my father was stylized into leopards and leaped.. of thee I sling, land of no narrow trance, no narrow trance in the lantern reflex of being noticed not noticing land wearing any person/ promise /mistress/standardized, you can't plan a crooked entrance into the rubble of bending down at the last minute just in time to admit the balcony mid-air in no-land-care, wary. Quarry between two open hands. We stay there. We look like a poster for staying there cushioning the look with gimme that stallion steal me back from them, can you

(Imaginary canopy, nope, actual anchor image down in my glands limitlessly digging them fountains, smokestacks, capital L. puff the magic ofay dragging out the riddens. We had the kind of time you can't tell when it amounts to space but it keeps expanding until the slave of your eyes shuts at the edge of labor, an entertainer)

Pretend to be jumping when you're actually falling and get called Jordan cause that's as far east as your gonna get without religion at the edge of labor, an entertainer. The omnivorous church door is blank neon octagon minimal coil c'mon and believe oral evidence only from now on if you have eyes the slave steals me back from them when he can, reaches for the edge of labor and palms pick up in applause, bossman, an entertainer.

I mean every witness is responsible for the slackened boundary between devotion and no narrow trance in the blindfolded midair performer, no pucker in his gift, working his way up your supervision

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Denoument In Monument

It seems that the only two happy people in this movie are, ummm, slightly crazy

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Are you a little bit addicted to magic?

By coming into a supernatural family wherein the word should should never arrive with respect to building a bridge and the word obliged I pumped and deflated ladylike huffy tires while I

uttered it with a sophist's harmonica kit-trophy, not lust, wuthering, custody, my lucky exhalation playing Monk's Suburban Eyes plus you don't cry enough

In a dynasty-shaped fieldway of what backlash exodus painting disappearance into its return/Some myth/ is a filthy brigade I'd like to claim an addiction to/ traces of joy so brave in the tension they break it into that silly hunger to be unknown famous Monk, forever. I'd grown up calling it trust, found out it's just inventory you keep by not keeping count, grown up calling it a county family succulent fairgrounds, rides and prizes, slow down an isle. And can blow listening through this miniature cage and come out singing about a ballgame in reporter cadence: mania, jolliness, dejected charisma, real paid. All you have do is go blind to the sight of yourself to find the idea was crowded with memorization which came to mean looking though you couldn't see anything you didn't remember being told to see. Or pretend you're the announcer at ballpark figure and say what's happening and how much it's gonna cost us

Because you should

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Venturing to wonder out loud one day...

what kind of trip they were on

Monday, September 5, 2011