Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

You Didn't Hear it from Me



See the blues man of course, or the blues woman, is someone who begins with the catastrophic. The blues in an autobiographical chronicle of a personal catastrophe expressed lyrically. It's a lyrical response to the monstrous. Like the first sentence of Kafka's Metamorphosis, Gregor Samson wakes up from an uneasy dreammmma. The blues responds to the catastrophic with compassion, without drinking from the cup of bitterness, not with revenge but with justice. The blues sensibility. You let that love inside of you be expressed even though it's hard for it to be translated into love or justice on the ground. That's a great lesson in this age of terrorism. What I have in mind is a tragicomic view in which compassion responds to catastrophe. By blues I don't mean just a particular art form, it's really a way of life that that art form helped popularize. That's what shaped and molded me, and I am old school to the core. Unapologetic! Motown, Stax, Philly International Sound, Curtis Mayfield, Al Green, Aretha, W.E.B. DuBois, Leroy Jones, transferring into Baraka...

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Sunday, January 22, 2012

In Every Mirror...

And at a classic pace, the scam was in bloom and fading... Hollywood tune-up, that car is a good lunatic's ride to Spago but they kept it in the yard like a pendant dangling from the mostly empty house they shared with what about courage is sticking to its cage as chariot craves its passenger and gets terribly vacant and literary unless the thugs stay near to clean up after it calling everyone someone's cousin until sometimes it is, that shortcut you were after between the camera and the desert rose, raindrops on the lens, reservations and the mask in bloom. The beginning and the end are one again, and it's plenty endearing and vandalised and replenished and immortal

Friday, January 20, 2012

Submission 1973/



When I am with you, I feel the intensity of a re-known something, you said before pushing me, on the swing, up into the sky again.


Look me in the voice too. The queue of it, the rejection of clues it clutches, the choir of duties and revenue as if we never knew whose rhythm we keep somehow dancing in the abyss

Monday, January 16, 2012

Friday, January 13, 2012

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Monday, January 9, 2012

Sunday, January 8, 2012

Why I am a Destiny P. 1




The gallery of broken leaders blows adagio whistles into the sheer of her—hold up...

Don't insult my ignorance, she goes clear on them. Chapter four is about how Monk's shoulders crowd around his heart as a phobia I grow up on, of stillness

Assorted drunks and a singer

Cartwheel nebula slam dunk scream uncle kinda wordlessness fearless, cold enough, subtle enough, just enough, us enough for the city to comprehend the question

Will you give up your death for me?

Am I to believe... you're suggesting.. he is the first fictional nigger to control his own destiny, the reporter asked, the invocation was to present a talented free Negro, partly responsible for his own disintegration?

Yes, as I say, No secrets in Mississippi, no secrets in L.A.

Where I'm from. The break is a destiny of being in there

Friday, January 6, 2012

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

A Ballad in 8 Lines


Libel for why

Why have you killed your esp

It's too easy, I mean, it's so hard, to live here

Then you get fearless, say shit like, Negro, your breed ain't metaphysical

The blackest horse is running backwards into a keel of marimba flutters and the rubble we shatter under discusses the Congo as a saddle of mines

You find your hands can go on better without your mind and become a benevolent dope dealer, the whole neighborhood looks up to him and he looks up to his mother.

I think when they turned us into breeders during slavery we forgot the difference between freedom and

Rum pinches the stomach and the scent of cloves in neon lungs fills the yard. Vice is a courtesy

Your eyes are two blind eagles that kill what they can't see

Your hands are two blunt shovels digging into me