Everything happens. In other words, clipped wings and the banter of mechanics trying to fix a perfect machine for selling back in the panic-ridden vernacular of supply and demand, back when a division of labor could make a man hold in tantrums and keep his bladder Hennessy black and back when a leopard at Andrew Hill practice
hunts for my attention in his arthritic taste for guts and grace, craves its eager unwillingness, savors its willful glee, keeps me believing
in the worrisome pretensions of his understanding of how the engine runs on hunting rhythms and when I act trapped in my own stereophonic running, that it's a come-back. The outlaw that guarantees the law. An enforced misunderstanding. A mistress thing. The art of addressing and distracting at the same time. Bambi pops out of the woods in trampled ink. Everybody's on the lamb. The mundane disaster that talking is ramps the anchor into a frenzy and the story comes to be about a land in which your personae escape from you, jazz goes to the museum, rap goes mainstream, the women go plain or hoe and no in-between besides in the movies, the ones made in Sweden
and the near-rhyme of their missions with their machines. Don't let 'em into a banquet or player haters ball, they'll eat everything and leave crying. They want appliances in a way I don't know how, so-primal. I'm so primal it mechanises me, turns me into my chanting I'm too pure for you though, and the silence between glances that lingers as if to plea, but I need you closer
