Fractals from Black Africa

Now that there are children, the secrets are fastened. We safely feign the misunderstanding built into naturalness again, and the wisdom, the fearlessness, the ruthless decency. It's all very obvious and private. Nihilistic tenderness gets the better of pride. It's the rising and fiddlers in a single file line auditioning for Off/Minor. Off Minor is a jazz standard by Thelonious Monk. Monk is the kind of child I mean, we're friends in the wild invisible and we hang out there and think about souls in silence together. We let our ignorance bind us in liberation (for chimes, for bells, for triangle) which is discipline, and the equation struts alongs the ivory (though it's actually tiptoeing but black people know the key to a cautious strut, showy modest, make the fear part of the style, improvise hesitation into the plan, don't get grotesque and snap on the beat). Anyhow, when the kids grow up they tell us what happened while we were hiding in them and we nod our heads in shame and accomplishment and the ribbon riding my balloon up to its hiding place on your ceiling got caught in a bandit's hand on the way there. Man, I'm addicted to truth, it's fucked up, let me go, hints the ribbon. Tell me the one about Stevie Wonder and drunk drivers again. (It was all commercials and lifestyle shit except when you can tell it wasn't and shout I am authentic from the top of an hallucination). Tell me the one about the time mom got that DUI driving back from dad's concert. The time all those flowers arrived but her eye was sealed shut by that buttery fist of his. She couldn't even see the feeling. All these accidents add up to some kinda double hipness, you know, some kinda ridiculous piety in the key of life that jives birth by being it again and again 'til it's dizzy as Monk and me shuffling around in circles on stage when they don't notice, that's his favorite part