He's scribbling down a list of what it's like to play (me) for a living, of what remains vivid, behavior outside the theater, and how this lifestyle feeds on itself, what kind of parasite/felon all hunger is, and how I'm spectacular, the right thing, the rife thing, righteous and feisty and slowmo kites and the homeslice and apolitical descriptions of utopias we claim to take our distance from and all that is coherent about sunlight and sinlight and stumbling into the right meaning of when I said you don't owe me spring and all musicals are nauseating and Jesus Christ Super Star has a drug problem and rehab is larger then this room and the first Black, the certain black, the og. black President's roving Grover Washington Jr.-toned love letters about T.S. Elliot's Wasteland and his essays and his tantrums and his behavior outside the theater as if hell is 'round the corner from our most coherent Sunday, and the trite utopias we claim to take our fitness from, some quicksand pinnacle in the slum, and in the village, Slum Village/Village Slum, and how it's as if I'm his highrise and what he jumps from mumbling, I got an eye for you so why do I --socialize-- And all the black men dress up like their hits and ask the white man for forgiveness and, being both, I just hold myself (to it) and describe what remains vivid-- The way an Otis slipped me his Coolio samples and a blank map of France in October and what a let down concept is and Kant's Critique of Judgement and the stability of a want and the way trauma escapes language in order to live on, I asked him if he thought the operator who controls these puppets should herself be a dancer or at least have some idea of the beauty in the dance and the logic of sensation and what kind of motion a slave is today, and he just kept listening and listing the things I mean and represent to him, in the order I resist them in, and when I said I don't wanna get stronger, I was talking about the goatsongs of black Greece trapped in our torsos like feet, forcing us to call it classic, Hermes, hermetic running, so we recognize it before we feel it, I don't want that, and how our miracles are cruel and fast and their muscles, and their endless leisure and their nobel egos and the liars who make you focus/happy, and the truth might be the myth falling down the least like a laughed tear, maudlin and useless until it passes itself in the mirror and what remains vivid and its okay to relate to this I'm not just a rapper, I'm just a robot/act, clapping, pulling up his pants, they're baggy, too big, it's all an example of magnitude, grooming, a flag thing, as he scoots into the wings
