And everybody knows that when you lose your codebooks you change your code
That this is a how the truth reveals its taste for solitude
That this is how black youth reveals its taste for truth and for loneliness--That is how our everybody is, it's our ideal crisis, we're just so happy it's like--- remember that next time you die-- it'll all come back to the center of a greeting, undefeated, just asking for you to live again, re-stage the conflict between your two regimes of sense, there are more than two, that's the conflict, there are so many powers they wander from one another to learn the burning prowl of reunion, and all of us sense it getting itself together as the pleasure of one by one I'm stumbling home from the festivals of the future with the future you, licking the curse off your palms and spitting it like sunflower pod shells in the ghetto, the smell of relish catching up to the meat it covers us local with hope, I always mention the hope, even when it's just a fleck of deed on the concrete some days, or Gretel, and Hansel's coming, but a little behind, and gender is so 90s but be a man, I mean sweep the seeds into a pile and swallow them like a pill and be addicted to me. I won't be surreal, it'll be the actual healer crease in your fear is steep and delirious again. I don't like you anymore, you're just my favorite person, he'd say, as I listened my way around it to today
