Be embarrassed to talk about being happy, that's ridiculous
But we need you rebel, you prolong our fascination with myth. Drenched in that fascination we get so happy we can't even talk about it without crying-- I'm the rebel. You should apologize to me, you rushed into thinking I was demeaning because the truth had no meaning to you but your contrite blue rhythm and a break in--- something stolen from you like there's music in the air but you can't hear none cause you're numb, so numb and terrible at the purple under your soul desert screaming James Brown's--Try me, Try me. Loops. That's all we like is loops. We narrow the records and arks into a few chords and we really miss our mothers, if we ignore them we become them chords/cores/coercive-arcadia. Let's not ignore them. I once met a fanatical admirer of the railroads, a real leader/rider/sociopath nigga in a slick yellow rainjacket coated in mirrors and austere optimism. I was almost but not quite, home in him. He ignores his mother whimsically. I button my heart back together with blasted green stones from him. That's all we dream in loops. The record swims on its axis like a black man from Baltimore. Jabbing his arms into a calm azure, wordless quarrel with the rebel. Never been there. I'm exactly where he would want to get to next. The record carries him on its dissociative current as he weeps and rubbs his eyes until they burn and ricochet off the imaginary always with shy arousal. He meant to say how nice it felt to be beside her that day and how silently she was like everyone he ever needed to know and it all felt dangerously close to rebirth and embarrassingly near-happiness. The wave bathes the cliff in foam and retreats
