Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Niggas in Raincoats reprise

Even alleged militants blame the  vanishing of the summer sea ice on Ghosts (short version) by Albert Ayler. He disappeared while he was getting his sound together. No one knows what happened but the water high in increments like a crown around his cries and glass is a liquid and you have to forgive your parents for whatever it is and they have to forgive themselves

I would like to use this craft to fly with him
  
 I feel black the morning after and try--  again---  warm in the habit of our warning and yearning for more of them until

     We finally need to see this reckoning

But when it's time I'm not ready and when I'm ready it's not time-- that's fate. And blind in the halo of long ago we make it a future

I say, I don't know who you are. I say, I do it all for you anyways (long run)--- Gorgeous photographs of industrial ruins so lush you want to lick them, be them, become a trend. Crushed under the debris, an instrument is so tender it breaks and mends in the same note, becoming men is like that, degrading, uplifting, denial lazily caving in Isis and ice until all of our guesses are obsolete we can't see nobody who isn't disappearing

Monday, October 29, 2012

Saturday, October 27, 2012


Night on the town

Contrary to a lot of illusions and a super sudden astral earth rotten with its own bloom, everything was coming to a beginning like rumors and nurses

The euphoria among us was so  much like war, we thought and fucked like prisoners:

certain blacks, do what they wanna; certain blacks groove on love

so many bruises proven on the roman memory, red bone, crisp blue sun, yellow lemming marching out of the grand area, numb southern girl marching away from the cliff, wide pink curlers in her hair, holding an ice cream cone, wearing her man's starter jacket/it doesn't get much better, it takes a genius to not see it, how there's a standard procedure for when one of our favorite dictators gets into trouble, send him out to pasture in black english, the club, the so fast deliverance headquarters, and three bitches later --what he called them in his radiance-- you're his favorite song again as he stumbles in blowing america the beautiful on the trumpet rescued from the pawn shop and you stand up in bed and dance like a statue until it's a new sky all through the wall glimmering like always past the dusty hotel blinds. I forget how everything is beautiful like a rescue mission and the man you love standing still under the glare of his regret for getting free

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Loving vs. Virginia mode 2 (lament for Stop and Frisk)

The race starts with a gun, some self-appointed vigilante jerks into the crease and aims, mutters monkey, mutters keep it on the hush, tells us how to run without looking suspect, treats his freedom like an interview

So how do you recognize change?

I don't recognize you

I'm running

don't shoot     The race starts with a camera clapping for the pact language overrides in social life and we act like you say, he mutters polka dots and moonbeams  lace in his eyes seems like don't wait up--  but the gold fronts and total chicken grease survivalism of him crushes the opposition

I crescent in the limbs looking for something to pretend to be holding straight off the bend. Fall into my own embrace, apostrophe, stray embers, trophy dive beam/ see you on the flip side. pladau, how you, how you, wanna be/like me/ now...  The air is full of what it relinquishes. A costume of sound pushing the thinking/thinking if I could I would be what it relinquishes. That gift, that lifted figaro in the shower, spur, sputter, whisper, how many feet beating the clay into the shape of the race make it across on record and sign some non-disclosure agreement all green and anything you say blood, nickname for family, synonym for how far to run

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Sunday, October 21, 2012

There is no greater love take 2



I shall see myself, I shall read myself, I shall go into ecstasies, I shall say is it possible to have so much spirit

Friday, October 19, 2012

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Black Entertainment's Slow Memory Blues

Heroes are so rare/ it's you or no one. It might have been better to have stayed down there in the village and planted olive trees, had a lot of children and beaten your wife.  Do you still love to sing?

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Friday, October 12, 2012

Night Food

Where were you when I



Let's play Cherokee and go through all the keys 

Every city has at least one

carousel

I want to test them. All 

of his variations were calm and perfect 

like a horse's, like a good whore's, like a quarter past, half past, a leg, a bell or allegory, twitches

Recess!; step on the ropes you're parting with your ankles and it all twists gruesome and effortless neuroplasticity of a child in 

a slender Chinese game about 

nightfall: the Anglos look like robots so many 

imagine having been the rope

Is there kindness behind those eyes. Switching/switching on me

Step on my back, it's hurting 

I may be drunk by morning 

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Monday, October 8, 2012

This is Pictures




I’m being so candid I’m a pattern. So many casual flags churning on the rim of my heart/I’m being so human I’m a choir. The knights of faith are dangerous and I feel safest with them /blackbirds flying in the ripe-ripe finity of tribe. In love with eternity. Kierkegaard presses against my window like a playdoll. Fear and Loathing. It’s a thing about living happily ever after I do on purpose and by accident too. I’m being so childlike I’m a child. At the abortion clinic we held hands and fell out of love with wideness and then back in with a wild lean. And you kept me---

I once read how all the cocaine burst out of Richard Prior like he was a piñata and now the kids from that birthday party, extras in a film of his, all day on a set of burnt grass and hugging balloons, how now they believe in negro angels and try to open every terrible door with a baseball bat or a joke about black habits or a line from a Pam Grier flick like 'you don't know what is.' I read that I was one of those kids. A bulge in the minutes makes us scream inside. I remember now, how we can make sound without being seen. The scream creates room for silence. I picture the silence and get a nauseous sense of peace that makes me suck on ginger and miss the ridges in him enough to press all seven buttons with my eyes shut. The smile in him sounds like it hurts but I hang up before he can tell me why.  Something like starting from the beginning feels like the right thing to do. When I dial again it all swings with kisses

Sunday, October 7, 2012

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Now's always the time



What I love about the bad men is how they always know the good music. Sometimes they even make it. Sometimes they ain't bad enough. Sometimes they too good. Two shapes on a hill. Two forms running with the slope