Karma and so on

Momentum is about your mom too, the moment the omen goes numb on truth we use the word healer and mean your mother then too, that moment is about her. Just like every/one/thing/ keep it one hundred but hide it from the natty dread types who drag the muse out of you like a raspy film reel until it settles in reeds and rent/ that rhythmic amber transparency like forgetting is entered or rendered on the spirit as a trick and a trap or trust (fund) rather and the habitual release like an aptitude for new birth and the beginning of a new birth goes: meet me tomorrow early in the morning and bring your knife— the soundbite flutters toward the heart to discover why this barbaric solitude of ours is inevitable and charged with will and most of the time we cannot tell the difference between hope and happening until one or the other disappears (triumphantly, by joining the other), meet me tomorrow early in the morning and don't disappear, I commanded, knowing full well


And what is the love of theater like,

from the inside that is,

for the actor you once were and would perhaps like to be again

Simple's better advice

One thing leads to the next and so on

Nothing disinterested can be at ease during such a frenzy

Gospel for Saints and Villains

Karma and Charm

When it gets too quiet on the ledge of the night, we become pure pleasure, write a hybrid of moan and jeer and accept neither but both as a clearing, hear your waveform brave the dubious intervals between will and pose, high up on a hill, so high and mellow. Just now, I'll lie and say that I'm satisfied. Everything's real. Everything's true. Is that another mink on the silver screen. My vanity floods with phantoms and callers I could just prance around like this til dawn and I just might crawl into bed with another jazz.. Just then, the president shook Cuba's hand. You don't see them blaming Beyonce. You don't see me answering questions in public. What did the slave say to the other slave? We should start a band. We should play for freedom.

Fred Astaire Debonaire

I always understood the meaning of childhood, a shy always in the woods (words) of this maybe life. Chimeric translation. The height of consciousness is there or in Harlem. And the universe forgives us in advance like a panic of blessings for being pure at heart beyond the scheme. But, pure of heart, what does that mean. That even insight begins to feel blase when all the phonies line up and wait for you to say it like a favorite clown. That you cannot convince me of anything. Besides myself. That I set out to prove myself through my experience, to use love to reinvent life again and again, and there you begin, and without me there are just dreary incidental wings like pouty wind on the hooded fountain wishing for change. I give you meaning, so much meaning, significance, sophistication or a cape to fondle on a costume rack once a year or so. The passion according. There is this. Mysterious interval between people and themselves and it's not about detachment or soul or diamonds beneath the gutted sand—the babble between truth and knowing, or something, bouts of freedom are built into that space. I think of you as the new, the newest one. I see you in a series of fables. A clairvoyance that will be guileless and sincere once the destabilizing sneer of the otherwise blind hero's lying to himself fades, disappears. That'll make some spasm of serenity like a lump sum of money, the way my songs feed you, the way his songs feed me, literally. It's genetic and impossible to mimic– You say blackness is literal. Me too, yeah, me too. Something about karma and running. A kind of accommodation I understand as a song and dance I understand as a refusal. 

No rapture, right?

To the masochist or to the savior     we made it almost there and at the hesitation developed a radiance just beyond the need to claim or a nuance ahead of famous blues, exists the need to renounce but not surrender like an ever after and immortal 

war without killing   paradox and moonbeams    apocalyptic patience 

We thought about it   and thought about it    and thought about it     and what we thought happened, what we thought really happened, wow. My jasper subconscious, clean and manic like a prom, dress. Dress better. Since thought is the higher vibration of action, once you think it, it happens— but the past is also a dream and our thoughts often relapse into that quiet addiction to dreams and phantoms and the tension is almost unbearable but there's a laugh with the mutable value of silence/fantasy, always climbing the rhyme and landing on a slant to seem like time we have to act fast, but to refashion time, another drastic master of his instrument, flask in his breast pocket, knocking some beautiful woman to her door or watcher, wakes up feeling hip and uncomfortable like it was all a dream 

Myth demands another type of music

Oh, she wanna have fun (recourse to the essence of things)

The snow's a trembling goat

In the name of distraction. So what. We all know a damp nose by candlelight glowing like a master plan or the master's plan to go  'head on and buy white land. And in the middle of transforming they'll think what's the big deal about sky animals, why not tremble and pose on earth for a while/longer. Eternity is born that way. Strong and casual turn in the quest toward weather and its spirit doors and everybody's born that way. I adore them.

I mentioned our archives before. The touch the feel of cotton, the fabric of our lives. But I'm not one to tremble over letters and. I'm an American. My favorite pain is freedom. If it weren't for race all of us overeducated types would turn to god and watch our fathers disappear in peace with no one to blame but themselves. What I'm meaning to say is. A mirage is more patient than a mistake. The word more evokes the word importance but importance is a business, but the Moors were essential to it. Like the Sufis, and other mystics switching from mistakes to dreams is next. And Existentialism gets wasted on the difference. Between the desert and the crib, and we    have it made. Manufactured. Broken a couple of years later just to utter the word new which waits for just you to say it, just now, just the way it enters the air like a disinterested wheel of fortune. Always true to your fashion. Even when you're at the crib alone recording the footsteps of soldiers who could just be pimps. Miles Davis was a pimp for a while. We have it made. The more we confuse crime and freedom the more animals we freeze in their tracks. Or Adidas track suits. Show me some identification. And they pull out the sun. 

So transcendent

What I bring to the revolution

Meditations on Labor (1)

Why is this Adonis pulling a wagon full of stray tires through the heart of Johannesburg while Fela cries complete freedom and I sit with my knees to my chest twirling a strand of thought and blinking like I'm the one on camera, theatrically perplexed and unphased. At seven he made a Christmas list full of feelings. He got everything and put it in his gun case. 

Thank you for remembering

Karma and Desire

Are often confused

look at you, lucky you

(A fable in your hue and your man smiles on q and you hide in the view like a gold grill waiting to be beautiful/on display, lazy as certainty, easy as doubt. Shining is disappearing if you/(don't) think about it. And indifference is heroic when it's exuberant too, so it's contradiction that's heroic, don't let them fool you. The light hurts like perfect sex with another woman's husband and the guilt we pretend and the next time it'll be different. How we get everything we learn not to want. How learning can never be deliberate much less ironic much less than silence he listens to me bribe him to leave and stays. Promises are almost as crazy as they seem, which is what it takes to survive this scene, to be mistaken for yourself in a dream.

Eden Again (Choices)

Mothers make anxiety beautiful, like a bloody rope, becoming a chord for you, becoming music that sort of drifts out of a stoic word like lore and helps it survive its immortality one child at a time. No, I'm not pregnant, just thinking about god by accident I added an I to the French word for two, deux became dieux and there we were, hoods across our arrows, becoming our mother's roses, my eyes are not on the sparrow, I'm listening to Mike Tyson turn sincerity into this thin parable/literal, for illusion, wherein everything fits in the ring but your shadow isn't fairyism less rare than we know, isn't knowing impossible besides forgotten. I mean, what would you have to forget to really know your mother? Afterall. That might be where we are on earth, clinging to an overdose of memory. 

Daylight

And what do you mean downcast euphoria?

That anyone could go into the night and seek it out. 

The Making of Aszure Barton's LIFT from Alvin Ailey on Vimeo.

13 Ways of Being your Immortality, Tone 12, No Limit Drummers

And those three beautifully grubby niggas carrying a red velvet couch across Harlem as if the hours, hugging it so tenderly and large in the heart like dripping sand, not knowing weather to laugh or cry/on a mission, but knowing they had an option, a right to choose. They made me wonder if I should blame our music for making ridiculous shit seem so beautiful under the right glance and abandon, I do. He shouted, I do dammit, I do blame the music, I do take this woman to be my lawfully. Somebody (else) be the object so we can be about something again, at least in September, under an entropic certainty. What does this have to do with immortality. Something about your thought forms and your reality uniting, outwitting blindness. Oh, trophy wife, wide beat of childhood inside your favorite looks, nudging them toward invisible prizes like a hooded alphabet, or a pond beside a soul valve, let him love you on the couch once in a while. It must have been Saturday, I was looking out the window.

The Unseen Companion

Setting an extra place at the table's little trouble, little braided notion of almost, where the bass comes in and its acrylic eventually. The way we twirl into fantasy when it gets hard to speak is what makes us professional hamsters, artists—mercy mercy me, oh things ain't what. Zeus, jesus, or whoever saves us

Talk about strutting. We invented entire dreams around the walk off. Imma throw confetti and chalk at the judges who love me most and sprint backstage with my eyes closed, give the producer a blow job in the wings, cope with the tabloids by singing myself sloppy aesop, only the fables that end in my favor or never, and I'll go home happy and blind, the next night too. Feeling so nice we had to make it twice. And trying to learn how to segue from the absurd to the literal with no pause is a lifestyle. Clarice Lispector. Miles to go. Rubric for quest for light. Annotated silence at the height of its sigh. That's the part where she would bring up her driver or the way the beach feels on winter skin, and turn the sand into quartz, and turn the quartz into her father, and turn her father inside out, find a wave of Porsches there, a whole parking lot full of his cars with keys in the ignition and talk about the significance of the color red in black and white, how you can still tell those cars are red. How communication transcends its own will to hide and then all the cars drive themselves into the only oblivion they ever felt and the commercial glows finite, loadstar, ting of silver on gold grills in the marshall law and lawless background, softer. A greedy sound the word extra makes, a gritty, pleasing sound it tugs out of us and traps in possibility.

At forever (At least forever)

Synthesize yourself

I'm finally insane, he thought. What freedom. Hellbent, hell kneeled and gallant, mangy hello meant well and did even

   better at itself to mutter well that's a fine how-do-you-do. Superstition stemming from too much leisure so had a few illegitimate children and a weary sense of duty on the rim of exile, exhilaration. Such style it still seems famous of him, yellow blindin dame and fame's fine and an inside game with no simile to reduce it to freedom again. But I loved the man more than the manner/ plain, went pedantic and mugged myself for the prize I had already won or blamed, enacting that mild brand of disbelief like first snow to last country. Guilt made him hungry and gregarious. Which was an outrage. Which I cherished with my entire absence so we could disagree on cue. I wonder what it feels like/ my style is changing. Delightedly. Apache pain. Before I fell for fathers and now my faith is clogged with them merciless motherfukers who went sane and source, and now. The black man who re-invented Slavery as a club and then a concert series, never imagined all the women in labor behind the bar, in the the taxi on the way to the bathtub and the natural way back to the far away way we were

---

Some violently passive fake the radio acts even when it's off. Since when did change become a threat. Since when did music

Cocaine and Karma

We thought Sun Ra was trying to be weird, but he was just talking like his hometown.

What about love

Between conduct and consciousness (fragments)

the poem is where you stop to breathe

Another other, easy

The love is where you start to breathe

Another other, easy

Together, a black mythology going back and forth in a living history of space as well as time as well the twin minds, of space, as well as time

Remember when they said revolution is the main theme in the world today 

Sovereignty got vague, vite! (vital) too calm to pray for what's already this way or that way

So far

I am in love with you, are you in love with the future

Immortal in C

So in a universe where man is trying to take over the divine prerogatives, but is unable to control even himself, we need to develop a new relationship with time. 

Conversation Piece (2) Sketches of Easy

Love is a light a lot like loss except 

When I wake up and the blue light is red or in the pink of flesh, I forgot you had flesh, eyes that draw affection right out of my lie. That part gets me high. 

Ever notice. How the word niggas sounds like negotiations again when you're listening to the news over bended jazz. An optional condition, chosen and then transcended and the chosen again like that love I mention. The only way. Is to ask. Do these men swing? Does anything? And then I picture trees and nooses around ebony necks and next to a piece of fruit a wail, a croon, a reprieve too real to prove, my southern trees loose as bodies on stage 

Laughing like ballads and the throat constricts to hold or withhold the light it needs to live through you. And what is. The calmness of objective life? Worth, afterall. When I have so many opinions that pine to begin. To begin pining after my own will, is that the shining incidence of oneness they fake about in the sunniest way. Lunging east in a dazed quest for easy. But my insistent affection for my own thoughts is song again, so happiness is that easy in the center. No offense to the fringe made up of, whatever's there. In the sunny needs. Sin/ sun, soon/ sun, a trap of associations and how to escape through a hunch but not punish the spaces between you and them with memory

Dear Harmony, my father wrote. When I met your mother I had just had an aneurism in my throat and could hardly speak the social language. The doctors thought it was emotional. Somatic wine and roses. Everything is emotional, but the blood knows better, knows when to close the voice and open the soul. And everything is gold to get through the luck of pauses and the soul continues with no caution against you. The spirit refuses to pause. I could still breathe but I couldn't talk or sing for a while. And the beautiful shadows of winged things hung vivid and invisible like toy ideas on the slope of my feeling free. We learned total freedom/ is not the answer. We made you out of the news I gained in that hush then, before they named what it was to heal it to what it is. We blamed your beauty on the trouble. But it was actually on the thrill. Of achieving serenity in a clench if irony, radiant irony, irony that disperses to become such sincere life. 

You shouldn't let poets lie to you

Chaque Fois

This one is true, this one is real

Trust became so much like expectation before it disappeared. Subtle and deranged. Tattered nuances of luck and clues that wish they were you or pucker like a blues in the shopwindow, for sale, for show. Dear Harmony, my father wrote.  Play the notes in your heart until all you hear is in harmony with them. Be yourself, because you can. That's where your name comes from. The mumbled intensity of even the most nimble heart will teach a dead man to breathe again. You always wanted to know what my own father was like. I always did too. Teach that man to breathe again. Seeds are romantic, but the fruit.

Both Armies Pray for Victory

Integrity is finally.                                                              He can't really. Tell the difference.

                            

                                 Between a vision and a dream.                                                                  For that matter.  

                He can't tell the difference between a dream and a nightmare.             I'm supposed to be 

                                                                                                                  in love with him 

because he's a lot. Like my father. But it's no secret I'm in love with him because he's a lot like me.   The anxiety that comes over me when I'm calm about it must be my survival instinct. In tact. The weapons we hide in the grass hatch under full moon assonance and soon everybody's alive again. Exactly like you.     And then it goes: Both armies pray for (a) victory exactly like you. You're not vain to imagine it that way. Or paranoid. Or country. Haven. Even then. And everyone wins bare feet in the minute between green and happening, just running through that grass as if the cinema, clasping a mug of caffeine and reasons why it's always been difficult to introduce the heroes back to the ideas of themselves and expect an integrated person to well up in his eyes. But didn't I. 

Small Black Church

It's about time for the cooperative jazz club, etc, to open. Musicians should get together and "do it ourselves." It would be a revolution on the Jazz scene, not to mention the whole entertainment economy. Musicians playing for themselves, and playing exactly what they want to. That would be the millennium for real. But there are very few people strong enough to see such a program through. -- Amiri Baraka 1964

Completely Original Fantasies

Self and Satellites

Plantation Tour

I was tiptoeing across the hearts of my heroes—myself, runaways and clear-eyed stayers. A farce of raids and jeers and ghosts are played out/everywhere like the urge to kneel at sundown.

And what's a stayer again? In this day and age. And everything. Everything is so easy to say these days like sincerity is a step ahead of reason and it must mean the ego and the eagle keep interlocking in a blank field until even a white flag is too dark to feel. And avoidance is so corrosive we fit our heels in the mud and roses bloom up of them. I pitched the idea to Jerry Seinfeld in a dream. A series about a black family running a plantation tour business in the invisible green or they don't know they're there even as they're dreaming it and in that same dream we ate a meal of mangoes, basil, and mint yogurt, and then washed the dishes side by side with tears in our eyes and grins on our faces. Smiles not grins. It must have been. Really strange. To be a slave and love life this much. We thought to ourselves in silent unison.

13 Ways of Hiding from a Black Man

You punch me in the face and blue flowers bloom.

Use the word negro until it looks through you like a mirror reflecting a ghost

Get close enough to disappear into the vanishing sound of your own nearness/ behind the

curtain, a spotlight

Hail a cab on 5th

Hail a cab in a movie/ stilettos under fake snowflakes

I loves you, Porgy (don’t let him…

Fuck the police. On the count of three say, fuck…

Pimps ain’t shit, neither (plantation tours for sale)

(Please don’t) Sign on the dotted line /that classic lean of yours/and mine

Beneath this mask I’m even happier

You punch me in the face and 9 radios play, silence

And like mimes rolling dice with chalk on their lips and cool-aged smiles and you blend in

with the dice, a scoop of chance in black and

A Bojangles-flashback-having diva modest and impossibly alert until

Heroine pours out of Miles’ trumpet and into nine forms, a child

You punch him in the face and twin muses bloom, talk about infinity like a promise and fluke and


Become one

A wife is a slave

Logical Understanding of the Occult

Will and Idea (Dream Consciousness)

Ah, that's the elephants. And it's wonderful. To see the elephants holding up the world.

Impressions

As if language is a machine for creating doubt and I broke it without violating it, now the words are beyond infinite. He writes me illegible letters, delirious as bird songs in the ghetto while he shoves his opinions off the grid like a rescue mission for offense. Not sure if I like it but it's better than the classic wow, you have a lot of ideas  I get with din of basketball games and stale beer, pretending, I don't even entertain that shit, but hypothetically, everything I've thought about doing I've done already and there's no ennui from it as the tossing wind stills with a sudden alertness or to ask how about now we blow them away for real. Nature, the great interrogator gatekeeper whatever you say, say you mean like a light skirt when the train comes in, cinematic glimpse of a magical and hip ass that really matters to itself enough to understand the ratio of exposure to disappearance and go on hiding in the heart of a child. The envelopes are always smudged by tears and the casual dirt good men live on and I never open them.

The truth about dirty records

Ain't no such thing

13 Ways of Being your Immortality, the 11th way, For all we know

I'm still having epiphanies. And as we're talking about the next frontier the only god we deserve is here, remember? On the edge of the bed praying for his own return over

and over, I remind him how I'm good enough to be a lie, the kind you visualize yourself telling yourself on an especially healthy day, I'm gonna wake up and run the whole way... break away from the wolves I invent to hide from and not even cry about it when I realize I'm the sun, too bright for my own eyes sometimes

My nigga has a solar tragedy that has nothing to do with mists or animals, not even chauvinism can cloak his self-hate in nobody, the play begins— so articulate he can say nothing, so black he can brag about it and still feel inadequate compared to a paper doll, some days. Some daze that was, my hero has nigga tragedy that has nothing to do with sun, so yellow some days I'm all no relation and slowly we unclasp hands in the break. Humming Monk's When it's dark on the Delta with no level of shrug in our mellow tone, poised mellow, start again from the top mellow, 5, 6, 7, 8 and the dancers stand still but the mirror travels with the music like a servant becoming a rival

          Am I hallucinating or making sense of things, my lucid king, my bright coil of messiah—and every time I buy a new thing I see a commercial for it just after. Just as you were telling me I have a beautiful smile, the sign on the Gato Negro bottle became Good Negro. The singles in the other ad became sinner. Ignorance disappears into the adventure. Chin, up sinner, I can prove it. Just don't believe everything you think. And quit making promises while the music's on. Conquerors, sometimes, are melancholy, a price for all that vainglory, vainglory. Not this time.

Raw Vegetables

At the heart of a royal happiness

Heroic Listening (Otisesque)

Act as though—

                           And a far cry from.


                                                What's closure?                                  


 All clever answers are guilt or lies.


                                                                                           And all I know is why

                                                                                 
  I love you


                   And my confidence in myths, and how a ritual outsmarts even its participants, especially its participants, and how James Baldwin might have felt in Paris, and how Richard Wright might have felt in Paris, and how Josephine might of felt in Paris, and how Bud Powell might have felt in Paris, and how Dexter Gordon might have felt in Paris, gazing at that quiet/tiger in the glass, and when they got high and the stripes made a chant that chased even themselves away.

What I'm trying to say is. And silence is a confession too. And the sun is turning blue as steeple copper. And that's green and vain of you, son. But the song I mean. The song keeps getting better.

I'll be your mirror

I make out crowds of angels

Their features scarcely traced, but in each mute and glowing face I see a solitude. And I call truth anything that continues. Everything that continues.

Show and Tell

Cause that's what niggas do

Who should be a superstar?

I tried not to walk in with criteria in my arms
and writhe like a nearing
and whatever that means, I tried to mean it and not mean it at the same pace. I tried to be the physics of nonchalance.  

Total theater. Bible folded into a fan and the canopy it made/made our silhouette more romantic, more of a trove, more of that do-it-yourself shamanism. More intimate and alien. Hold me. Closer. Who should read the lines, right from the teleprompter, make it look natural, sell the rights to the look for capital, trap the looose color beneath one cloak on a broken map? I had no criteria in my arms. I tried for a habit and found a glitch is better, like when Bill Cosby bought the Playboy Jazz Festival after firing Lisa Bonet for posing nude on the cover of Playboy. Where have all the great hypocrits gone? 

Are all gods martyrs? 
Are all martyrs faking it?
All all marks masks?
Is your art a sex act? 
Is your truth free at last?
I could get used to this.
Not in a trendy way.
But I love the questions that answer themselves. In a tender way.
And the men. I love the men who should be superstars but hide the good card in my hand.
Ace of spades today. L'ace to trefle qui pique mon coeur. Bent like a tunnel on his tongue of silence.

The first Hip Hop concert I ever went to was in Lyon, France. MC Solar in the open air shuffling and slurring about cards and hearts. That'll be more relevant later. About the way it feels to be sixteen translated onto stages, painted black, turned into music, another ghetto superstar you should be with and abandon.

Also, Optimism

Possessives

I didn't realize how much that broken man was affecting me
I once tried to put him back together again
But his eye was on his belly and I became his gaze and his hunger
Was a blank stare; Rage gave way prayer

But what is prayer
What is power
Push another button
Stare me in the heart
i/s what

I once prayed to my father for a father    father father father do you hear me

now

you're vulnerable, too


He would talk about how it felt to hold a cushion of sound in his fist and when he'd let it go his hand disappeared and here I am

He is not that broken, man,

that broken moan, stammering into I am that I am—I can handle the poem in his eyes, afterall

I didn't realize how much of an idea I am, all my own

Ford Commercial

Harlem, 1918. Four suit clad black men in a fancy Ford sedan, sobbing, guns lodged in their wings, the wheels wobbling toward revenge for when Eddie Murphy shot someone's brother. Now the cars occur like tanks on the road as they show up behind him to return— the eternal return. But he escapes. Like the sky. Dimmed to radiance.  He's innocent. Like I and I. Like the car. Shiny noir machine innocence. Like the courage to pretend. Fall asleep watching a movie. Wake up in the movie. Having seen it all. Ford the flooded stream. Don't cry. Drive and ride. Blood is everything. In the bible and the whole planetary scene. Detroit what! Queue the molasses acting jazz as we roll up as the sunrise.

The way we danced was like a shout in church

Sound can clean your mind

Reclusive Niggas

And the women who love them

Another Ordinary Arrow

Roadside dagger glowing with marriage, or
At least obligation, look up the word glib
in the sunlist-diction, another risen CNN sign in red diamonds of light and propaganda just beside the costume exclusivity of the Trump Towers, we own the land, bow like candle birds until it stands for us, and I'm sitting in this space-aged audotorium watching old men turn young on brass and risk and a glad tear traps my eyelids in their most honest pose, between confession and confusion where clarity intrudes as music. I could hide it, but I won't hide it. Wade in the water. There's no trouble there. Just a couple of misplaced words, and affections disguised as weapons so we recognize them
in ourselves
again.

Turn that Jungle Music Up

13 Ways of Being Your Immortality (way 10) The Reincarnation of a Lovebird

If the moon turns green
And shadows get up and walk around
Clouds come tumbling to the ground,
I wouldn't be surprised

If the stars turn blue
Willows that weep begin to sing
Winter changes into spring,
I wouldn't raise an eye

Because didn't you, just return to me

Electromagnetism

Everything is happening/ all the time

The territory shall be the universe (take 2, seen new)

The Way you Look, Tonight

Your lips are ashy
There's fuz in your meek/'fro
Your whole vibe is dusty --    go home to your wives
I don't love you, no mo'

(tomorrow is the question)

Mulatto Woman Reappropriates Reality

Is the ghost (the thing we call when we hug a G in the invisible/indivisible with liberty and,) a confused angel , must be. Speaking through a notion of immortality that could become a neurosis if you're too careful. And I don't care to focus there or there, gee what character we invent for the dark, and I'm not the toy boat keeled on a lego in your pale red childhood. What blood he gave I collected and painted a laughing balloon on the way up.   It drifts and pops and decorates the rain with consciousness. I got this letter in the mail from a man calling himself... and answering himself. Is there internet in prison? I don't mean to be insensitive. There must be some incentive to shove an orange in the oracle's mouth and decode the eyes instead but is the ghost a criminal for misusing the fruit of incentive, or whatever. The or whatever is there in a solid gold smile, to express my mistrust of intensity, which only proves an ambivalence we want to convince ourselves out of. True love is the calmest thing like a calamity that never announces itself except through calm. The frenzy is fear of love. He went in between (them) like a sound or heroine. I've never tried it but I can imagine better than you can live. And I'm in love's position. Also cradling an apple in bed first thing, thinking about it. And I can think better than you can live. Live with it. Is the ghost a risk you didn't take that haunts like cupcakes to beautiful fat bitches. It feels great to say bitches and be a woman. Not derogatory at all. Purgatory preys on your phony misguided morals. Bitches wanna fight themselves through a tunnel of sunshine. Sounds like the ghost's a hunter disguised in sun god. I got this letter in the mail from the one who claims to be my... quietness I started to reply, hello, your quietness, but that felt too appropriate. Everything is appropriate. Everything is so appropriate. See how the so changes everything... Focus on the apple and the whole room gains a dispassionate green, a moment of exploration, eyes flickering like machines, what beautiful machines! I'm learning the difference.

A decent rant,

is all echoes, and a close up on the contrived unknown. Maybe you do know, what love is. That time you woke and bit right into the ripe apple on the nightstand, cradled it for a moment, lit a cigarette, kissed my forehead as I pretended to sleep, got up, got dressed, and left. Maybe you knew I was awake. Maybe you do know, what love is.

No nuclear ambitions

if blowing up is corrupt, then what's so righteous about the light
 

Notes on a Recent Performance

Some kinda lucky flux or cure for pain in the well-lit smile he flashes right after
some kinda argument about weather this is a fetish or the real thing
polishes the scene with bootleg meaning and I stand about to ask a question, maybe I'm not shy anymore, shivering from the boredom of anyone else's idea of a good    what rhymes with maybe/lately I'll say anything to tease a streak of white out of the black ghosts and stage, and get it into a history book, which we now call a future book and we don't mean we're property, or props even, just from the future, here to show for/ It's strange that it can take so long to climb some steps you built of song, to find and let the ridges assign us their greathearted safety, one by one, getting back to the beginning in a world where the clapping comes first like a compulsion when we walk in, and then everyone waits in silence to find out why

Jupiter Variation

The adjacency— psychdelic trivia—

of the end to the beginning is a pinnacle we call rebirth and require and improvise and are, our ark, our largest actions and inactions, crime after crime, forever. Now that that's clear, just because it's improvised doesn't mean it's sudden, or even or isolated, fill your intuition with sounds and get salvation or at least a recording contract, they'll spin you around beyond your daze— Johnny Hartman stood in line at his hometown department store, pretending to be buying a suit, a sword in the reason, a pluck of desperation in every duty, even freedom, just to hear Duke Ellington on the radio,  at that department store, pretending, just to listen, even, freedom is a duty when it comes like some kinda theater group on tour in your habits, closer than a heartbeat ripping into the holy water locked in bottles of the fall, get up 

High Society

And so this is sorta my first real attempt at trying to make a person

To try to move my way up to making—flesh

A man the shape of my mind when it's prefect is invisible, so sometimes I settle for a myth with kids and a separate home, feeling lucky for the nights alone and the calm in my trouble is that it's my own and practical like the word quality on something you're trying to sell or not suffer and so we sculpt our hearts to love and war in peace, and find it's possible, that war is a form of peace we cannot and should not escape, like late at night a cyborg glowing through the radio, like bright in the middle of an atom bomb a sudden comfort, the realization that nothing lurks but the present moment and that this moment is perfect and that the myth drifts off to sleep, dreams of you, wakes up in a panic and realizes the same thing. The kind of togetherness we're craving is especially impossible, so we invented it, so it saves us like a gracious mirror, how with one idea we can make a poem and a song and a film and an object like a chair or something, and a protest, or sit-in, or revolutionary re-appearance, or recurring silence or senseless eye contact with a magi leading back to I and I, or love, the sigh of it, with just one idea or thought or before-the-thought phantom vibe, the gallant mildness of its childlike intervals and the intensity of its refusal to give up the ghost for the flesh until they know how to share their war in peace and smile for the public, like, yes, we're the same aspect in different forms and the goal becomes to not be so obsessed with the mystery we refuse to solve it, it's a noble awe to wallow and evolve in, how each time you create something, you become it too, maybe

Everybody's Mad at Mississippi

But the word reconcile is still important

See the sky recoil and cling to itself, everybody blames a southern drawl while I blame the bible

We were on our way up a mountain to listen to Benedictine Monks when the mountain disappeared but not the sound on the heights

Does this mean I can fly.

Does this means you're listening?

I mean, the words would sing to themselves if we didn't

Offer our fantasies to capital/ tucked in a knack for eclecticism and then kick them in when they betray us and come true.

Transcendental Wisdom

I skipped the section on buddhist india... be not amazed! And the false identifications disappear of their own accord.  Accordion. Melanin on melanin. Door to-door-tribe of idea/men selling nominal spells which can be nominally broken. Play it again, but a little slower and with better posture and like a dancer about to land in the music or not, either way on the beat, gorgeous, you can't help but watch and learn. And suspense turns into something utter like a craving, carving your range into your restraint like a genius, be not ashamed— I skipped the section on tibetan buddhism too, found the part called the way of vision where it felt safe to pause and check facebook before closing my eyes to meditate. All the elephants, appalled at themselves for being so hideous and perfect, basting the soil for our approval, won't get away unless you help them, they're stuck in the section on buddhist india being called mute and symbolic, like that skipping record governing your heart they need you to lift the needle, they do, they dull with repeating it, and keep transporting the truths of your subconscious into all you can see

Saturn in Libra

Or when, away from you, I try to create you in words, am I simply using you, like a river or a war—

They say we are as free as children

playing hide and seek

Literally

Notes on interdimensional travel

Can you read my mind

White flags pitched in the lawn like sad seeds, the flecks of blue and red blinking in the wind/ innuendo is a close word, it touches my tongue with perfect nuance and gives none away. Like that time I won my own heart in a dance, something about how I could glide through the air and land in a split, smiling, made me a technology I wanted to caress and witness forever, where the anniversary party is this quiet candlelit almost vigil punctuated by a crude exhilaration marked with the thrill of survival, ritual, renewal, a power stronger than itself— is love, but that's so trite even on nationalism and good grass, I almost won't admit it until it's tragic or a some kind of risk or gasp or actually happening and impossible at the same time like those invisible stars flickering as soon as you look away, tricking you into having mercy on yourself

I certainly can't tell you what to remember

But let me say that we are family and friends from long ago
If you will only go and ask your soul
If you will only dare retrieve your soul    from long ago   so long ago                    it's now

A retro character in the pose is the notion of a low-grade immortal like calling everyone cousin cause it's a sin to tell a lie or while you're at it  let me remind you of the parallel universe in which we never met and spent entire lifetimes longing for this perfect abuse we call the dream, true love, I see you writing me the lucky letters, pen etching, strutting, furiously into the blank and then crumpling them into weather, the thread of turning around in a stubborn... it's rather vain of us to forget ourselves as such hunger for more of the same, or am I numb, some mornings, like a prediction, how your mask will split in half if I come closer or be a mirror   folk remedy for over-hearing    from long ago
                                                                                                               so long ago    it's now

Free the robots/ Free yourself

Every time I freed one there was another and another and another


It's possible that music in a true form can help people see themselves as they are, and then it can help them see themselves as they should be 

And the various other phenomena connected with mesmeric action

Until I found that the last flinch of the flame backs into the idea like a dove, if you trust it/few trust it.  You plug your mother into her dove position and wake up thinking about the transmigration of our myths: Dionysus, Shakti, Lil Kim, and write a book about it until it dances in negligent trios, eyes scanning the audience for my one and only love. The first page is just glare, written in the dove's value: whiteness and witness/blank and loaded. Is it a spy. Is she a spy. Reporting back to the perfect language in which every energy has its own special term. And our role is to be those terms so well we no longer need them. Abstractions overcoming themselves in order to see themselves and then turning the mirror into a tunnel and then the victory is somewhere between me and me like everything else is  and the probe is the archetype and the vessel is the myth  and the best myth is reality, and I made it, I made this for you. I can tell how much you love your mother

Some near the sunrise; Some near the sunset

Just the same, and I name the nearing, in its deranged sanity, a tentative apocalypse,  a wanna be utopia, pluto going direct into the virgin era to let her spin the bad character into a hero, the plot had to show up last: happiness is easy, it rhymes with itself, see? Apple bitten, gnawed, whole again. Take out the 'again,' which is the role fear plays in anything sensual, to double it with— yields ago, I would have prayed for the same ache twice and called the echo pleasure, moaned, touched you there. How many futures make a soul?

4 Men (4 Niggas)

His Name is Slim He isn't dead. He isn't a dead poet of rhythm. He shook the locals like a passing train, coal-coal/now-now nameless then militant, like an underneath, like combed out math, to clone an oath, I do/I do, and he kept on living. Some say, forever. Forever and sunsmell/happily ever, Osiris-ever— ever hear him laugh? Some say the swell of rain, the nails of courage drilled into a mercenary air. He's a leanless pimp, alive of it, and a pimp without a lean could become president, as the old saying stays. Oh let it not become clever or clutter or clique or oar or riddle or order. Let it work like a babbling clock in a movie scene, mending the risk with dash and fiction. He isn't dead. She's on blast/duty screaming daddy into the mirror until it glows with her. When did nigga become our favorite word(k)/ But be sure of it, that he’s the sublime puzzle, the rough cheer approaching us as spell. Why are you so dark, nigga, why you so dark and soldier near Her name is Sweet Thing

His name is Malik He beats his wife and preaches about the revolution and an invisible mineral he calls consciousness to packed auditoriums. Quotes Duke Ellington’s A Drum is a Woman in cliché smoke-laden dressing room conversations all vertical and vertigo, with his boys after speeches. Love is a dangerous necessity. Groupies peek in with crisp, eager eyes. He squeezes my hand a little tighter like a thigh afterhours. Take out the part where he beats his wife. Add a magic/cactus cutting masks for light. He’s a revolutionary. Can’t you see. He’s why I tell my story fast. He’s why I’m your hero. He’s where beauty goes to keep. He’s not just a rapper, he’s just a robot. As a robot gets himself together, and he does it, and he gets the middle where we have forgotten our feelings of love you will helphim, huh? Her name is Saffronyella 

 His Name is Leroy A clean black man in a numb Cadillac, driving down the rent. He doesn’t believe in memory. He leans against auburn bricks like a slave or Elvis and tells his story to pray for us in 4/4 to infinity. He takes the great black superlative and turns it into a toy soldier which he knocks off a manmade cliff in the suburbs where it floats forever on, calm like a balloon animal hugging the bulk of his infatuation so desperately/reckless, it’s suave. Good things are solid! Better things are out of this world! He believes that exile is the cure for exile. He’s all soul-less style; he leaves his body before you can kick him out. On the other side of the game he makes a commercial for the next black superlative and becomes Spike Lee, someone to love and lead and blame for love, and leave. Race rant scene. Blank screen. Love scene. Love is an eager necessity. You call him a sellout, you steal his woman, you train his suntan pale. He smiles, finds a new woman with an even hipper nose and both parents and all yellow/the vogue, then asks a proud, How you like me now? Didn’t I blow your mind this time, Didn’t I? Nope, typical. If you shoot an arrow and it goes real/high, horary for you. Her name is Peaches

Roots vs. Sources

13 Ways of Being your Immortality, Mode 9, Guns and Change

Little legacy of always,

if you weren't so convinced, you'd be free

Convinced of what?

Free of what?

Exactly

Gag order (lifted)

Theatrical uncertainty (against essentialism)

Fires come from the mouth. They burn their way into the lower organs. Everything turns to kites/strange strings. You have to do it again and again. Nothing else exists/it seems. Only the heart remains. A clean range of luck and danger/ a jury of the way we were. And are/  and keep     singing. Even when seeing goes blind intentionally and the stage is lit with the carpenter's ego blowing up to prove a beat exists between... Fires come from the mouth. They burn their way into the lower organs. Everything turns to run/on dreams. You have to do it again and again. Nothing else. Exists. It seems. Only the heart remains. And everything.

A Mighty Walk

For the Hidden Mind of Love

A stone as heroic as flesh insinuates our new birth. As fresh. As yesterday's deathlessness learns to trust an aroused whisper as certainty is impossible or the only thing. Affection everywhere like oxygen and paramour. A stone standing on the borderline between the animal and the divine, a stone as verbal as flesh. Flash to the image of a talking moan packed into roses that show up on the bruises from the struck through blues blood. I just knew it. That his love was strangely alive as though destined to remain a child to the end of time. And time never ends. Giving everything the air of supurb originality as an omen of beauty which disguises the union between surfaces and depths. And only love has saved each revelation from the madness of opinions, only love can do that.

You're nothing but a savior

A Hidden Uncertainty in Columbus

Little trance (lucid trance)

Little tendency  which I will an entrance/out of   hand   of fox-trot mannerisms, of when panic succumbs to nevermind, I got this, and the vanishing shrine reassembles as bulls cuddling with the double moon. One of those lights on the satellite is mars, you know, and what a mess twin memories are, almost exactly the same except one is horror and one is glee and the bridge beneath them shatters for links and the catchy hook about flying lacks the mercy of real jive and events show up like bribes, ruts in the maya where microcosmic isolation saves my soul, my ka, and my god, and my god

I don't believe in. First feet on the cool marble of all/ vibrating with sin and carving invisible maps into the future heart, because obsession gets boring and all dreams about breasts are good luck, even the recurring one where my own are stuck in your mind like soldiers rejecting their uniforms in the middle of a purple field, and I blush a bent obsidian reluctance, and come so close to waking up

Hearsay / Praytell

Brotherman in the Fatherland

The Daughter Recognizing the Father

The Son Interpreting the Father

The Father Witnessing the Son

When we talk about distressed monuments, and regal ones

What sounds they summon

What sounds they summon!  

The sun goes down and rises with him    And, can you imagine    the day when matter is so sparse and immortal that we become forms of sound ourselves, speeches, compilations of everything we've ever thought or said, and our lives are made of listening to ourselves. Of playback. playback, payback, no hell, no heaven, nothing listless, all listening at last. Echo. Cobra. My man, my brother, my sphere of such gorgeous fractal words I see in them seeing me again.  And how that day is now. What sounds we summon. What sounds!



Proposal for a series of sound installations to replace the statues and monuments

for now that chemical warfare is on    for now that sonic warfare is on      our heroes do not stand (a chance)    if  still   in time  no more   than silence is unreal  and the restless reel shines with the energy of blurry words  they speak through me     and you      to tease the truth through         contradiction         what sounds they summon, what sounds!        We were all charlatan  and dandy and daddy O one finger pointing  before we became our listening 

Expectation/expectation/shooting star

I know you got soul

If you didn't you wouldn't be in here 

Equations Between Nature and Man

He's a maniac, do we notice that? Which one?  Yeah. And I began to look at him with my night eyes   wherein most of what he was experiencing as a soul, he was not aware of in his physical body. And I decided, then and there, I decide to not be haunted, and the lock on my  heart disappeared and the wisdom comes from disappearances, more rivers through the cells carrying me nearer and nearer to the famous truth of myself, which tempts the biting zealot, the one I had to consume to expel  

 

Opening Scene (1)

The gods are subtle in their revelations of legendary opposites that help us see through ourselves 

And the moment comes when one sees something that one cannot believe has always been there

Neurosis are red, neurosis are blue/ A great american tradition

A Vision Against Philistines

Do we imply future action when we use the present tense?
And urge our pure mystery / to send/ sent/censor/sensory, to be touched, there it is
Are you addicted to chaos?
Do you pay the cost to be the boss?
Do you know your beauty?
Does it speak through you?
Do you cough when you lie or sniffle or cry backwards, or not at all
Is truth abiding so soft in you every step is a caress, lewd, almost pornographic, a surplus of velvet wit from a prophet, never superfluous, is it like that? 

There are 250,0000 people here and 400,000 sheep, and we're not sure what to do with them.

Do you find your dead father's friends and ask what he was like, to them?
But I don't believe in death. In english. We live in a new language
Do you go into a trance of likelihoods and come out good or God?
Is he like a drug? 
Does he weep inwardly too like Walcott, like must not want to be seen inventing water?
Had he forgotten like twins at birth, the difference, and then had to learn it more acutely?
Does he show up at rehearsal?
Does this water give back those images?
Which images? Which ones are ours and which ones paint the hours as windows?
Who knows? What's the purpose of all these riddles?
To have distracted the fakers from themselves and their quiet auto-surveillance, valence, not valiance, and then?
Do we imply present action when we use the future tense?
Who cares. The answer is always yes. We get better and better at contradiction. The eyes relax on their own essence and turn against it in order to view it, and then they know it

You name it, they'll do it

If you ever hear the music the way it should be played, you'll dig the music for the rest of your days

Equational/Occasional :: slow cage/fast freedom

Life is splendid (melanin is chaos). Jah's a dark matter

Sorrowfully very beautiful, beautiful and blue

the way the great men hide in the mediocre  wet with paranoia's faceted coves and the rush of nobody's fault and the line from always to always    and the gray bite of an hypnotic stone/ media wide bonafide open ritual of go:  wake me up slowly, I'm not in hurry, he mumbles from the exit glow of a particularly rhythmic dream  and then gorgeous show, but they don't space me out the way the dead do  and then first comes fame, then comes shame, and then... what comes after that? That's just an old black habit — the eyes pucker at the new-day-sun/and, some kinda oneness

Greater Transparency (The neon jesus blues)

He complained of a pleasure with no content. This lasted for about three weeks. Then he disappeared.

Seven Octaves

13 Ways of Being Your Immortality, Mode 8/ Megalomania

fits around the black experience like OJ's sad glove on display at a covetous museum, a sudden archive of tender leather on ice and light while Someday My Prince Will Come plays from an old phonograph. Two immaculate glass cases. A single tear so trite it's real. Thank you Fred Wilson. Thank you everyone who stops to watch us spin on ice and light. Industry, we win. And you're the rip in the glove, the vandal, the dull clamor of guilt, and unguilt as they dance for the brass knuckle of kill in the goal that tingles when you blink and fills the soul with bloody love, careless love, unsurrendered except where the stuff we don't talk about it is what we're made of    so shhhhhhhhhh keep something for yourself  maybe, or what's the difference between the self and the other?   I'm man and my life has value, screamed into mute and spare    It made such a true lie, it made him more beautiful, it shaped his mind to die and divide into revival/amen corners of mine that let me climb into the night like space suits, like clubs, hearts, kings, spades too, and american flag stencils traced through my pupils like cartoon dollar brands ironed onto the steeple and peeling the land green.     But Why? Since all things are living spirits trapped by their own misdirected will in the round of rebirth in the ever-revolving vortex of this world. What else? the gloaming mingled with— What else? Forgetting makes it last

Enchanted Thing

Expressing karma through a mumbled blue note until the milk of your charm rots in its awe like—gotcha! Not a hint of remorse as your mind locks into... watch this. This time I'm a submarine, this time I'm a soft machine/track, the one about the mask getting whole again like a laugh into commercial/intermission, woven, vowing, well then,    this time I'm a cameo, this time Imma show up in folkforms, en vogue, in stereo, in territory songs, in pairs of concordant desire separated by fidelity but lent the recognition of panther of lash of backwards wish jotted on a napkin at the bar/into meek origami then peach marrow dripping between the words for lamp and malt and praise and all of it, rig veda, star people, don't wait up, but maybe someday I'll save you, the note laced into a droopy tulip that seemed alive with the power of omission, like the heart becoming tender to tempt a vastness toward it, like the heart when it does this again and again

One Horn/Hello Darkness Our Old Friend

Nothing is secular

Everything is sacred. And this is the food of the gods. This is what the gods eat. And how we taste to dwellers in the casual world

Messenger/Reflex

We're the lucky ones, we reach the part of surpassing someone, where we can stop at becoming them, and don't— Has your father instructed you? Yes. Do you know where creatures go when they pass away? No. Do you know how they come back? Now. Do you know where the two ways separate; one going to the gods, the other to the father? Not yet. Do you know why the yonder world is never filled? No, not yet. Do you know how it is that the fifth libation comes to be called man? No. Then why did you say you were instructed? We're the lucky ones, we reach the part of surpassing someone where we can stop at becoming them and don't. Happy leap over the invisible counterplayer to where the mangled enigma trusts us with its secrets and before we know it      We're the lucky ones, we reach the part of surpassing someone where we can stop at becoming them and          We're the lucky ones        We can hold all the blood in the world and still be ourselves, we don't disappear

Going Blind (Clairvoyance)

Two for the Father

Why does the night last so long?

Because you did not fly high enough.  Oh. Okay. What does it mean to redeem the dead? Flying high into a gasp of fog and coming back with language. Oh. Okay. What language? Okay. It's been a lot like black english in the midday span. What do you mean? Glamorous, fast fists of grain. Okay, good. Why is glamor important? All that malt liquor in your gut needs someone to imagine/water/nerve/or mother.  And trust. Why do you fly so high? And land with the night like a child star. And trust. And light up on rugged words. Because you ain't seen me right. You ain't seen me, right? I ate so much gold I could see the eternal sphinx smiling through a like/ness. I love my ghetto oracle. I love the risks we're souls of 

Why I'm your hero

A circle visited me. But really that circle was actually an apple; and really that apple was actually a serpent, and really that pent up axe was actually your hero, smoking trees in the back yard, ashing on the spine of a Miles biography, smiling like lace on a wing, saturated with truth and moon-flesh, singing doo-wop medleys and glowing like a cash crop. Was your father a singer too? If he didn't beat you did he at least join you? That joy in you/that joy in you is the least of it. Let our souls rise in love.

Simple's Good Advice

It was the year I began to wonder about the sound that colors make

It was the year of ancient reappearing and modern hiding, I held a mirror up the ghosting sigh (d) as though a microphone or chipin, like chirpin but hipper and happier on purpose, tell me why I'm your hero, tell me why the myth will heal the man afterall     Oh the furtive glances, the counterfeit indifference, would that we just blurt them as pangs as prisoners of love    there's no such thing as a prisoner of love and there's no such thing as freedom  except we reappear and we hide to the rhythm of the sound the color drums a round infinite inverse muting trumpet blues for souls loved by nature, coveted, raided with mercy

But I don't love them hoes

That sense of duality

That sense of duality is totally key, to delusion

Words we all know

Something Cheerful

Like Muhammad Ali, hunching down at the rope to write poems 

Source Tapes/Red Bull gives you wings

Oedipus
Edifice
Deaf ear
Van Gogh was here
trippin
etched onto the
mirror/boat, though
Niggas be
trippin
too
Triptych
Sothic year
Wikipedia it
That wicked ease, that nothingness, is everything
What is it?
Otherness, big circle
Sirius (be)
What is it?
Learning, the great unlearning
What is it?
Good ears
What else?
Bloodthirst/enthusiasm and indifference, together as one
Anything else?
Those perfect myths, numb like blacks and nuns in paintings, romantic or something
What are they about?
Jealousy/ freedom/your mom
What's that?
You looking at me
What's that
Sometimes I need a little privacy/Hard words
Which ones?
Every/one, these
I wanted to use the word 'lipstick' after—
Andrew Hill
Drifted into a daydream about blasphemy and black tourmaline
Is this an interview?
Sure
A clue?
Shore
Like Horse?
If you see it there the first time
And adore me, the first time
Trojan/
Don't get pregnant
Not yet
All this joy feels like a threat
Yours, the engine's, bent elegance around tension
Who?
Don't be rude.
When is it polite to let go of someone's heart
After you grab it?

The difference between sound and light (take 1: negotiation)

The Pleas of Sunlight

All the fathers who left their children return home to heal things, and many other strange things happen, when it rains on the moon

Forbidden Fruit

The image of holding a cold sphere of fruit to his temple instead of the barrel of an unloaded gun, is a noticeable improvement in the narrative. What we crave/cave/cage/gate: togetherness      imagining is remembering

This is a series of photographs by Lynn Hayworth, the famous black photographer no one heard of her/torch/mercenary/ are you sure? Yeah, I'm sure. Can't you see. The material of poetry is so vast/ glad to be /invisible/ sometimes

In each picture a shaman dressed as a policeman holds a healing agent to the temple of a black man's head as if holding a gun there: intensely, like a gardener dancing on the prong of a cactus-song in neon lights that buzz and get you rabid drunk and then immune to the buzz and then angelic with all the just- because rhythms flying around in your mannerism/while him chum/him chimp/ and his comeuppance//slam the window and glass shatters, slap him woke and the shards revert to whole. Some of the men in the photos are crying monotone tears about to rhyme with the scene, and some are grinning like incorrigible pricks who can't wait to tell you about the clever line they tried to lift from a rapper or a preacher or your own glowing heart. 

It feels good to be every character in a dream. Natural and a little nasty like fucking your hero. I drop the fruit and catch in my mouth, same thing, wake up crying and celebrating. 

The 'is that nigga black,' blues (4 symptoms/4 cures)

In the ambrosia hours

One man's premature clap could be captured for ages/ like a vow or the post-rage tower of light animating his manic calm limbs with something more assertive than relief: rebirth, melanin. Each moment an incarnation of the will enjambed with the subconscious, a slow jam, fonk and roses, the groups named after candy and rot and the ones named green and possible are right to reject one another as origins but be caught in one another's audience, (is it called an audience when you visit a small black church in Sallis looking for your father's cross and all the yeses and boss souls of your beautiful figure align and queen, I'm queen, I'm clean again, I'm clan, I call good friends cousins and it comes true as the sun in bloom and then I run from them looking for him) found in the audience, standing up, pleading the blood clapping while everyone else in the room is silent, statuesque, gone. Is that why I am a destiny? Is that how to be a beast? Is that how I came to be the best?

Be kind to the red transistor in your breast

 

Dialog of a high priest with his soul

13 Ways of Being Your Immortality, lucky 7

Nor can there be any falsification in any event, since there are no facts, properly speaking, anywhere in our pliant stories, to be falsified, but only a way interpreting the omniverse—and who would want the other fellow's way?  Re- (see also Ra, ray) - creation not falsification, is the word to apply when discussing the reconstruction of the myth, the deciphering of the legend, the eight men and the four women the, four men and the eight women, the procession of the equinoxes into the ox, then ram, oxford english, then lush, wolf then lamb then iambic then a camera rubs the scene with fans and  dreams, animal farms and godheads, then ra, then ray, then the everyday, then everyday we ran, 3 miles minimum, while mummies hung in the air like tilted suns and gorgeous maps to the eastside of the mind and back and forth and winding like a kind serpent in the spine's eternal 33, like a parade was trailing our hope toward freedom, and our discipline was part decoration once in a while, sign/symbol/signified/silent monkey, but even then, fierce, inherited, restyled, raw souled, residuals, sold out, bought back, track suit, gold chain, hold on to the pain until it turns into pins and saves your opinions from their flatness, from anything timid or drab, it turns so radiant, (see also Ra, rey, raise, roi, royal, real, non-duality) black maybe, brown maybe, beige maybe, understanding becomes a matter beyond material and that's where we gather stamina, honoring the happy phantom who turns the vision into a juke/just to request our song

Of a Rawer Sun

It's just a simple song

I'm delivering the lyric so just give me the thing I need. Don't be too emotional, just be there.

Partial list of virtues

Oh, wonderful! Oh, wonderful! Oh, wonderful! 
I am food! I am food! I am food! 
I am a food-eater! I am a food-eater! I am a food-eater! 
I am a fame-maker! I am a fame-maker! I am a fame, I am a maker. 
I am the first born of the world order. 
Antecedent to the god in the navel of immortality! 
Who gives me away, he indeed had aided me! 
I, who am food, eat the eater of food! 
I have overcome the whole world!

The battle standard
Shepardship
Lasting ladyship
scribeship
justice
Etc.

Virtue sees the future

What do I dream of?

Do you think that if the blacks defeat the whites, the whites will become colonized?

What's your favorite song?

It's larger than infinity

It's not representing an archetype

Your body is covered in fractals

They clone your hopes, everyday

Spirit/people ; stacked/recursively

Fuck yoga

I'm mean fuck, we invented yoga also

Fuck, the sacred way, and take yoga out of the maze comes the most lush beat, buck, huddle, slow string plucking beat—our greediest art is a flashing smile in the restive mind, black jesus messing up at his own lynching and becoming immortal by accident

Breathe, nigga. Show me your myths.

Again?

Yeah, we forgot the best parts

Most of my songs are fast

The secrets of the universe spelled out in a very plain language, Pa and Ptah's

I don't believe I'm god, I know I'm god  rhetoric of the gospel according to the hollywood story

as decoded by the war on herbs and delusions of grandeur and on purpose; they wanna be with it,

they wanna live the black/

entertainer's half-habit myth with us  as props and heroes and this costs them tempo, Pert Em Hru/   

and again, and so-and-so  Pa pa pa pa, ptah, ptah, ptah     got the idea like a gun fight on the news and gave  it to the nigga you ain't abstract blues, where it turned licorice purple on the drift

The typical illusion is that it feels black to be black; 8 bars and a plastic heart/surgeon later,  a slave to the surge, you are my starship; you are my starship, what color is this blaze                   

Vocal Coach

That time I saw my father stealing chickens from the heads of goats and turning them into resilient tropes for how to say I love you to a white woman until she turns you yellow and all will and owl. He was a genius.  I'm his citrine proof, the softest nose on the hill and the truest eyes, wrists the size of the word copper inside of cool velvet. If I have to, I fight my way into beautiful songs but mostly there are no rivals for a whole double album about his blunt reappraisal of birds he sat behind recording glass pressing his throat against the nappy southern silence until they felt their names were whole enough to make time become, fractured enough to be suture and ax in the same jumping stillness, black enough to call the sun blue as he disappears into the sound. Between you and me, I think every man is impersonating his mother, from the first time he saw her get free on a drug or a duty, to the time he saw her get new on time, he sings to her in his second mind: wait for me, wait for me. Some of them are just better at it. The tyrants and infants and their happy daughters. Don't be so miscellaneous, give your note a name, he said, palms covered in feathers, radio speakers on his shoulder, Sam Cooke blowing through them, and then a commercial for Ambien 

Iridescence made simple

An eternal higher principal, of pure light, has been turned against the earlier, fluctuating principal of both darkness and light, death and resurrection, as the sun against the moon. The sun never dies. The sun descends into the netherworld, battles the demons of the night sea, is in danger, but never dies. And the inhabiting spirit of this mythology is wonder, not guilt. A black bull miraculously engendered by a moonbeam, gleaming gleaming, learning the gangster lean, the high yellow tusk clean as a solo violin coming through a corvette radio onto the black ballerina's lap— of sun
 

Shot-Gun House /What were you just thinking about

You know, how when the sun is out til really late one day every year and you play Apollo shoulders with your first born self and everyone feels like a nearness/ winner  running beneath that yellow umbrella but the slow word for mirror blows itself to roar before you can dwell on it, his love for you, you're combating it all  Not so fast     with your fat tongue all over my name like claw   or a bad actor as I shine on the grass in your mouth and you get how...

I was thinking about the gun in your mouth/that time, how you placed it there like a Lego or a lie that won't let go or how a quarantined idea turns into a demon which just means a hidden thing and how if I just expose the thing  it becomes its own answer/it becomes it own father with its own weapon turned on himself. Love was a weapon then and the song went up in camels and made us millions.  In the first room there was the second room, in the second room there was the third, there are seven rooms in her, at least, her name alone is worth a fortune