You're not a mystic;
and I don't forgive you
for your pretenses and just wishin
which are stupor dense and prove you're not a mystic and I shouldn't give you the nod or the do- rag or the play god or the true god
Do you get to the part when the flute comes in or are you too raggedy to reach him alone as he rounds the corner of this prayer like a petty thief with carparts in his arms just sprinting down Slauson gloriously parting cars
Who are you trying to reach anyway and why do you have that jones in you, you reading Leroy Jones too, and what's your real name after memory
Do you lose your mind or win your mind
at the part where the loot comes in like delusion and shines all over the purpose of you and your image hurts in the comfort of our too perfect connection, all this freedom could wreck the sun, you reckon?
--
Have you seen The Connection, that Shirley Clarke film about
the four jazz men like the four elements sitting around in a hotel room
before their set, waiting for their heroine-- them niggas was already so
strung out when she finally arrived and they couldn't decide which one
she belonged to-- and all of their music cries about this circumstance and some
of it handles it with tambourines and shakers that shimmer and brisk and
clean up nice but there's something awkward about it like you're
supposed to be better than you are and keep the sun in your mouth/ keep
the sun in your mouth/don't pout about how you're numb sometimes and lips so thick and liver and you've got a lot of nerve like you have a father, fuck what you heard, ya heard? It's a pretty realistic account, aggressively beautiful, and they all end up on stage
