Let's say silence is slang for love
of such splendid isolation/ such sweet/
intuition such winged perimeters on the children and churrin/hush then if you came to win--
those
phantoms are us and hustlers have fallen asleep in the middle of
their stuff and it's such good stuff they dream you're always puckering
at the wrong moment and your emptiness glistens out on that limb and
emptiness is slang and gushing for authority and you're fearless/finally/infinite and finite at the same time, let's see a tentative smile as we reunite for capital and fold our yankee dollars into slang for sorrow posing as concentration on that vibration just ahead of the utterance, trembling puzzle, trembling pleasure. Let's
think it loud and not say it yet like how we're living forever under the pressure of what turns out to be our very own power--- the word agency mouthed turns into three women, all me, peeking at their reflections in his smoothest brass
I'm waiting for the sun to unravel like a black father addicted to music listening himself to tears in a fit of silence cause that's more natural than all the trees we've ever smoked or hung from to be the son of that father or to love someone beyond himself for it
Donald Byrd
Donald Byrd
Donald Byrd
Donald Byrd
What begins as a courtesy turns into a need once we sound it out/such splendid isolation/such sweet
intuition is rebirth
