Once you trust the fact that some of the most militant demons come in the baffling real-thing acts of black angels ; it all just goes to show —
You could call the hoax a stepladder to the great hope, or you could call it the tall
black guy who
tries to hide his demons from the frontlines and they end up towing
across his mind like ghetto alphabets and veteran ghosts and close-ups
of his mother's motor of a smile running him into his child/self again
and again/ he tries to pretend you're her and fails again and again,
over and over himself in a melting pot and then he takes the aggregate and rearranges it into
some half-assed fame bent on bent on audacity and then shame pretense pretense You
thought he was tense before he got noticed Now what to call it? A
fallen angel? A poster child for I know why the caged bird goes silent
mid song once in a while. Makes you stop and think though Now that
White America kinda discovered blackness thus, but not like kin like in road
to what time it's been
I'm changing, not
gonna let it be Columbus Day in this radiant heart but sure am part
umbra part runner all star and keeping it more than one hundred
percent total didn'tchaknow l i g h t growing always upward in soul force
--
And then at the end of the day, can you blame him for being so tense? I mean,
his day just ended on a president's empty netherland neverland nervous
and green, and he's trapped in the attic of his will / (to) dream with a
blindfold made of cactus roses covering his knuckles with his second
sight and third ethic ; and the slow blood of total opposition drips through the supple
petals into one of those dopey abusive apologies about who he can't be
when the blinds are closed or how the microphone is pressed against his tone so it echoes the future heir and he can't hear himself anywhere he's turned love into an excuse for hate or pit one against the other til he's the sum of all their fears Until there are no fears for some
Let's pray that this is a great myth, the myth of the man who blames his mother for his father's absence and falls in love with the light source that they all recover-- and know that I'm the hero of it, here to re-envision the crux as a celebration, hear that I'm the sun gripping through that sterile window so abundant it makes you wonder where you come from again and how to get there while it still makes sense
