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

Seduction

Close your eyes and look at us

Nature's Unnatural so Niggaz Make Shit Up

High and all he's my brother and he's my cousin and don't bug me when I'm in my sin, and even nobility is bleak in this country like a leaking will or parched well, unless backed with a militant

A militant what, though?

Just a militant, just a lit up animal ready to gamble and fill the language with moans and laughter that dangles the soul over the cliff of itself

It has to be militant to say or soul anything. A tierra and spear, and a tantrum until the quiet comes. And the overuse of the word feral in poems about birds is even still beautiful like the rude stillness of a statue's eyes, for real though, it's shrill to be that still and wild when it knows it's alive, when you know it's a lie. Niggaz win the prize, Dogon A.D. style, we're the all/time best at making shit up and it won't ever fall besides as a hand lands on a drum to unhinge the immeasurable word, live before a studio audience. 

Atman's Vision

Ptah's Report to the Heart

The ShedShed

A series of mimes drenched in ash and sheer with the attitude of ideal duty. walk through you as bleed, every time you muse on me, slitting mythological syndromes into the muscle and my new style seems to appear suddenly, without prelude, like a sheet of jocund wind in a sealed room, like the union of opposites meant for union. Like an undoomed, coon proof elegance intensifying the silent march into your hardly an ark/ shed/woodshed/ exposing the never was in there, and I'm not sorry/their gestures will show you to yourself in a meltdown tapdancing on the hood of an indifferent star or stage or trying to trace your footprint into what's too good for it, too light, too solid. Nigga, you ain't mysterious. I almost thought ghosts were romantic, or authentic, or necessary, or signs that hope has a soul—almost. Then I  found the place where indifference and belligerence make them real again, tender almond eyes blank with then what. Then what to avenge but the mediocre/pretenders, all that lurk in their eyes becomes so clear against the reel. Today, a melaninated fleet of them, uncle toms and the like, is on the loose, but not a one is even wavy enough to seduce the mimes out of their intentional stupor; so they're restlessly shedding their muffled screams onto CNN or over tacky buffet dinners at banquets and dull languishing wit, but the mimes seem to be getting better, brimming with aloof magnetism and shutting them down to so what. Even evil demands soul, you've got to feel your way into a sin, you've got to mean every moment, and you've got to spin your way out on a lone cylinder beneath an ornate chandelier in a rusty church,  you've got to be there when the sound's tearing into wax like a stubborn flame, you've got to be that master and slave and master and don't blame me, don't blame me, Imma shed you like a dingy melody, Imma do the shedshed dance til you can't see to hear yourself think 

You ain't seen me right

Sometimes I feel like my father's my child, a long way from home

Two is one

Bloodless Revolutions at a Glance

The serpent emerging from his hillock appears to be about to bite the rams; and the rams in turn, appear to be about to eat the flower. Turning to the reverse, we see the pouncing bird of prey. A cycle of life through mutual killing is indicated. And since the figures represent the power of the same god, the mythological theme represented is that of the self-consuming, ever-dying, ever-living generative energy that is the life, and life, in all things.

Acting without Action

Great, it passes on
Passing on, it becomes remote
Having become remote, it returns

One for the Star Seeds

Against Infatuation

But the infatuator is actually. The laughing hooves of a perfect heart reinventing intensity for the stark bodies who want it black and hard and a golden-feathered sun bird.  Get her to a rhythm and she dances beyond effort and unconquerable toward her vision. A bull and an elephant side by side/ each one in a daydream about the other which combine to source a prayer, her power, her grace, her cherish, and bound for a joy so coarse and sure they don't ever notice they're there together.

The making of the sound I

Note the helplessness of the bird when it's gaze is fixed upon the glittering eyes of the serpent

Together we're making cartwheels and some reeling shadow wants to cloak the fringe and innit

Where we've been flying (two words and one lie) like I love you,  also, insisting that there's no distance too crude for the wild / knowing how to dream true is a skill like ruthless

Pilgrim. No nation is likely to make up the story that its ancestors had been slaves but then again it's


the greatest myth there is to justify the serpent, then again it straightens the spine like Leroy Jenkins' regal ghetto violin, then again it didn't recoil

If you can get to that

Stanley Crouch - Ain't No Ambulances For No Nigguhs Tonight from wherewereyoublog on Vimeo.

To be a Jazz Messenger

Polymath /Against Solipsism

If you ever meet the invisible man
And his dusty wife or sidekick
and you find token token token token, blunt on your lips,
Act like you know
They might wish to be you—a beautiful soloist everybody hopes with and to
and when they watch through a telescope as you fold your hair/heart first, into poems and plats and fractals and repurpose
while they're choking on the ash of their own limpid poses, you're spinning on the axis of a math they don't compute in, increase after increase, you control the wind
They'll take notes, they'll know they're no where and act erased or a race or lie and say they're black/maybe
They'll hope you can save them, even just by noticing and saying so,
and instead you'll just say no, letting them fall through boredom into tantrum and back like bad television all the while wishing you would see them. Don't let them in. They are temporary people hoping to raid eternity, parasites hoping to learn your secret and feed on it. They are starving. When they ask a lot of questions don't be flattered, be silent as the globe. Slide a maraca across your limbs' blood and feel your power ripple through and repel them, give them their problem back like the gospel, one pagan at a time

One for the Loud Minority

Reasonable Force

The Beautiful and OmniPresent Love

Ambrosia

A river of blood has been returning, for millenniums, from beheaded offerings, through channels carved to return it, still living, to its divine source

13 Ways of Being Your Immortality, level six

What he wants is a little cosmos, with its own time and logic, inhabited only by the two of us