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
