Enchanted Thing

Expressing karma through a mumbled blue note until the milk of your charm rots in its awe like—gotcha! Not a hint of remorse as your mind locks into... watch this. This time I'm a submarine, this time I'm a soft machine/track, the one about the mask getting whole again like a laugh into commercial/intermission, woven, vowing, well then,    this time I'm a cameo, this time Imma show up in folkforms, en vogue, in stereo, in territory songs, in pairs of concordant desire separated by fidelity but lent the recognition of panther of lash of backwards wish jotted on a napkin at the bar/into meek origami then peach marrow dripping between the words for lamp and malt and praise and all of it, rig veda, star people, don't wait up, but maybe someday I'll save you, the note laced into a droopy tulip that seemed alive with the power of omission, like the heart becoming tender to tempt a vastness toward it, like the heart when it does this again and again

One Horn/Hello Darkness Our Old Friend

Nothing is secular

Everything is sacred. And this is the food of the gods. This is what the gods eat. And how we taste to dwellers in the casual world

Messenger/Reflex

We're the lucky ones, we reach the part of surpassing someone, where we can stop at becoming them, and don't— Has your father instructed you? Yes. Do you know where creatures go when they pass away? No. Do you know how they come back? Now. Do you know where the two ways separate; one going to the gods, the other to the father? Not yet. Do you know why the yonder world is never filled? No, not yet. Do you know how it is that the fifth libation comes to be called man? No. Then why did you say you were instructed? We're the lucky ones, we reach the part of surpassing someone where we can stop at becoming them and don't. Happy leap over the invisible counterplayer to where the mangled enigma trusts us with its secrets and before we know it      We're the lucky ones, we reach the part of surpassing someone where we can stop at becoming them and          We're the lucky ones        We can hold all the blood in the world and still be ourselves, we don't disappear

Going Blind (Clairvoyance)

Two for the Father

Why does the night last so long?

Because you did not fly high enough.  Oh. Okay. What does it mean to redeem the dead? Flying high into a gasp of fog and coming back with language. Oh. Okay. What language? Okay. It's been a lot like black english in the midday span. What do you mean? Glamorous, fast fists of grain. Okay, good. Why is glamor important? All that malt liquor in your gut needs someone to imagine/water/nerve/or mother.  And trust. Why do you fly so high? And land with the night like a child star. And trust. And light up on rugged words. Because you ain't seen me right. You ain't seen me, right? I ate so much gold I could see the eternal sphinx smiling through a like/ness. I love my ghetto oracle. I love the risks we're souls of 

Why I'm your hero

A circle visited me. But really that circle was actually an apple; and really that apple was actually a serpent, and really that pent up axe was actually your hero, smoking trees in the back yard, ashing on the spine of a Miles biography, smiling like lace on a wing, saturated with truth and moon-flesh, singing doo-wop medleys and glowing like a cash crop. Was your father a singer too? If he didn't beat you did he at least join you? That joy in you/that joy in you is the least of it. Let our souls rise in love.

Simple's Good Advice

It was the year I began to wonder about the sound that colors make

It was the year of ancient reappearing and modern hiding, I held a mirror up the ghosting sigh (d) as though a microphone or chipin, like chirpin but hipper and happier on purpose, tell me why I'm your hero, tell me why the myth will heal the man afterall     Oh the furtive glances, the counterfeit indifference, would that we just blurt them as pangs as prisoners of love    there's no such thing as a prisoner of love and there's no such thing as freedom  except we reappear and we hide to the rhythm of the sound the color drums a round infinite inverse muting trumpet blues for souls loved by nature, coveted, raided with mercy

But I don't love them hoes

That sense of duality

That sense of duality is totally key, to delusion

Words we all know

Something Cheerful

Like Muhammad Ali, hunching down at the rope to write poems 

Source Tapes/Red Bull gives you wings

Oedipus
Edifice
Deaf ear
Van Gogh was here
trippin
etched onto the
mirror/boat, though
Niggas be
trippin
too
Triptych
Sothic year
Wikipedia it
That wicked ease, that nothingness, is everything
What is it?
Otherness, big circle
Sirius (be)
What is it?
Learning, the great unlearning
What is it?
Good ears
What else?
Bloodthirst/enthusiasm and indifference, together as one
Anything else?
Those perfect myths, numb like blacks and nuns in paintings, romantic or something
What are they about?
Jealousy/ freedom/your mom
What's that?
You looking at me
What's that
Sometimes I need a little privacy/Hard words
Which ones?
Every/one, these
I wanted to use the word 'lipstick' after—
Andrew Hill
Drifted into a daydream about blasphemy and black tourmaline
Is this an interview?
Sure
A clue?
Shore
Like Horse?
If you see it there the first time
And adore me, the first time
Trojan/
Don't get pregnant
Not yet
All this joy feels like a threat
Yours, the engine's, bent elegance around tension
Who?
Don't be rude.
When is it polite to let go of someone's heart
After you grab it?

The difference between sound and light (take 1: negotiation)

The Pleas of Sunlight

All the fathers who left their children return home to heal things, and many other strange things happen, when it rains on the moon

Forbidden Fruit

The image of holding a cold sphere of fruit to his temple instead of the barrel of an unloaded gun, is a noticeable improvement in the narrative. What we crave/cave/cage/gate: togetherness      imagining is remembering

This is a series of photographs by Lynn Hayworth, the famous black photographer no one heard of her/torch/mercenary/ are you sure? Yeah, I'm sure. Can't you see. The material of poetry is so vast/ glad to be /invisible/ sometimes

In each picture a shaman dressed as a policeman holds a healing agent to the temple of a black man's head as if holding a gun there: intensely, like a gardener dancing on the prong of a cactus-song in neon lights that buzz and get you rabid drunk and then immune to the buzz and then angelic with all the just- because rhythms flying around in your mannerism/while him chum/him chimp/ and his comeuppance//slam the window and glass shatters, slap him woke and the shards revert to whole. Some of the men in the photos are crying monotone tears about to rhyme with the scene, and some are grinning like incorrigible pricks who can't wait to tell you about the clever line they tried to lift from a rapper or a preacher or your own glowing heart. 

It feels good to be every character in a dream. Natural and a little nasty like fucking your hero. I drop the fruit and catch in my mouth, same thing, wake up crying and celebrating. 

The 'is that nigga black,' blues (4 symptoms/4 cures)

In the ambrosia hours

One man's premature clap could be captured for ages/ like a vow or the post-rage tower of light animating his manic calm limbs with something more assertive than relief: rebirth, melanin. Each moment an incarnation of the will enjambed with the subconscious, a slow jam, fonk and roses, the groups named after candy and rot and the ones named green and possible are right to reject one another as origins but be caught in one another's audience, (is it called an audience when you visit a small black church in Sallis looking for your father's cross and all the yeses and boss souls of your beautiful figure align and queen, I'm queen, I'm clean again, I'm clan, I call good friends cousins and it comes true as the sun in bloom and then I run from them looking for him) found in the audience, standing up, pleading the blood clapping while everyone else in the room is silent, statuesque, gone. Is that why I am a destiny? Is that how to be a beast? Is that how I came to be the best?

Be kind to the red transistor in your breast

 

Dialog of a high priest with his soul

13 Ways of Being Your Immortality, lucky 7

Nor can there be any falsification in any event, since there are no facts, properly speaking, anywhere in our pliant stories, to be falsified, but only a way interpreting the omniverse—and who would want the other fellow's way?  Re- (see also Ra, ray) - creation not falsification, is the word to apply when discussing the reconstruction of the myth, the deciphering of the legend, the eight men and the four women the, four men and the eight women, the procession of the equinoxes into the ox, then ram, oxford english, then lush, wolf then lamb then iambic then a camera rubs the scene with fans and  dreams, animal farms and godheads, then ra, then ray, then the everyday, then everyday we ran, 3 miles minimum, while mummies hung in the air like tilted suns and gorgeous maps to the eastside of the mind and back and forth and winding like a kind serpent in the spine's eternal 33, like a parade was trailing our hope toward freedom, and our discipline was part decoration once in a while, sign/symbol/signified/silent monkey, but even then, fierce, inherited, restyled, raw souled, residuals, sold out, bought back, track suit, gold chain, hold on to the pain until it turns into pins and saves your opinions from their flatness, from anything timid or drab, it turns so radiant, (see also Ra, rey, raise, roi, royal, real, non-duality) black maybe, brown maybe, beige maybe, understanding becomes a matter beyond material and that's where we gather stamina, honoring the happy phantom who turns the vision into a juke/just to request our song