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.