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?
