Gag order (lifted)

Theatrical uncertainty (against essentialism)

Fires come from the mouth. They burn their way into the lower organs. Everything turns to kites/strange strings. You have to do it again and again. Nothing else exists/it seems. Only the heart remains. A clean range of luck and danger/ a jury of the way we were. And are/  and keep     singing. Even when seeing goes blind intentionally and the stage is lit with the carpenter's ego blowing up to prove a beat exists between... Fires come from the mouth. They burn their way into the lower organs. Everything turns to run/on dreams. You have to do it again and again. Nothing else. Exists. It seems. Only the heart remains. And everything.

A Mighty Walk

For the Hidden Mind of Love

A stone as heroic as flesh insinuates our new birth. As fresh. As yesterday's deathlessness learns to trust an aroused whisper as certainty is impossible or the only thing. Affection everywhere like oxygen and paramour. A stone standing on the borderline between the animal and the divine, a stone as verbal as flesh. Flash to the image of a talking moan packed into roses that show up on the bruises from the struck through blues blood. I just knew it. That his love was strangely alive as though destined to remain a child to the end of time. And time never ends. Giving everything the air of supurb originality as an omen of beauty which disguises the union between surfaces and depths. And only love has saved each revelation from the madness of opinions, only love can do that.

You're nothing but a savior

A Hidden Uncertainty in Columbus

Little trance (lucid trance)

Little tendency  which I will an entrance/out of   hand   of fox-trot mannerisms, of when panic succumbs to nevermind, I got this, and the vanishing shrine reassembles as bulls cuddling with the double moon. One of those lights on the satellite is mars, you know, and what a mess twin memories are, almost exactly the same except one is horror and one is glee and the bridge beneath them shatters for links and the catchy hook about flying lacks the mercy of real jive and events show up like bribes, ruts in the maya where microcosmic isolation saves my soul, my ka, and my god, and my god

I don't believe in. First feet on the cool marble of all/ vibrating with sin and carving invisible maps into the future heart, because obsession gets boring and all dreams about breasts are good luck, even the recurring one where my own are stuck in your mind like soldiers rejecting their uniforms in the middle of a purple field, and I blush a bent obsidian reluctance, and come so close to waking up

Hearsay / Praytell

Brotherman in the Fatherland

The Daughter Recognizing the Father

The Son Interpreting the Father

The Father Witnessing the Son

When we talk about distressed monuments, and regal ones

What sounds they summon

What sounds they summon!  

The sun goes down and rises with him    And, can you imagine    the day when matter is so sparse and immortal that we become forms of sound ourselves, speeches, compilations of everything we've ever thought or said, and our lives are made of listening to ourselves. Of playback. playback, payback, no hell, no heaven, nothing listless, all listening at last. Echo. Cobra. My man, my brother, my sphere of such gorgeous fractal words I see in them seeing me again.  And how that day is now. What sounds we summon. What sounds!



Proposal for a series of sound installations to replace the statues and monuments

for now that chemical warfare is on    for now that sonic warfare is on      our heroes do not stand (a chance)    if  still   in time  no more   than silence is unreal  and the restless reel shines with the energy of blurry words  they speak through me     and you      to tease the truth through         contradiction         what sounds they summon, what sounds!        We were all charlatan  and dandy and daddy O one finger pointing  before we became our listening 

Expectation/expectation/shooting star

I know you got soul

If you didn't you wouldn't be in here 

Equations Between Nature and Man

He's a maniac, do we notice that? Which one?  Yeah. And I began to look at him with my night eyes   wherein most of what he was experiencing as a soul, he was not aware of in his physical body. And I decided, then and there, I decide to not be haunted, and the lock on my  heart disappeared and the wisdom comes from disappearances, more rivers through the cells carrying me nearer and nearer to the famous truth of myself, which tempts the biting zealot, the one I had to consume to expel  

 

Opening Scene (1)

The gods are subtle in their revelations of legendary opposites that help us see through ourselves 

And the moment comes when one sees something that one cannot believe has always been there

Neurosis are red, neurosis are blue/ A great american tradition

A Vision Against Philistines

Do we imply future action when we use the present tense?
And urge our pure mystery / to send/ sent/censor/sensory, to be touched, there it is
Are you addicted to chaos?
Do you pay the cost to be the boss?
Do you know your beauty?
Does it speak through you?
Do you cough when you lie or sniffle or cry backwards, or not at all
Is truth abiding so soft in you every step is a caress, lewd, almost pornographic, a surplus of velvet wit from a prophet, never superfluous, is it like that? 

There are 250,0000 people here and 400,000 sheep, and we're not sure what to do with them.

Do you find your dead father's friends and ask what he was like, to them?
But I don't believe in death. In english. We live in a new language
Do you go into a trance of likelihoods and come out good or God?
Is he like a drug? 
Does he weep inwardly too like Walcott, like must not want to be seen inventing water?
Had he forgotten like twins at birth, the difference, and then had to learn it more acutely?
Does he show up at rehearsal?
Does this water give back those images?
Which images? Which ones are ours and which ones paint the hours as windows?
Who knows? What's the purpose of all these riddles?
To have distracted the fakers from themselves and their quiet auto-surveillance, valence, not valiance, and then?
Do we imply present action when we use the future tense?
Who cares. The answer is always yes. We get better and better at contradiction. The eyes relax on their own essence and turn against it in order to view it, and then they know it

You name it, they'll do it

If you ever hear the music the way it should be played, you'll dig the music for the rest of your days

Equational/Occasional :: slow cage/fast freedom

Life is splendid (melanin is chaos). Jah's a dark matter

Sorrowfully very beautiful, beautiful and blue

the way the great men hide in the mediocre  wet with paranoia's faceted coves and the rush of nobody's fault and the line from always to always    and the gray bite of an hypnotic stone/ media wide bonafide open ritual of go:  wake me up slowly, I'm not in hurry, he mumbles from the exit glow of a particularly rhythmic dream  and then gorgeous show, but they don't space me out the way the dead do  and then first comes fame, then comes shame, and then... what comes after that? That's just an old black habit — the eyes pucker at the new-day-sun/and, some kinda oneness

Greater Transparency (The neon jesus blues)

He complained of a pleasure with no content. This lasted for about three weeks. Then he disappeared.

Seven Octaves

13 Ways of Being Your Immortality, Mode 8/ Megalomania

fits around the black experience like OJ's sad glove on display at a covetous museum, a sudden archive of tender leather on ice and light while Someday My Prince Will Come plays from an old phonograph. Two immaculate glass cases. A single tear so trite it's real. Thank you Fred Wilson. Thank you everyone who stops to watch us spin on ice and light. Industry, we win. And you're the rip in the glove, the vandal, the dull clamor of guilt, and unguilt as they dance for the brass knuckle of kill in the goal that tingles when you blink and fills the soul with bloody love, careless love, unsurrendered except where the stuff we don't talk about it is what we're made of    so shhhhhhhhhh keep something for yourself  maybe, or what's the difference between the self and the other?   I'm man and my life has value, screamed into mute and spare    It made such a true lie, it made him more beautiful, it shaped his mind to die and divide into revival/amen corners of mine that let me climb into the night like space suits, like clubs, hearts, kings, spades too, and american flag stencils traced through my pupils like cartoon dollar brands ironed onto the steeple and peeling the land green.     But Why? Since all things are living spirits trapped by their own misdirected will in the round of rebirth in the ever-revolving vortex of this world. What else? the gloaming mingled with— What else? Forgetting makes it last