Electromagnetism

Everything is happening/ all the time

The territory shall be the universe (take 2, seen new)

The Way you Look, Tonight

Your lips are ashy
There's fuz in your meek/'fro
Your whole vibe is dusty --    go home to your wives
I don't love you, no mo'

(tomorrow is the question)

Mulatto Woman Reappropriates Reality

Is the ghost (the thing we call when we hug a G in the invisible/indivisible with liberty and,) a confused angel , must be. Speaking through a notion of immortality that could become a neurosis if you're too careful. And I don't care to focus there or there, gee what character we invent for the dark, and I'm not the toy boat keeled on a lego in your pale red childhood. What blood he gave I collected and painted a laughing balloon on the way up.   It drifts and pops and decorates the rain with consciousness. I got this letter in the mail from a man calling himself... and answering himself. Is there internet in prison? I don't mean to be insensitive. There must be some incentive to shove an orange in the oracle's mouth and decode the eyes instead but is the ghost a criminal for misusing the fruit of incentive, or whatever. The or whatever is there in a solid gold smile, to express my mistrust of intensity, which only proves an ambivalence we want to convince ourselves out of. True love is the calmest thing like a calamity that never announces itself except through calm. The frenzy is fear of love. He went in between (them) like a sound or heroine. I've never tried it but I can imagine better than you can live. And I'm in love's position. Also cradling an apple in bed first thing, thinking about it. And I can think better than you can live. Live with it. Is the ghost a risk you didn't take that haunts like cupcakes to beautiful fat bitches. It feels great to say bitches and be a woman. Not derogatory at all. Purgatory preys on your phony misguided morals. Bitches wanna fight themselves through a tunnel of sunshine. Sounds like the ghost's a hunter disguised in sun god. I got this letter in the mail from the one who claims to be my... quietness I started to reply, hello, your quietness, but that felt too appropriate. Everything is appropriate. Everything is so appropriate. See how the so changes everything... Focus on the apple and the whole room gains a dispassionate green, a moment of exploration, eyes flickering like machines, what beautiful machines! I'm learning the difference.

A decent rant,

is all echoes, and a close up on the contrived unknown. Maybe you do know, what love is. That time you woke and bit right into the ripe apple on the nightstand, cradled it for a moment, lit a cigarette, kissed my forehead as I pretended to sleep, got up, got dressed, and left. Maybe you knew I was awake. Maybe you do know, what love is.

No nuclear ambitions

if blowing up is corrupt, then what's so righteous about the light
 

Notes on a Recent Performance

Some kinda lucky flux or cure for pain in the well-lit smile he flashes right after
some kinda argument about weather this is a fetish or the real thing
polishes the scene with bootleg meaning and I stand about to ask a question, maybe I'm not shy anymore, shivering from the boredom of anyone else's idea of a good    what rhymes with maybe/lately I'll say anything to tease a streak of white out of the black ghosts and stage, and get it into a history book, which we now call a future book and we don't mean we're property, or props even, just from the future, here to show for/ It's strange that it can take so long to climb some steps you built of song, to find and let the ridges assign us their greathearted safety, one by one, getting back to the beginning in a world where the clapping comes first like a compulsion when we walk in, and then everyone waits in silence to find out why

Jupiter Variation

The adjacency— psychdelic trivia—

of the end to the beginning is a pinnacle we call rebirth and require and improvise and are, our ark, our largest actions and inactions, crime after crime, forever. Now that that's clear, just because it's improvised doesn't mean it's sudden, or even or isolated, fill your intuition with sounds and get salvation or at least a recording contract, they'll spin you around beyond your daze— Johnny Hartman stood in line at his hometown department store, pretending to be buying a suit, a sword in the reason, a pluck of desperation in every duty, even freedom, just to hear Duke Ellington on the radio,  at that department store, pretending, just to listen, even, freedom is a duty when it comes like some kinda theater group on tour in your habits, closer than a heartbeat ripping into the holy water locked in bottles of the fall, get up 

High Society

And so this is sorta my first real attempt at trying to make a person

To try to move my way up to making—flesh

A man the shape of my mind when it's prefect is invisible, so sometimes I settle for a myth with kids and a separate home, feeling lucky for the nights alone and the calm in my trouble is that it's my own and practical like the word quality on something you're trying to sell or not suffer and so we sculpt our hearts to love and war in peace, and find it's possible, that war is a form of peace we cannot and should not escape, like late at night a cyborg glowing through the radio, like bright in the middle of an atom bomb a sudden comfort, the realization that nothing lurks but the present moment and that this moment is perfect and that the myth drifts off to sleep, dreams of you, wakes up in a panic and realizes the same thing. The kind of togetherness we're craving is especially impossible, so we invented it, so it saves us like a gracious mirror, how with one idea we can make a poem and a song and a film and an object like a chair or something, and a protest, or sit-in, or revolutionary re-appearance, or recurring silence or senseless eye contact with a magi leading back to I and I, or love, the sigh of it, with just one idea or thought or before-the-thought phantom vibe, the gallant mildness of its childlike intervals and the intensity of its refusal to give up the ghost for the flesh until they know how to share their war in peace and smile for the public, like, yes, we're the same aspect in different forms and the goal becomes to not be so obsessed with the mystery we refuse to solve it, it's a noble awe to wallow and evolve in, how each time you create something, you become it too, maybe

Everybody's Mad at Mississippi

But the word reconcile is still important

See the sky recoil and cling to itself, everybody blames a southern drawl while I blame the bible

We were on our way up a mountain to listen to Benedictine Monks when the mountain disappeared but not the sound on the heights

Does this mean I can fly.

Does this means you're listening?

I mean, the words would sing to themselves if we didn't

Offer our fantasies to capital/ tucked in a knack for eclecticism and then kick them in when they betray us and come true.

Transcendental Wisdom

I skipped the section on buddhist india... be not amazed! And the false identifications disappear of their own accord.  Accordion. Melanin on melanin. Door to-door-tribe of idea/men selling nominal spells which can be nominally broken. Play it again, but a little slower and with better posture and like a dancer about to land in the music or not, either way on the beat, gorgeous, you can't help but watch and learn. And suspense turns into something utter like a craving, carving your range into your restraint like a genius, be not ashamed— I skipped the section on tibetan buddhism too, found the part called the way of vision where it felt safe to pause and check facebook before closing my eyes to meditate. All the elephants, appalled at themselves for being so hideous and perfect, basting the soil for our approval, won't get away unless you help them, they're stuck in the section on buddhist india being called mute and symbolic, like that skipping record governing your heart they need you to lift the needle, they do, they dull with repeating it, and keep transporting the truths of your subconscious into all you can see

Saturn in Libra

Or when, away from you, I try to create you in words, am I simply using you, like a river or a war—

They say we are as free as children

playing hide and seek

Literally

Notes on interdimensional travel

Can you read my mind

White flags pitched in the lawn like sad seeds, the flecks of blue and red blinking in the wind/ innuendo is a close word, it touches my tongue with perfect nuance and gives none away. Like that time I won my own heart in a dance, something about how I could glide through the air and land in a split, smiling, made me a technology I wanted to caress and witness forever, where the anniversary party is this quiet candlelit almost vigil punctuated by a crude exhilaration marked with the thrill of survival, ritual, renewal, a power stronger than itself— is love, but that's so trite even on nationalism and good grass, I almost won't admit it until it's tragic or a some kind of risk or gasp or actually happening and impossible at the same time like those invisible stars flickering as soon as you look away, tricking you into having mercy on yourself

I certainly can't tell you what to remember

But let me say that we are family and friends from long ago
If you will only go and ask your soul
If you will only dare retrieve your soul    from long ago   so long ago                    it's now

A retro character in the pose is the notion of a low-grade immortal like calling everyone cousin cause it's a sin to tell a lie or while you're at it  let me remind you of the parallel universe in which we never met and spent entire lifetimes longing for this perfect abuse we call the dream, true love, I see you writing me the lucky letters, pen etching, strutting, furiously into the blank and then crumpling them into weather, the thread of turning around in a stubborn... it's rather vain of us to forget ourselves as such hunger for more of the same, or am I numb, some mornings, like a prediction, how your mask will split in half if I come closer or be a mirror   folk remedy for over-hearing    from long ago
                                                                                                               so long ago    it's now

Free the robots/ Free yourself

Every time I freed one there was another and another and another


It's possible that music in a true form can help people see themselves as they are, and then it can help them see themselves as they should be 

And the various other phenomena connected with mesmeric action

Until I found that the last flinch of the flame backs into the idea like a dove, if you trust it/few trust it.  You plug your mother into her dove position and wake up thinking about the transmigration of our myths: Dionysus, Shakti, Lil Kim, and write a book about it until it dances in negligent trios, eyes scanning the audience for my one and only love. The first page is just glare, written in the dove's value: whiteness and witness/blank and loaded. Is it a spy. Is she a spy. Reporting back to the perfect language in which every energy has its own special term. And our role is to be those terms so well we no longer need them. Abstractions overcoming themselves in order to see themselves and then turning the mirror into a tunnel and then the victory is somewhere between me and me like everything else is  and the probe is the archetype and the vessel is the myth  and the best myth is reality, and I made it, I made this for you. I can tell how much you love your mother

Some near the sunrise; Some near the sunset

Just the same, and I name the nearing, in its deranged sanity, a tentative apocalypse,  a wanna be utopia, pluto going direct into the virgin era to let her spin the bad character into a hero, the plot had to show up last: happiness is easy, it rhymes with itself, see? Apple bitten, gnawed, whole again. Take out the 'again,' which is the role fear plays in anything sensual, to double it with— yields ago, I would have prayed for the same ache twice and called the echo pleasure, moaned, touched you there. How many futures make a soul?

4 Men (4 Niggas)

His Name is Slim He isn't dead. He isn't a dead poet of rhythm. He shook the locals like a passing train, coal-coal/now-now nameless then militant, like an underneath, like combed out math, to clone an oath, I do/I do, and he kept on living. Some say, forever. Forever and sunsmell/happily ever, Osiris-ever— ever hear him laugh? Some say the swell of rain, the nails of courage drilled into a mercenary air. He's a leanless pimp, alive of it, and a pimp without a lean could become president, as the old saying stays. Oh let it not become clever or clutter or clique or oar or riddle or order. Let it work like a babbling clock in a movie scene, mending the risk with dash and fiction. He isn't dead. She's on blast/duty screaming daddy into the mirror until it glows with her. When did nigga become our favorite word(k)/ But be sure of it, that he’s the sublime puzzle, the rough cheer approaching us as spell. Why are you so dark, nigga, why you so dark and soldier near Her name is Sweet Thing

His name is Malik He beats his wife and preaches about the revolution and an invisible mineral he calls consciousness to packed auditoriums. Quotes Duke Ellington’s A Drum is a Woman in cliché smoke-laden dressing room conversations all vertical and vertigo, with his boys after speeches. Love is a dangerous necessity. Groupies peek in with crisp, eager eyes. He squeezes my hand a little tighter like a thigh afterhours. Take out the part where he beats his wife. Add a magic/cactus cutting masks for light. He’s a revolutionary. Can’t you see. He’s why I tell my story fast. He’s why I’m your hero. He’s where beauty goes to keep. He’s not just a rapper, he’s just a robot. As a robot gets himself together, and he does it, and he gets the middle where we have forgotten our feelings of love you will helphim, huh? Her name is Saffronyella 

 His Name is Leroy A clean black man in a numb Cadillac, driving down the rent. He doesn’t believe in memory. He leans against auburn bricks like a slave or Elvis and tells his story to pray for us in 4/4 to infinity. He takes the great black superlative and turns it into a toy soldier which he knocks off a manmade cliff in the suburbs where it floats forever on, calm like a balloon animal hugging the bulk of his infatuation so desperately/reckless, it’s suave. Good things are solid! Better things are out of this world! He believes that exile is the cure for exile. He’s all soul-less style; he leaves his body before you can kick him out. On the other side of the game he makes a commercial for the next black superlative and becomes Spike Lee, someone to love and lead and blame for love, and leave. Race rant scene. Blank screen. Love scene. Love is an eager necessity. You call him a sellout, you steal his woman, you train his suntan pale. He smiles, finds a new woman with an even hipper nose and both parents and all yellow/the vogue, then asks a proud, How you like me now? Didn’t I blow your mind this time, Didn’t I? Nope, typical. If you shoot an arrow and it goes real/high, horary for you. Her name is Peaches

Roots vs. Sources

13 Ways of Being your Immortality, Mode 9, Guns and Change

Little legacy of always,

if you weren't so convinced, you'd be free

Convinced of what?

Free of what?

Exactly