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
