I'm still having epiphanies. And as we're talking about the next frontier the only god we deserve is here, remember? On the edge of the bed praying for his own return over
and over, I remind him how I'm good enough to be a lie, the kind you visualize yourself telling yourself on an especially healthy day, I'm gonna wake up and run the whole way... break away from the wolves I invent to hide from and not even cry about it when I realize I'm the sun, too bright for my own eyes sometimes
My nigga has a solar tragedy that has nothing to do with mists or animals, not even chauvinism can cloak his self-hate in nobody, the play begins— so articulate he can say nothing, so black he can brag about it and still feel inadequate compared to a paper doll, some days. Some daze that was, my hero has nigga tragedy that has nothing to do with sun, so yellow some days I'm all no relation and slowly we unclasp hands in the break. Humming Monk's When it's dark on the Delta with no level of shrug in our mellow tone, poised mellow, start again from the top mellow, 5, 6, 7, 8 and the dancers stand still but the mirror travels with the music like a servant becoming a rival
Am I hallucinating or making sense of things, my lucid king, my bright coil of messiah—and every time I buy a new thing I see a commercial for it just after. Just as you were telling me I have a beautiful smile, the sign on the Gato Negro bottle became Good Negro. The singles in the other ad became sinner. Ignorance disappears into the adventure. Chin, up sinner, I can prove it. Just don't believe everything you think. And quit making promises while the music's on. Conquerors, sometimes, are melancholy, a price for all that vainglory, vainglory. Not this time.
