Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Karma and so on

Momentum is about your mom too, the moment the omen goes numb on truth we use the word healer and mean your mother then too, that moment is about her. Just like every/one/thing/ keep it one hundred but hide it from the natty dread types who drag the muse out of you like a raspy film reel until it settles in reeds and rent/ that rhythmic amber transparency like forgetting is entered or rendered on the spirit as a trick and a trap or trust (fund) rather and the habitual release like an aptitude for new birth and the beginning of a new birth goes: meet me tomorrow early in the morning and bring your knife— the soundbite flutters toward the heart to discover why this barbaric solitude of ours is inevitable and charged with will and most of the time we cannot tell the difference between hope and happening until one or the other disappears (triumphantly, by joining the other), meet me tomorrow early in the morning and don't disappear, I commanded, knowing full well

And what is the love of theater like,

from the inside that is,

for the actor you once were and would perhaps like to be again

Simple's better advice

Thursday, December 26, 2013

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Sunday, December 22, 2013

Friday, December 20, 2013

Karma and Charm

When it gets too quiet on the ledge of the night, we become pure pleasure, write a hybrid of moan and jeer and accept neither but both as a clearing, hear your waveform brave the dubious intervals between will and pose, high up on a hill, so high and mellow. Just now, I'll lie and say that I'm satisfied. Everything's real. Everything's true. Is that another mink on the silver screen. My vanity floods with phantoms and callers I could just prance around like this til dawn and I just might crawl into bed with another jazz.. Just then, the president shook Cuba's hand. You don't see them blaming Beyonce. You don't see me answering questions in public. What did the slave say to the other slave? We should start a band. We should play for freedom.

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Fred Astaire Debonaire

I always understood the meaning of childhood, a shy always in the woods (words) of this maybe life. Chimeric translation. The height of consciousness is there or in Harlem. And the universe forgives us in advance like a panic of blessings for being pure at heart beyond the scheme. But, pure of heart, what does that mean. That even insight begins to feel blase when all the phonies line up and wait for you to say it like a favorite clown. That you cannot convince me of anything. Besides myself. That I set out to prove myself through my experience, to use love to reinvent life again and again, and there you begin, and without me there are just dreary incidental wings like pouty wind on the hooded fountain wishing for change. I give you meaning, so much meaning, significance, sophistication or a cape to fondle on a costume rack once a year or so. The passion according. There is this. Mysterious interval between people and themselves and it's not about detachment or soul or diamonds beneath the gutted sand—the babble between truth and knowing, or something, bouts of freedom are built into that space. I think of you as the new, the newest one. I see you in a series of fables. A clairvoyance that will be guileless and sincere once the destabilizing sneer of the otherwise blind hero's lying to himself fades, disappears. That'll make some spasm of serenity like a lump sum of money, the way my songs feed you, the way his songs feed me, literally. It's genetic and impossible to mimic– You say blackness is literal. Me too, yeah, me too. Something about karma and running. A kind of accommodation I understand as a song and dance I understand as a refusal. 

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Monday, December 16, 2013

No rapture, right?

To the masochist or to the savior     we made it almost there and at the hesitation developed a radiance just beyond the need to claim or a nuance ahead of famous blues, exists the need to renounce but not surrender like an ever after and immortal 

war without killing   paradox and moonbeams    apocalyptic patience 

We thought about it   and thought about it    and thought about it     and what we thought happened, what we thought really happened, wow. My jasper subconscious, clean and manic like a prom, dress. Dress better. Since thought is the higher vibration of action, once you think it, it happens— but the past is also a dream and our thoughts often relapse into that quiet addiction to dreams and phantoms and the tension is almost unbearable but there's a laugh with the mutable value of silence/fantasy, always climbing the rhyme and landing on a slant to seem like time we have to act fast, but to refashion time, another drastic master of his instrument, flask in his breast pocket, knocking some beautiful woman to her door or watcher, wakes up feeling hip and uncomfortable like it was all a dream 

Saturday, December 14, 2013

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

The snow's a trembling goat

In the name of distraction. So what. We all know a damp nose by candlelight glowing like a master plan or the master's plan to go  'head on and buy white land. And in the middle of transforming they'll think what's the big deal about sky animals, why not tremble and pose on earth for a while/longer. Eternity is born that way. Strong and casual turn in the quest toward weather and its spirit doors and everybody's born that way. I adore them.

I mentioned our archives before. The touch the feel of cotton, the fabric of our lives. But I'm not one to tremble over letters and. I'm an American. My favorite pain is freedom. If it weren't for race all of us overeducated types would turn to god and watch our fathers disappear in peace with no one to blame but themselves. What I'm meaning to say is. A mirage is more patient than a mistake. The word more evokes the word importance but importance is a business, but the Moors were essential to it. Like the Sufis, and other mystics switching from mistakes to dreams is next. And Existentialism gets wasted on the difference. Between the desert and the crib, and we    have it made. Manufactured. Broken a couple of years later just to utter the word new which waits for just you to say it, just now, just the way it enters the air like a disinterested wheel of fortune. Always true to your fashion. Even when you're at the crib alone recording the footsteps of soldiers who could just be pimps. Miles Davis was a pimp for a while. We have it made. The more we confuse crime and freedom the more animals we freeze in their tracks. Or Adidas track suits. Show me some identification. And they pull out the sun. 

Monday, December 9, 2013

Sunday, December 8, 2013

What I bring to the revolution

Meditations on Labor (1)

Why is this Adonis pulling a wagon full of stray tires through the heart of Johannesburg while Fela cries complete freedom and I sit with my knees to my chest twirling a strand of thought and blinking like I'm the one on camera, theatrically perplexed and unphased. At seven he made a Christmas list full of feelings. He got everything and put it in his gun case. 

Friday, December 6, 2013

Thursday, December 5, 2013

Karma and Desire

Are often confused

look at you, lucky you

(A fable in your hue and your man smiles on q and you hide in the view like a gold grill waiting to be beautiful/on display, lazy as certainty, easy as doubt. Shining is disappearing if you/(don't) think about it. And indifference is heroic when it's exuberant too, so it's contradiction that's heroic, don't let them fool you. The light hurts like perfect sex with another woman's husband and the guilt we pretend and the next time it'll be different. How we get everything we learn not to want. How learning can never be deliberate much less ironic much less than silence he listens to me bribe him to leave and stays. Promises are almost as crazy as they seem, which is what it takes to survive this scene, to be mistaken for yourself in a dream.

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Eden Again (Choices)

Mothers make anxiety beautiful, like a bloody rope, becoming a chord for you, becoming music that sort of drifts out of a stoic word like lore and helps it survive its immortality one child at a time. No, I'm not pregnant, just thinking about god by accident I added an I to the French word for two, deux became dieux and there we were, hoods across our arrows, becoming our mother's roses, my eyes are not on the sparrow, I'm listening to Mike Tyson turn sincerity into this thin parable/literal, for illusion, wherein everything fits in the ring but your shadow isn't fairyism less rare than we know, isn't knowing impossible besides forgotten. I mean, what would you have to forget to really know your mother? Afterall. That might be where we are on earth, clinging to an overdose of memory. 

Tuesday, December 3, 2013


And what do you mean downcast euphoria?

That anyone could go into the night and seek it out. 

The Making of Aszure Barton's LIFT from Alvin Ailey on Vimeo.

Monday, December 2, 2013

13 Ways of Being your Immortality, Tone 12, No Limit Drummers

And those three beautifully grubby niggas carrying a red velvet couch across Harlem as if the hours, hugging it so tenderly and large in the heart like dripping sand, not knowing weather to laugh or cry/on a mission, but knowing they had an option, a right to choose. They made me wonder if I should blame our music for making ridiculous shit seem so beautiful under the right glance and abandon, I do. He shouted, I do dammit, I do blame the music, I do take this woman to be my lawfully. Somebody (else) be the object so we can be about something again, at least in September, under an entropic certainty. What does this have to do with immortality. Something about your thought forms and your reality uniting, outwitting blindness. Oh, trophy wife, wide beat of childhood inside your favorite looks, nudging them toward invisible prizes like a hooded alphabet, or a pond beside a soul valve, let him love you on the couch once in a while. It must have been Saturday, I was looking out the window.