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.