Let's see what's so special

Spheres are perfect

Or I could let my obsession with rebirth turn into a history of the future— were you there when Kennedy went black first /\ the limo dirt a pathological crimson until/everyone was there but him and Albert Ayler. Some people disappear like sunrise into clear blue. My new script is about how all the famous assassinees are crisis actors, how they are all live today, together, in a dazzling palace at the center of the earth and watch Do the Right Thing over and over like it's a sky or something, like the actual plot is a landscape. Canvass, sage and black radio saved their souls this way. Tragedy was propaganda this way. I cried for you, now it's this way. This way, over here, like a tour of might as well.  They make such blurry curses look like just another fire in a pizzeria, might as well, this way, where we collect the insurance money and write some radio rap about who you won't bleed and how only the impossible happens but no one believes you, this way you know it's true.

Adultery

The adventure that you're ready for is the one that you get. What's sad about that, let's. Make it great.

Even MLK, he stepped out of his hotel room and onto the balcony, for a private cigarette, after sex with a woman who wasn't his wife, (so what?) (does that make him) when they shot him in the heart. The sex and the death are unrelated. Except both were just an excuse, maybe even a wish, to be saved.

Loud Happy Applause

I can hear you yelling into that sad vacuum/black doom/white doom/radical bridegroom type domestic growl, like, yeah, now it's my turn.    Can you hear him yelling into that happy grief, about the three off us, smudged on deluxe happenings like whatever we can afford to jazz... the lord of words that jazz (sure/is)    it means everything to him and me and the vacuum has a thing for it too, expands like a wreath when we play in the right key, memory is to frenzy as. I froze. Supposing he wants to tell me something like you're acting so civilized a child could hide in you. Wisdom is bribery and its percussion gets me higher than weed or all the liars I love into freedom, and fame might as well be money or numbers if I offer you my figure will you too, turn every hour glass toward the precaution I asked you for, the kind I specifically requested off the record or outtake

like a detective, reckless spy in a tribal affect, lots of photographs of the threshold and its boldest shadows show us in that cold cadillac embrace like actors, classicists. Loud happy applause. Yeah. Like a tattoo loose in shadows we go forth. And be glad. 

Karma and Castration

It was hip before it became intentional

Then it was smooth, like a railroad running out of journey just in time for you 

Steal Away (stealaway home)

Radical Innocence

The laziness was two guns opposite one another in a fucked up marsh, perched on the shoulders of crazy black soldiers who would come to be   (march niggas)   who would come to be

come to be     come to   be  come to be   bleed   .     another country story about haints glowing for caution tours on the train /   climb  //


    like danger is famous in the war binoculars,  all those eyes and we  get southern to vocalize  ,    where we bond     sore tracks    rhyme with addict heroine but act too master           and slowly    one   black   and  some change   remains


---

      Get to subtracting the word casual from every grammar in search of the healer they call   vague to mean real / sure thing,   every mercy gave revenge and even then I held the trigger like a course in the eternal present    

--- -      -

Press and curl patience. Conk and gravy  persistence.  Too easy.   I mean, trying not to be   black is the blackest thing you can do easy      wonderment       becomes proof of other tributaries  to our refusal to change expect in the eternal present I mentioned the idea that all the myths are locked in music    and silence went through it


and how the only obsession that could satisfy anyone is Michael Jackson and how    even you are afraid of your own magic   and the sad pale thoughts we habit  about symmetry   and purpose only to cast them off in squares  and   battle being mostly that coughed up image of machines in the grass trying to look unintentional   as all the crime  in chicago or across the road    floating off my good time heart

and this vocalism        Niggas are brats when they hate themselves, soldiers when they admit it    // children no matter what     black pleasure is sometimes unlike joy

---

The laziness was a few of us, using our real names on the covers of books and albums, all proud and shit like minimalists for the shine

Are you real?

To fulfill this infantile fantasy

Secrecy (a sense of), as fast as hymn shedding water/nudges/shadow/bosses/yessuh/      They didn't even try to listen to what we were calling after     a gash in the story as fortune    or a black man getting laughter into his fast song  rap song lie / bull before the smile  in the form of the woman he only loves and the child if he only knew / why  //  chasing a government balloon across the luck stage. She's a dancer    so-called by the way her perfect proportions land on the music until it can't be true that we leap so deftly from one answer to the next : history  sex  foucault    better get it in your soul  promise, soldier? Do you promise? Advice to a high roller. And don't look down.Upon (reflection). Discretion is suddenly aggressive. All quietness remembers itself as such a tribe of telekinetic desires it could be your other family floating by a pack of lambs like the radiation could make you trip over your own panic   numb uncle sam and get offended when it's safe to breathe again      But not yet     

Our dreams are junkies

finally trying to read philosophy

Non-duality (two-timing)

That too/ A poem for perfect niggas

And we listened and we smiled and we did this thing called change

You have turned into a prayer

Coalition of the willing

We channeled phrases like on stage is where I feel most alive, until we lost touch with difference
between wants and needs. Hybrids of medium that we've become. Even excitement acts like a stupor or unlimited question are you still radioactive? Even more now,  and the door blew off and the coward wizard saw his reflection in your thoughts and got a clue about what it meant to run in several speeds at once, imperceptibly, like somebody else's idea

How I hear the bells

On that note

A spacite picture of the atonal tomorrow

Here it lopes along bluesily, brackets an ancient kind of youth we romanticize like a crush on shadow and primal euphoria and who will survive enlightenment (stubbly shore), who will float on the hinge of her urgency like a runaway bride (again) and not wear white to the double world and not act right at the awards ceremony, what does it mean, not a clean chivalrous might have been again, not a share locked into a crop I wear on my hot hot body, rip away in the heat of it—your father's memory of the end of the world is too much like now and then I hear it lope along bluesily looking for a word to tilt toward suffering and then away again. Eros is all I know of death and then awakening, our great parody of transit, a re-place ment, mentida bent to Ba. a theater wet with mourners of the past in a kind of stable transit that makes them raggedy and bland/modern, begins to be exactly what drives me to happen (against them), what drives me to be new and happening now and then. I woke up from another planned dream, satisfied, and it felt like a problem, a trauma even, traumatic satisfaction/ I love you. Yeah.

Bender on the 5th dimension (from transcendence to immanence)