Like not demanding something of a tradition that is not in it We were only trying to resist denial
I'm finding more and more that no body knows anything about the bible so it doesn't matter who's cain and whose the lie or getlow and how everything beautiful is suddenly an excuse for its own ugliness—I wanted to ask why as if we were on television and I could detect the pain of my intelligence well up in his eyes like gloves and a mask before a drastic approval— watch the eyes like a mammy in blackface/afraid to cry in a laughing place but not prayed up enough to do anything other than misbehave like people Matrophobic old ass niggas, at least 40, married to their mothers, court me one by one until I wonder forever young, I wonder when the joker's gonna pop out of some Hyundai with a set of golf clubs and gold teeth and try to teach me again about the tradition. Everything is funny and uniform like the militant black me coming back in uniform and finding my one true love lynched has himself on some illuminative mimicry but he's still in the bloody tree scrawled and alone like a poem on the wall of its intention just about to bend for realism when it gets all witchdoctoristic and sunny stitt on the swingset and you hear someone in the audience whispering over big earnest claps, I thought we had killed all those people. If the music gets too polite, if you recognize it at all, I'd run too, the whole way through
