What if the ecstatic backlash is now. What if I told you of the supreme inadequacies of the Hollywood lean on me when you're not strong as now . But When are you not strong and this afternoon of georgia fawn and all the lumber distorted by words when it could be shelter what if the mercy is now as I ween myself off of mercy it gets so large and encompasses everything worth admitting. Why can't more men be their own fantasies, and sing so manic lead lanterns flutter in the allegory of the cave shuts backwards. What if I told you a rapper with a few kids and few baby moms got me pregnant on a promise once upon the propaganda of promises and what he calls himself on dry land what if I admit it to the black myth at last and I aborted that kid as fast as I could but she's still with me like a phantom sophistication I can't quite imagine ever being without again. The kind of power every poet is hungry for and resists. If that's as close to being a mother as I ever come, if the divine feminine all the anarchists strum about has landed in this pantomiming cliche to wonder at my radiance or my bravery my masochism or my makeshift spasm of responsibility, to learn on my taste for the daze and how I ain't misbehavin but it ain't nobody's bidness when I do. This story belongs to everybody. This tiny evidence of every trapdoor : opening . This casual baby. What does it teach us but how to protect our confidence in parallel universes and invisible planets on this planet. That tragedy is not the highest form of art, and how we're all fools when we believe that anything is tragic, and that girl, that black Antigone who outlasts us all in the dream every morning I'm giving birth and the child disappears and the displaced love rivals the value of terror to discipline us into our best denial. And what if I find this kind of thing romanic a way to feel the sham without hiding beneath it. Looking for a new question the way you taught us to that night you ran into the fire and came out clean having memorized the blank dimension. All my antics are in admiration of that fire and water plans itself in the break.
Yours with love,
Harmony
