Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Sunday, September 28, 2014

God is tired of you ( and the black man is confused)

That's his skull cap covered in symbols of the occult.   That's his light hearted heartbreak   which he conflates  with   lust          that's   that Pharaoh's  Den       now   a   drug busted masonic  temple   for  one   and then    a   few   others        some   heavy   forces      that   really   ain't    shit    but    this   is    his    shadow   talking     just his image    talking       the   real him    is in    a   very   safe     place     in     the archives     of   the     creator        and     my     naive    pride      always     drives a   corvette with    weak   breaks    there      to   the    sagging  cliff    of  half - revelation to dangle   ,  reluctant sun  :   papa   ,   look at your   shadow  ,   jah  is no  over-charmed      martyr     to   your    soul    

Thursday, September 25, 2014

Niggas who think of you fondly

The       one   with the pot   belly and the lollipop   makes a good  sad naturalness out of Nation Time

What is this about   .          That tame   time   when attention   had songs to fend for   and     the other woman   has  
   time     to  manicure   her nails   came   out   like   an order    in   stereo  (slow  type, heat wave,  rifle  at the dinner  table  across   from     blank   paper     as   we  mine     the      sermon     for    forgotten      members).    

 All women   have time   for   that  ,  and    enmity  , and    spastic tenderness   like  a good commercial.    Calm    be-stilling  tenderness also. And cherry    red nails    /      This   one

uses the diabetic sap  from her   candy   and mangled hot cheetos ™      and that shit is beautiful     to

melt   in twos    and  infinities     to    believing   that   trite othering  until   you die of feeble mindedness  

                      Resurrect in the dire will of a parched field     a   little   jaundiced   from   your   belief    
in the past    


Six months later,  1967 ,   most of our cities   were  not    on   fire   but   the  ones     that    are   be   blazing    like    a nigga with a habit               I took   to the glass         looking   for    King's   reflection -  shadow  -  mask     and     endless aptitude        and          He was  in there    with the    other   girl  blue                begging   the wind   to cry    mary      or      judas

What is this   about       we  wondered?       Why's    the   quiet  folk  hero    stuck   between   mercy     and   self-destruction        in   some   broken   shop   window        and   for   all    we   know      happier  there   than   with   us      

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

What were you doing down by the watermelon / Are you my angel ?

 I went blind on my wedding day           faced with the skill of the spectator 

A girl  wanted  to use    the word   switchblade      the deft   way    deaf matron   of the radio    war       

          without attracting perpetrators   traitors   patriarchs   or ever the       opaque enzymes     my 

calves   are brimming with     hot wine    and      acid       look like greek   sculptures   act like  black   actors at     the chameleon   circus    and uncle  leon   is my favorite   one                         cerebral  

       from the heart   ,   vulnerable   and   ground in       valium   to stay relevant         it's  almost   enough   to know    what my father    would have done     to those men,     if he   were   still stuck   on    earth      how many      he almost    killed      for     her    and    her     and     me    and    the hurt    they   dream   as salvation           or   simplified    leadership        

he used to be naive        and think             that   he could live without    killing             My king         is   a million   silent   slaves   who   don't   believe   in   nightmares     

escape (continued )        bathed   in the   serial   wayward   patience       a  man   with dimples   who   could   play     the   drums      and     faint   in the     voice     like    Andy   Bey   that    man is 

and standing up to put  the   blame   on  / song              Tradition   should be just  as

offensive      as   the broken      notes   of my  unrepentant    desire        which    evaporates          
to    announce   itself    as vulnerable     and in    charge   of    that   blind    tone      

I filed you under suspect    for the way    the love never    fades              I prayed for courage   and saw my    mother's    feet clapping   on the   treadmill     almost bare  but for company   kicks    and   this skill   of the spectator    and   we were   watching   In   Living   Color     that   show   about   funny  niggas    who cry   for money   

The Blues Offer No Solution     

What were you doing down by the watermelon ? 

Are you my angel    

(Flashback or :   White mother combs out mulatto daughter’s  hair  while  marching on the treadmill  and Watching In Living Color (muffled laughter) early  1990s     Los  Angeles   ,  California     )         Are you my angel?      

Friday, September 19, 2014

There is no caution in god's mind

Father, Father,

I said there is no caution, in god's mind. The fossils of a deep parody are caught in the reel. The air smells like licorice and mould, like Macbeth and Lady Macbeth and hubris and the dead minerals resurrected by our desperation to be literal again and then reject again whatever we discover in that dull field of trembling cedars they keep asking you to ax like a fad or black angel. Do you still blame black angels? Their pathological confessions and broken tambourine candle sinking in the glass. Black english, I love you. Black man, I love you. Black youth, I take you to my forever milk and break you into mistakes (it's a trap) so you stay with me willful and blameless and not afraid of your own impatient heart bent over the cedar about to cut in and loose a hunger so wild it will never know how to announce itself besides departure and music. If I pick up a spirit and knock it back now— next thing I knew I'm in bed with that moaning blues and every black idea I ever loved flashes through to a dutiful yellow in a crown of stupid melodies about who else we lean on when god is acting crazy and we are god —   Is it hip of me to crave that evil until it rolls over and disappears into value     is it true of me,      trembling in the morning  on the  tensing dime of autumn     looking for anyone who resembles   you  to help me practice my scenes.   The monologs mostly     mostly I just want you to be here    tonight.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Monday, September 15, 2014

The thing that always aroused anger before, this time inspired a raging tenderness

And I forgot what he had said about having never heard of a crime he couldn't imagine committing himself  /    and    finally       we   were well on    our way   to understanding    one another's    dainty /  sublime   / blame  ed for     prayers about       what ecstasy   our daddies   died   to    and   in          the fits   of  demented  sugar rubbing hoods   of their wooden blood   like private  leaders of the occult order we shrug  off as    pop  or   patent leather leotards   that zip v's  in the  front   of weeping   grinning  idols  or  subtle  abuses   of power that add up to     numb          I had   some   to say  /  some - thing,  I  mean  or  (thingness of the thing )  I had that and was about to bring it on stage   in   blind  pink    apertures      I  was  drunk   in a way where you do the Cabbage Patch   on the dance floor in public    and   genuflect    to invisible ghost  soldiers   as late   as the door shuts   behind you at sunup,   at fast   justice /   faster       cuddle with the newspaper  until it   makes   musty  tattoos   on your radiance  or don't  be           Puttering around in the proof of our oneness ,  all these new attitudes   toward    your very own     and  so coveted  / dissatisfaction    /    have  become the optimistic masks        that  keep us elaborate     clowns   in the cattle     feeling   guilty     for   joy    for sorrow     for the grotesque irony   of nearness these days  when      nothing will ever end     again  

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

What is the question you almost heard

Sometimes I weep at the beauty of our collective ideology, how ignorant and eventful the afternoons become when we really listen to what we believe in like it's the difference between now and danger. Some wry synthesis of speech and place/ image of a stuttering wave that crashes as the blades I mentioned earlier and forgot about daddy's hands stuffed in his slack pockets on a paranoid rocket number 9 in the Amarillo, Texas parking lot waiting for the knot in his heart to burst or resolve itself as chamber music, a lonely black man standing in a parking lot with his wife and infant waiting for the train to turn the corner so he can beg it to stay 

I've been waiting all this time in a tawdry shrine of utter forgotteness      to  situate the voice locked   in the scene locked   in the dream of fear  of the dream   I've  been weighing all this value    against  the shrug   of a comfortable demon      wanting   so much to be loved   by a man  who   could outdrive   any fugitive   on the innocence   of his  scandalous    commitment to the   good     and   then   one     double     hooded    element   could turn   all that   time    into   temptation        

                         There is something I've wanted  to tell   you  And some men do like the movies         If I rollerskate up to the window again   in   terrycloth and linen     maybe   a bandana  hugging my    spirals    and the fries and shakes and burgers  you   ordered even   though I don't believe   their   food   anymore         will  you still   be    there          tucked  behind the window waiting   for a friend   to notice      that sweat  is tears    that gun in your hand is aimed  in every direction    and the panicked hostages   are smiling   into  a pink and violet   sun 

Monday, September 8, 2014

Saturday, September 6, 2014

Three Women

The haunted one went on smiling    with her eyes   closed  like   shy     yeses   

Alabama   went   on   by   like         a   windy dress up playing    must of have  been love but I'm    sober              now         

The felon complained of extra  notes     in the   sundown/   oceanic   stillness  of a capital frenzy          from the egyptian captioned     they     fanned    our heads  with  blades    we threaded our braids   with arrows     and rapunzel   fell    out the fable    for believing in herself     too   convincingly                

The liar   made    the most sense   of   remembering     some  past   life antics   wherein    niggas could fly    and     fists      were     the careful   wands     of a  pentagonal   baptism  he watched  his   yellow  mama    fantasize    in   the slow bath  through   the window of his hope          having  lost track   of all the women   he'd   had     he   decided to become a militant   listen to jazz       read   all the tragedies    and     court   sad intelligent  types   who went   on smiling     

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Why you felt the opacity of transfigured night needed support

(1)  On the days where the music I want to hear doesn't exist       And I watch the militancy of a dark widow      grow wistful   and a   little   stupid    amphetamine   in her brew   as she chews her jaw onstage  between jittery I love yous,  the jagged rules of rage    are  grace   for her          Was it in that same place     Max Roach broke  it    one night after a/   understanding   that  her vocals    made   on her  rib a  shadow  almost    apparition    of   a mostly   purged    Moses    among her     crumbling   mutiny.      The foretold Abbey Lincoln      sobs     with her shoulders back like Michael Brown's    father     in this picture  of the whole   thing double happening minus   a slow Buick, the vulgar      serenity      of     his   clenching      you would think we    were   all performing    this tender wretchedness   on the wings     of   any spell     besides        cotton  and insurance     and the    prisoner   strutting    in his    seat    afraid   to shut      the    meaning       there    around    a despair that becomes indifferent    to   itself     all    the melodic   vultures    fly        while we    we pass by spinning

                (Another) On the days where the music we need to make   breaks   into   us  like    some   tragic   affinity      to     one    another      I   see     the    good   woodpecker     tuck  humor     in   her  pressure       and   get a  whole   flute    going    red   on      blue   going   into a useless euphoria  suitable  only for the revolution    shunting   and   Tupac's  memorized  muses: bitches and mamas and   pride and   self-hatred     work   so   stable   together              It's   easy to say    he   beat her     and            keep it cool    like she     did     but it's   hard to say    why        the  private    value   of our   shared    temptation     totals   as   the   color    it turns           and    another   catatonic   image        and   I  love Seraphic Light   but it  gets   distracting       It's getting even easier   to   use  intimacy   as a crutch    lately    no  one   on television    can help us

(Another) Hysteria in the men resembles distance as it closes  in   on dense ideas   of    how to be here unlimited         and for women,   the breasts   nudge  the air  hunting   for an infinity of  bloods   who can't  look away   just  yet

Tuesday, September 2, 2014