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.
