(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
