My experience with addiction

The mark of one man talking

Any good magic man can cure the sick sometimes,
and many of them can cast out devils, especially if they've installed the devils in the first place
And I've seen a good bit of weather magic

love your enemies and all that    

He wanted to continue by saying that the war on terror has been a failure              
                                                            so no one puts it into practice              And that about solves   the absolute  tyranny of abstract   gods

Thank you very  much.      'Pleasure.

Witness 40

And no matter how much trouble the heroes are in

don't worry, look at your watch, by the end of the hour we're going to win—

The man who is singing / always

The Golden Day

High Food

Confound and gain godliness / Correspondence (7)

Microwave popcorn ass niggas

I think a lot of y'all have just been watching Dr. King get beat up and, ah

                       vacillating opportunists straining for a note of militancy     and ah    

Hold your great buildings on my tiny wing      or     in my tiny   palm      same thing different                                                                                             sling    

and then they shot him   and     uh               left him on the front lawn  of everyone's    vulgar  delirium   for          having been chosen       walking home that night       that'll show you like   candy     and   love   god     openly          reverse   order          

A bird gets along beautifully in the air, but once she is on the ground that special equipment hampers her a great deal.

Just beyond your dreams, right before your eyes

Funkadelic. Say Brother [TV Show 1969] by capitainfunkk

Little Fugitive (1)

Nirvana Millions

And so urgent is their purpose that not one of them can trouble to be perfect

A slow news day's dream

There's this penalty mingling in the blood  of kings and queens     and it   rusts   into   disease  like a   child   with     no education    but   eyes      In one sentence  I can say    the west invented   the virus   and in the next    they  deserve   it     have earned   their deaths   and   curses   and rebirths    early     and in the   sentence   we're  doing   everything     in our   power     to   keep    them    out of   the  air  ,   their words, their nerves, their parakeets of mercy   and see irony    between passages       water    or    trapped    blood    or    whatever       I'm the daughter of,   I invented        

trust the laws  of transformation     they finally came   by  with flowers  for my father's        milestone   and the courage   to deliver   them     and   some deliberate    witnesses  I called     men      fell in love   with   myself   again   this   season    when all the saviors    are the killers       again    this   season      it feels   meaningless to  lament   again this season   I'm suddenly smiling  again this season    for      

Marcus  Garvey   

June Jordan  

Erupting chords or a broken sun  and     in their torpor a tour of  becoming 

the top downness of   the comedown  and have been  down    in the summit kind of   way   I   wish   Sun  Ra was alive so he could  storm the governor's  office   like a highly visible  one  in high   places     singing the downbeat weightless    as     if     maybe    he lost   his  name     

Never let your army go home   

Night Watchman at the Election Machine Factory (1)

I knew I'd sing

Until there was no hole to speak of

When the radio starts talking to them

And the dj be sellin coffins,   or  not coffins    whatever you call  'em     p l o t s 

and god is no different   than   a gangster  

and only the actors  know what to do  

Stompin in High Cotton

Kiss Ass/ Whoop Ass/ The Black Entertainer's Fast Pleasure Blues

Do you keep your past in your present all the time then?

But I think my love will overcome that

And we were beating on one another so fiercely because we were so happy,  we were so happy  

Blue Skies take 1

I had to be black in order to justify my slavery/

I had to be white in order to justify my terror /   eyes   /     all eyes   on me     a mock paranoia    for    vanity         and  the  boy    we  chase  away   grimly     joyfully        returning    bent reference   to genes     and   exposure

the hardest thing for anyone to do   is to forgive somebody they know they have wronged

My father was the son of a slave,  that has something to with it  

Something to do with what      I'll be your excuses  if you can   guess  my true name  

Over this blues stitched recording of the confessions across   two  killers   as   they fall in love    

On the closing off of history / The Black Entertainer's Still Singing Blues

Every christening was a little bit of a dirge          and the whistleblower's nightmare  was  his over-achievement      that people   may listen   and change  later     blame him  for the useless exchange of base desires   for noble  ones           let's face it      embrace   the   denatured  root of redemption    once   you understand more than  one language   and sainthood  is as  blank   hood rich  al sharpton    wailing about the closing off of history      

In a total black theater        I was just thinking out loud   

I'm a singer   

and I   sing a song         

and that  song    hungry  for it's  own collapse  into choruses      will claim   anything    

sabotage anything 

shame anything  

for a chance    at repeating   

the transformation from  thing  to person and back and forth      that occurs on the closing off of history   

and life   emerges,   one of those   ancient     tongueless limitless   in all languages      revival   meetings  to be alive       where all the eyes   of former lovers      careen   into   one     witness      and the soul is not forlorn    and the   irritable   mystic is irritable   no longer       and    memory    is not the only  prize   for trying 

I'm a  singer    

and I   sing  a  song  and celebrating   the accidental appropriation   of all those   moods      as a gift    for    recklessness      as   a  chore       as      pious   as   denial    as   a strip  club  addict  stripping      cars    for the sound   of triggers      as    church   goer   stripping    god   for the   sound    of   the fearless    as what unites   them  ripping   meaning    from  the haven of brass   senselessness      calling    everyone a basic  bitch   and then  taking it back  on Sunday        we only     pray   for moods      and the right to be amplified      usually         so  much     of your  silence   belongs   to me    

A good man on most days

Black Privacy

I will say this to you though
It is not as if there were any                   more beautiful  way       

Kick a rhyme drinkin moonshine / Correspondence (6)

Summary: 

Diary of The Movement. No dancing in public, And the hustlers say.  Live at the Someday, trying to love our crooked neighbors with our crooked hearts.  Privacy is arbitrary, so we came here with new faces, all at the same time, hoping to confuse the enemy, succeeding in becoming our own enemy.  I think I was sleeping    about two hours  a night   if that.   Every murmur was a deposition. Angela Davis was young and faded justice was a phase away from Dorothy Dandridge.  Every saturday I took him back. Maybe in love with the slap of careless love, the light purple knife is his back pocket shaped like an obnoxiously supple junk yard wing of the angel Michael, the one black angel of everything trite and meaningful. A redeemed sinner with gangster  proclivities. Life's a bitch   treat her good   or she'll get you back.   Wisdom he lacked,  wisdom he acted as. 

Highlights: 

Here we are again. Albert Ayler disappeared. Brother Weldon blew his head off on the turnpike like an ice aged epic, pac man in the hood acting sophisticated about depression, self-consumed, lethal sophistication. Miscellaneous niggas heard the news and asked where  there is to get to    as they sliced the changes in the miraculous /    ( arcade )    together like a deranged boyband, my cave, my clan.   Durational aesthetics.  And/nah don't talk to them, they can't read, we murmured at the deposition.  We were in love with that ignorance.  That orality. What a fetish for the spoken. A fetish for infatuation itself.  We stole all their tapes and sold them to Harvard where no one would hear them but intellectuals, who couldn't make out the screen on the drawl  on the hanging code  of  no more sober solo emcees.  The essay A brief history of black suicide    became   A sudden epoch  of black collectivity.   Identity was the reckless seed of early leaving.   They disappeared into one another as protest against their one name.   Ayler's resurrection, Weldon's resurrection, MLK's resurrection,  all those true rumors  as bland  as assumptions posing for thought camera.  So this archive belongs to the shallow ghosts of memory we  name   heroes  when they oppose the surface.   There are no women on those records, we are rarely that easy on ourselves.  We hold onto the scrutiny all our lives  daring it to let go of us    for one day  of  rhymes  and moonshine.