Saturday, November 1, 2014

Kick a rhyme drinkin moonshine / Correspondence (6)


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. 


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.