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
