Wednesday, December 10, 2014


Wanted :    high yellow black  man  who   hangs like a red bone  , not as in nooses  as  in pleasure  dome blues fetish/ muse / whatever  / well spoken in both protestant ethic English and  vernacular    knows when to use nigga when to use blood and when it's appropriate call his enemy  brother in the most sincere masochism this is a stick up back up must black up like cousins on rubber bullet crutches after strutting down the tuck-me-in blvd of fatherlessness    which is no longer an excuse and also impossible (repeat)          Must baffle with poise and know only how to feign dejection, never truly experience it     turn it into delirium  and ecstatic austerity.  Please, we are orphans, stand on the turnpike with your bullhorn and tell us we're born again, of kings  and queens and how can it be that we've allowed ourselves to be ruled by the barbaric cruelty of these cowards,  how can it be  that our would be leader strides a borrowed bridge looking for his soul in an eclipse of token disciples who don't know how or what to call themselves.  How can it  be  that we swell with fury  until our hearts are mythic  and elsewhere     I woke up from the comfort of my nightmare  to find a parody of wobbly gates   we could swing from  like a phase out of Atlantis   under  the demands  of our near extinction   I found  a banner of gates  that we can swing from  like flags    and brag and reminisce about when we had it like that    those virile high yellows  and the good luck microphones   and the crowds  and the  titles for groups who would stay a while   SNCC, Black Muslim, Panther,  someone  to name  the spectacle, a man,  a proud danger.  And America resents our new imagination, it is all wrong, too specific.  The freedom to love gets too close to the freedom to kill and they call the products of this: niggas / still / and we reproduce and cuddle with our mirrors looking for pointy things, and we become a city of gold crowns bobbing on the ocean surface hoping, just wishing you would come after us and trouble the mask/ 

what trauma, what glorious trauma, an act of perfect war, to love that man, that shallow leader, to love my country, to love myself again       invisible   like a proper soldier / property  / slave  -   low   in the cotton  playing a rotten   cello / pose /  for me /   baby, look at my shadow    papa  is no hardworking  martyr    in their grove