It's wonderful

America is wonderful

Wonderful
Wonderful
Wonderful
Wonderful

It feels right to me

No flattened affect

No vague mystery 

We are happy amateurs

                                                 Eventually,  because  of    outcry         over


Arabic  calligraphy    homework                       He    was   able   to   go  on  

                                                                                       


                                                                                                                The network
                                                                                                                   The Network   



                                                                                      I  got werk,  I got werk   I got   werk         and  
                                                                                                                                                         sign
                                                                                                                                                         and sing


I put the h on it to let em know it's Niggahs   

                                                                        guzzling   40s  and pissing  niles   and such         endless infatuation with Miles Davis  that will not   end    in    black  eyes    and    such    


                                                                                                                      unilateral  and militant  
readiness    ,    our inherent      readiness

                                                                    to perform   a cure     in empty  cities      

makes  me grin    a giddy   and subdued   swoon   on ritual day  day             How   would    being   afraid   make  me   a better   niggah         of      the  network      I got         werk  I got werk  I got werk                                                                                                          for sure              

Eventually      because  of outcry            

He walked off the stage in the wrong direction

In the middle of a set full of his best black shit    Sinatra laughed like a whip   Reminded him of dixie whistling   mingled with georgia snow      cotton   negro                  king    loaded on coke and whips      
                                  Whippin a Range

Whippin an escalade     with    lazy    rims  say, you reckon I       weep into the microphone  like a home   man          ass whippin    backstage nigga    crying     crayon  blue    I used to love yous
                 
                       'told him to turn around and cross in the right direction

Who told him
you, who?


Neurotic nonchalance   not   ours     maybe?  Whose?


Church Marquis   says    Gods        maybe     doctrinaire  jesus    maybe        zoot   parade   maybe

I'm not going back out on that stage                maybe      not      a  blues  for Richard Pryor    maybe   a riot   where we  burn    through  the right side    of  town       this   time          etch     a path    around              the afterlife      aggressively distant     faux suede   ballet flats,    then get   distracted   in    that spotlight

The slick city people we became after the exodus

Having redistributed god  next man  wistful for profit    our   willingness    our   lottery   bottle   will, collective and singular  / so  sinner / sew  nerves together           into   the lining  linen   Shine   been signing autographs, in the blind name,   daddy had,   and bashful poster     near  the mine   reads :

                                                                                                            We ship to prisons

Picture all our favorite   men    in a   van     on the way somewhere,    subsidized


                                                                                                     We  buy     gold


We ride   the   shy  horses
We are good to think with



And it's still   only   morning
It's  only morning    still
         only  morning

                                                                all these  things   we do   this early,   this easy              remote  rituals  of the village  turned  as  urban      as  barren  



                            Therefore if you value your liberty ; and the welfare of the fugitives among you




Something about how we behave in the darkness is   the total   will  of  our light 

Un poignant tristesse

http://afrosonics.tumblr.com/post/134182732889/you-cant-live-without-gods-i-didnt-come-here-to

Nat Turner's granddaughters finally know how beautiful they are

Twirling their saddle wrapped braids on the playground next to Miles Davis. They're all children and forever will.  be    .    A black  middle  class.  Never will be   the goal   or   ...     They all get buckets of chicken from their mothers, land on double sided trains on the way to reclaimed territory in Arkansas or Live at the Plantation Club  with  Billy Eckstein and them  rubbing wings together   to make a ground     we'll be   the   gold      cash   for        neon   on the door
                                                                                                            It was my job   to understand
all our   patient      violence      as   sorrow and          that   way   (nor)            cry  about it privately   like      a   dry   elbow   under   leadership  oak /   folks   wanna   pop   off   /   better   have   the   plan       and that's   as good   as   any     being   Nat Turner's   genes  run  through  me like every other  fantasy   and you     should see these   braids     trading  fingers    with   piano  keys     at Communist   Training   School     first   person     infinitive       all   the   disobedience    trapped in beauty   coming  loose     as      style

Hood Science (1)

I'm sure his childhood was in his mind    waving


Hey, I'm here with my things; we can share them! 


      meet me at the childbirth, meet me at the abduction



or in the original language there are no vowels        Let me show you



how  howl  whitey   take a bow     mouth   roving like a fan suspended in gold bling  and lantern  gone nul  owl    whole gone


Let me show you how these magnetic fields self-organize everything , so you see how these cells move into place    

                              make villages    disgrace mixed with     polymorphic    I hate you   I love   you , sure      be   careful  when you're trying  to get dangerous   with high   science,   be careful


Muhammad Ali, poisoned
Michael Jackson, poisoned
Eazy E, poisoned  
                                            by the president,   by the fame   toy    


       and         my father's  childhood          stuck  in my mind
                                                                                                               a warning walking in every direction   at   once          a getaway  

(chump)

Why you here in the first place?

You could find things beautiful on the radio

Even the sunny black n blond ones dancing like Toms in the wings  of their   wandering casualness  (hotline bling   asmr  ad sense   revenants     could be found  laughing   tender  round the gentry/unburdened orinthology , and  me singing along in a buttered SUV   wishing it a minty vespa   wishing supper was all those coconuts   mumbling  about privilege into my     adobe  will      and  answering us   we wanted it thus        the fetish of our ancestry  worn   as   the phantom exuberance   of trends  is warn    as dented  sweaters   as Dante's  leftover treason  swarms  in we       there's a whole scene of vegan chefs whispering into plastic bags and you think earth  is no weirder than lenny bruce on stage   at a resort      in your memory      that was your mother  laughing  at the minstrel   she   made    in  a  mercy    she     heard about on the radio   mailed   in for /  papa  , look at your  shadow     mama is no   colonist  getting  loose   on the  camera/ phone     werk!   gul    werk  some more  

I woke up leaning on a soldier

Each man his own place 
Each flower in its place 
Each voice hung about me in the late evening 
Each face will come to me now
Or what it was, running through their flesh, all the wild people 
stalking their own winters   

Another secret

Who wants to know about the angst of a militant black monster?

When we took Sun Ra to the streets   people thought it was dance music      It had a beat    people didn't know it was supposed to be deep                Now they propped this blood  on the cover of Newsweek nigga  mona lisa   peeking out from under   his secret   love     as Dr. Martin Luther King Junior sits calmly with a letter opener protruding from his chest      Kiss my black     heart     yeah       it   has   a beat     it's  been chased   beaten  ridden  riddle   eyes        survived    the dance and the abstraction    kiss    that       bloody  speech    we     see Bill Cosby  running from  on a treadmill   in the distance     every   horizon   or   so   another  Moses    deposition        kiss    the   displaced forgiveness  we call gangster proclivities,  feeling   good  or    cause  I got like that      a    cold tally of   what terrible things     communication  can   do  

Of the rhythm changing

http://afrosonics.tumblr.com/post/131211022194/but-the-rhythm-i-dont-think-that-people-are

You can change, Blackman

behaving under your touch the way you wanted to. 

http://afrosonics.tumblr.com/post/131011565279/this-is-now-change-up-and-look-at-the-world-now

Democracy is Ubiquitous and Complete throughout the Land

Siiiiiiiike          

Just a bunch a reverent niggas trapped between the bounds of buildings  

I proclaim 

I declare   

Privacy is the only glamour

for my people, now which of my people,  I'm in several groups? 

I am not a secret 

to soothe the savage beast

I am not a secret   

I am no man's secret 

how to turn inevitabilities into choices  like the will  is with it   not  a secret     nor a crisis  nor this magazine  ice      internment       on our terms   starring 

The new subdued mature  Jimmy Hendrix        

afraid to approach the microphone  with his old time religion  boa       his body   searching for ma-at  

his name locked in lights 

as if he is the good secret  keeping us  in    fur    and   fright    (of freedom )  

                                                       I want a land where the   sun         don't        question  

                                                  him   or take his prints  or fiendish saturn      or Discipline 27 - II 

Them that's got shall have

http://afrosonics.tumblr.com/post/130542020334/tell-that-son-of-a-bitch-to-forget-it-yes-the

Vigil :

Catapult








                                                                                            Overlooking the living chickens
                                                                      Some  are meant to  be heroic   and let you   watch  through light that is also soap  that is also   pulses    crisp  token   halting beyond the frontier of revolt

                  Dakar
LaCienega    near  Pico       or    in   the  chartered margins  where we come to play at dreaming™

Another radiant

Uneventful    fallow    body  so   many     dopamine      allegories      cobalamin , by no means  a dove


If speaking in code grows boring      so does Andy Warhol     but Miles can beat me always and I'll still tune my spade to him  and cry innocence   and no I won't reserve my abstractions for daily  --  when they   pant  like     lush life   into   isolation  ,    such slaves    at first  glance   such  anarchists   when   I look up   again  

                                                                   adversarial    pretense
                  my forces
for  what forces?



and thenagain    the unthinkable is a tone    from    us n'them    who stretch repeat so thin it fades  to various       those                                                                                                                                                           forces    
                                         these   spades          our   story       radiating from lakeside  stereo  as   indifferent  daggers in pose and repose        as      it-girl   nodding   off   into   her   own reflection where    

all that silence   inflects  

 our dread   of a   revelation          

and  all that    noise    does     too        mean    an unusually  lawless  beauty   captured  between dawns     against    beatitude     against     what   saints      we   pressed   our     true   saints     singing one    name   and claiming     another              til    what became   of the distance   between   birmingham      and      los  angeles      ?

I go to claim what's rightfully mine, in time

The black entertainer's love called blues

Settlers wanted to disappear        become tribesmen        Niggas  wanted to reappear  and settle again

land was never meant to be owned or handled  like     currency        moan  with me    /  hush

the clean surge of opposition   was too pleasurable  but   to be  called  the seven  names

always
always
always
always
stay with me always
always
stay


spake the play-warring factions : lovers ashamed to claim one another     except   in  a   mercy  of  mutual  sabotage  


                   nothing in hollywood   is   tragic

                                 or romantic    as our bloody black hero    approving of his solitude  traps  himself    in dem  attention,  

                                    as  savior    and    villain       go  same    on celluloid      so  black pain   is    like


everywhere     ,        trending      ,   and going platinum    /    hush    now    ,   don't explain



transformation          as some annex   of    morality      when    you just want  to   look     free       too


                                                                         

Now and Then

http://afrosonics.tumblr.com/post/129343308284/my-country-tis-of-thee-sweet-land-of

How could we have heard the tone of justice called in by the long duration of trauma if it had not been improvised?

A certain offense runs through us

You sho' is propaganda
You sho' is    propaganda

You show   his  propaganda      ( to  us?   to us!

You sho  is  , us too ,   is you?    prop  began do double as

actor      You sho'   is  that            propaganda  

You sho  is   grand  / ducks in a row   and allso scattered

show  is     sho    is      You sho   is papa   land up  in  the shadow  

and call me / us,  a spotlight    

Destroy the Nihilist Picnic /

and all supplication is forgotten in the frenzy of creation

The Production of Virtue in the Factory

You see those angles holding up the style    monument / tribe    holy    loud  holes  in the fire  they                                                                                                                                                                   hide                                                                                                                                                   or  deliver , I  

Don't you think they ever get a little tired, and want a walk at night ?

But he prays to jesus and his language improves

This violence is also peace

The woman wants to please her   man      half chanting civilize these  devils half broken  into  the panorama  of  black  hard  ons   we call  a club    or   in code   a stellar force in the universe   And that cry  or that  tear  represents  what ?  He asks, Stardust?  Fragments  of good greed grab at the mended omen.  I did not know it would be so easy, to be home again       Then he hears running  feet   and accompanies  them  on  his  drums / her  body    the neat  needle point   rhythms   of a  ritual  that almost  feels   like   talent    as  close  and   untenable    as   source    that  almost  feels   like  luck   that   almost   trusts    the    headlines   of   us   where our only equality  is when  we beat  each other  blue  too      like  whitey   do     and he seems   to   get free   on  it    so if we reappropriate  this  violence  against our bodies  like   good  easy liar  patriots    maybe      what's  left  is all    fine lace   in listless ecstatic   black  treason  love     or such a hep psychology   as   Sweetback and other equal evils swollen with  love   hope    But where is the honor in all this chaos ?  

The immortality of innocence

She grabbed the mic like a drowning woman and abruptly closed her eyes

What Jimmy Taught Me

To be yellow born into a household where the black man rules with his fists  and the white wife  body   livid   with   a devotion  hip enough to confuse  trouble with   love    or   whatever   it  was, such the  lucky  one   to come up so unamerican   ,   thankful  one   in whose imagination the  country danger is   so ambient  and precise  of   source   it vanishes    and with each departure  more affectionate    machines   pant   to run the dream between  hope    and  habit  

I wanted to say this more clearly         In what ways  did   watching  your black father beat your white mother   empower   you   as a brown   baby   ?   in  a blue    way      is  there anything   so  cruel   so    crude    as  to say   you felt   each   of your hands   in their  puppet   throats   as they screamed   for help   in   unison   but  only    one  was   hunted  for   room   within the invisible  listener

I wanted to say this more clearly       trustless of a soul  that hadn't   suffered  he tore  hers  toward him


           And I arrived as a kind of vengeance, the many versions of war worn raw by their sex, come to be as the treacherous peace of empty pacts    and broken  chessmen were scattered all over the room  

              It's like being that last person alive

Sun's Outrider

That makes us co-conspirators

Where the stones give lips to water

In precise and blurry flavors
I've come here to lash out
I've come here to reclaim my tenderness
Which is not linear and I'm trying to remember
the white mink coat I wore on the plantation but it all fades to war paint  and we wake up
in Los Angeles


His   isn't a vacant smile but it leaks  rage   and   lazy  insight
Mine isn't  a shattered praise   but it  returns    aloof from the dream reciprocal   and we still wake up
in Los Angeles


We hit the pitched iowa road like convicts  in his  landless motor    saw a white god in texas  and black one  in  shackles    and  we still woke up in Los Angeles      the choked up mecca of our carbon black masks                                        this  fame      that   ass      etcetera    

You hear with your bones

Swollen rural lust   and the slow-growing greed of freedom ...

some of us wonder what a drum clinic  would bloom on the plantation and others of us made such  radiant escapes  with our palms   paving the earth  on   rhythm     declension      small mercies

or when she learned her potential children had already been born     electric bodies to trick the seasons        in  olive  black balance     flashes of  a  shoot  out in front of a chicken  shack  make  the voodoo backwards and drummer  fires   through  you   like   food   and   hungry  niggas live  forever, listen    forever      huddled together  in the brush   as shucked crops,    listen   and  otherwise,   close   one     all the way up to his heart  where the bird  flew  out from    mumblin'  something about through   thick  and  thin, listen     his image   window   told   him   he was an opinion   often    beating the   earth   lawless  as  heroes     is   so fun   and  phantom     listen

One for Kojo Roney

Pretty Danger

A Dangerous Mood by Brightmoments on Mixcloud

A smile or just a folded scream

beguiled by real nigga dreams
and the copy of the aneid we left in the club
shrugging napkin-numb ink, I shrugged too
to the tune of there is no greater love
and this water gives  back no   images 

All the speeches in the world

Techniques

http://afrosonics.tumblr.com/post/126418740784/and-the-niggas-so-fast-you-dont-see-his-punches

Walking

I had come to see the superstructure of filth Americans call their way of life

Everything I ever wanted

Some chicken at noon
that criminal ocean
some noon chicken at noon
some chicken come noontime
black potential   so scratchy, sun
we mesmerize and keep glamouring lean
supple blooming tom-tom possibilities   even  /   eve n them
hunt something new to our situation, some chicken
some noon - noon ness  tree chicken crooners for whom
violence becomes confidence      the con charm  of martyrs  is    some of em are polite suicides
the black male leader ones,  unaware  duty from    selenium to  lumbar  remembers  humiliation as a large chicken hung in the memory to spell rebirth backwards, three  hurry  birds   but   that was a movie    shoulders back   neck  free, your co-star is allergic to watermelon, soft song plunged up from the guillotine as when the joy of opposites is a flesh unto itself  


Lee Perry is babbling again      how I am the sky computer mute entropy scene in which he go 360 and Miles, he's trapped in furs    and bitter whispers  and
Nat's rage lurks in blind echoes   make showtunes slave roads
We will not be coerced  into struggling by our taste for blood   and conversation  yet


and besides                     we don't  eat  flesh    and yet      abidingly    I'm  everything  I ever wanted   I promise                       to  get light

Bloodwork

Hurry slowly

The black entertainer's yesman blues

Profound Encounter with the United States of America

The love, being cruel, is also  merciful      ( Highly Recommended) 

                                                            And all the burdens shift to the skin     with an altruistic glow

I'll seethe here with jealousy,   he promised    

I'll act greedy  but mean ecstasy  is neither gentle nor folded into me like the cruelty I use to reach  it  

Pleasure  is cruel  too  (attainable/shifty   (Highly abused for every green night   a fugitive   isolates some striking blues  as arousal ( Blacked-Eyed Susan whose eyes are blue til Jim comes in, the new American  

and hedonism mistaken for righteousness is a one word attitude we don't have a word to, but people, all the so called leaders from MLK to your soul ... praise the hedonist!   

And when you exaggerated  you lured   his laughter  into Cadillac Records   where the mythic   lowness of black  is getting trapped  in   that  hope    exactly   

                                                        how 

                                                       we used yesterday  like a famous favor  and promised her  perms and cadences        greeted with a pack of cigarettes and photograph of John Wayne on Ellis Island, Jamestown,    we realized kill or be  killed  and it is all very lively from then on   and unreasonable   and we will 

Blacks have the most fun

Everybody had a grand time and the party lasted ten thousand years

Teach my beloved children who have been enslaved, to reach for the light continually

Will Hollywood let negroes make love

Something utter and wordless work us up to the gutted frenzy. Get out of the martyr, black psyche, or I will light you up. Tuff threats are trending like the new sweatshop chucks of thicker souls and swollen metaphors. Where was somebody. Where was her man. Luck, the loa, the lantern of obvious turns. The exact pivot of this shit right here. Like for water I crave an iconic infinity/ photograph of Betty Shabazz and Malcolm, together, lovingly, to be etched in our hearts as far as Sandra Bland and Part Cherokee. Like Spike Lee craved the scene of Malcolm fucking that white woman in an utter way, the reversal arousal or the arousal of reversal or how one man I used to almost know, while married to a black woman back in the states, got high and rented a white prostitute in Belgium.  Maybe none of it was from skin/running. Where to? Numbing.  I know my consciousness is too high for judgment but whenever I try to force it I come into this sin like saddles and whips and the bent lipped daisies in Clay's deliverance, and I  grip the bars of the jailcell my father died in looking past him for a carnival where we might mercy around the ferris wheel of destiny with tambourines and clean shins, mercy mercy me / him,  our chains gleaming like rainy/ Ma Rainy teeth, in our chains, our range, our pretense, our ability to fake death in order to escape reason, our will's Overman and treason, had we considered any of them accomplices on the hit list of listlessly spinning souls. Whatever.  Mineral Animals told to toil as lamb. And the scroll minded mannerisms of blind griots who can strut speeches past terror as rap sheet amnesia leaping up churchgoer parody leads us to why we marry white dna witness every betrayal on both sides as a betrayal of self. You were shown. And you shown. And shone.  Sho 'nuff.  As romance plans its debut in torment and then has second suntan-tender thoughts and tantrums of the office piano we sold for dope in their fantasy we play the needed damsel hugging needles and needless of no one.  For Clyde Ross, Sandra Bland, Albert Ayler, Alberta Williams King, ...   May a lost god, Damballa, rest or save us, against the love we intend against our lost white children, Black, Dada Nihilismus.

Some people know what I'm talkin about

http://afrosonics.tumblr.com/post/124570973259/she-teaches-us-that-voodoo-was-used-as-a-means

Drivers. Riders, and. Men of Letters.

The Night is Alright ™

Its tenacious obviousness  / The same primal scene had migrated      patient migration my savior  is  late     and   black   wears amber tinted glasses to act out the blue light  knows  the electroluminescence  of past fact  is not post   fact

This is how we became black ™

Its tenacious obviousness

Can we just figure out what we want to do before we try to figure out what to call it

I say techniques of ecstasy ,   you say always

And to temper the triumphalist tone with a hue the recognizes the complexities of transformation

Forget the right things

And a collection of villages going back centuries springs forth in the will

And at first when you're 12 and the singers are artifacts babbling their surplus of sadhappy fiction  later   it all becomes  cap in his ass   cap in  his ass    sacred wicked baptist hero love  you so   like the nearly almost too slow love of      a redeemed sinner with gangster proclivities and  can chant anything into peak spells

with a joy that cuts so deep it's qualitatively different than pleasure

quit playin / don't  interrupt   me    

I want  us to have new conversations  with Kings

Fennel Bitter
wormwood
tea tree oil
nutmeg
mixed in walnut oil

nah like potion  but not rubbed in to the grown in feet  of any dancer     either    we  remembering
 

A woman who is not interrupted

I.  Peddling the melted ice  of her eyes she had pacified life  so well   Yesterday I will be tragic   now   triumphant   and     bell them together   like     mummy     in the clean  air of nowhere

Where is the air still clean ?   Where!  Where are wives  still  lovers   and parodies   more perverse  than the natural   order     order      is also  grotesque    like   together    forever     for where is forever  in the jester's   articulation  of now     and   there   we  were  

II. Havoc is vanity  and chaos  is vanity       we want more time with the child in ourselves  and to cross  back and forth between young and ageless     Did Bill Cosby really rape all those women?        

Don't interrupt me.

III. Cake     cake cake cake cake   cake       how a word that outlasts its meaning becomes scenic  / music       a bowl   of stone fruit  in   photo        of   you       without black beauty  there's nothing prince charming can do   

Lighthearted Espionage

Nude Beauties

Angel Engine

He would dig somewhere in a flat field in a large grove of oranges  and come up the torn up information   as civil suits   as tender warnings   against    his   truth,  barbiturates, crispy cucumbers on a bed of heirlooms     soon   rape becomes someone's fairy tale   or   maybe we covet terror   well

Bill Cosby is a myth too    
A double cross
A double nigga
This suits us

Where would I put my temples

Coincidence control

Don't ever let anyone break you (1)

Diminuendo and crescendo in blue

And when the barrel  lifts its coil   from   the mouth  of the toy   trumpet    heiress  to  her father's   love    oh  love oh   careless    love      where   were    you      then          andalusian   blood of henchmen     where    were   you     when   papa   coughed   up   his heart   in the  jail  cell and still refused   to stop   singing        praise  songs      Plain Gold Ring   on his finger  he wore    Paradise disorder



Trauma   is  disgusting    but     euphoria   is boring      

Every  morning   a new manifesto  on how niggas   ain't   shit   unfolds  in   the  myth  or honor   killings          

Dandelion Root and Leaf
Juniper Berry
Stinging Nettle
Oatstraw
Red Clover

Your heart pumps   you don't think about it
White Oak Bark
Butcher's Broom
Cornsilk
Marshmallow


Seven black churches on fire in our 33rd June
I swore the swoon was adoration but it could have been fear,  back then

Anything is endless   in   blue        and  who   forgets the    pledges     just to stand there with his fist pressed to his  chest        and rescue     and rescue

For Grace, after a party

The fantastic understatement

Blind Ambition (toward alternatives to the "BET Experience")

You had an idea that you then danced

Be transformed by the renewing of your mind

But the saddle is still casual  

back in that colony  

black in a wall of yellow     we    neglected ourselves to become ourselves   to make room for becoming      some negroes bleach our elbows   and there are   ads   for that     in  Jet  and    the cabaret    attitude  Liberia  don't  be rude   but the end of nearness is when honesty  becomes cruel  or even    useful  like   cruises  for old capitalist couples  who need activities    and proof    One or two   Grace Paley stories  make me feel   the safest  place   and that safety     betrays    latent  fears   faced then banished   fear of looseness   fear  of missions    love of fear  of men    etc.    for example 

another  camel  in my  new mind     another  fancy  pacing    water          

Although it's no longer  in vogue  to fetishize     our oppression       on sundays   

the kids  put the mouths of the guns  they got for christmas   to their lips   and act    like  trumpets    

Maybe we aren't the peacocks screaming in the olive trees

One for Brother Tough

http://afrosonics.tumblr.com/post/122410309114/and-we-had-lots-of-funny-funny-funny

We were the get 'em up clowns but now we're the get 'em up soldiers

Our dangerous sanctuaries

Free whitey from his 'soft-spoken' terrorism

News that stays news

Against Restrictive Covenants

And when water gets up to the bloom ( advanced reassurance)

The words are really important for me

The words are really important for me 

The words    really  important for me  

The words are     really  portent for me 

really The words are really    for me    for me.

The new moon rode high in the crown of the metropolis

Every Free Man

The people cooped up in this country no longer discern the contour of human personality. Every free man appears to them as an eccentric

We can't all be innocent

enough      to   balance    as    a goddess   on the hinges of the present


( section on momentum)
(on methods of forgetting)

If they don't see the happiness in the picture  at least they'll see the black™

Smashbox photo filter foundation powder  

Neitzche's On the Use and Abuse of History for Life 

I thought about having Black Life Matters engraved on converse high tops that I would wear with prairie mini dresses   in Paris,  Texas   and Paris, France   and    Parody   lamborghini   morning  moaning  mourning

Fell asleep cradling Mao's Little Red Book  

Notes: Send Love Call

Eat more watermelon

Rhodiola  / adaptogen

Shot by the bullet of montage

They love to watch  moving images  in the Hollywood Forever cemetery  but pretend they don't believe in god    ™

If they don't see the happiness in the picture at least they'll see the black 

The beautiful redundancy of admiration

"My Idea"

How we come to understand what we want

We're all grown up now in Hollywood

Do Black Lives Matter?: Robin D.G. Kelley and Fred Moten in Conversation from Critical Resistance on Vimeo.

When the party needs us our hearts are filled with denial

Why are you listening to so much Rahsaan Roland Kirk, these days?

Because he is in a trance next to me and he looks at me without seeing me 

Does that bring you solace/completion?

That brings me to the picture of our father as a baby hanging from a tree   house with a guitar between his teeth 

Numb fascination?

I mean he obstacles himself to save us from his tenderness, which would crush faster than every weapon   and  when I listen  to the blind prophet hiss and sizzle into someplace vivid   it's as if the violence of slapstick and the humor of pornography rise to some still center in the midst of outrage and could raise us with them    

Were you looking to be punished, were you looking to be appropriated, were looking for a way to wade through the smoke, as lake?

Cop wrestles bikini clad black teen to the ground in response to speech act. I was looking to escape the strife that enters in the space between two fantasies   repose  black amour   an army of children waiting to be given wars 

The brutal fluidity with which rules change

In the middle future

Stardust  sign  
Our wedding on a phonograph record
Man arrested for hiding a knife  in his Christ / Chrysler/Bible (whatever)   blurry syncopated readership    let it be    all three   bells    bells     weekend  Elvis
Ford Foundation / bureaucrat  / guy named Thadius  they say, did he get out, lately?
Brutality and Remembrance, nevertheless   the eternal stranger     gets a lyric  commerce
still niggas  have  no leader    between   being   and beings   a little burlesque  thing     race concept   our country   ing     the  come to be   of the word  fecund   in the teeth      as honey   in the   villain

Sotto Voce       the last private  man    the  last  law of nature    encounter     hug  their own wounds   like           farmers    or John Wayne  hugging Sammy Davis Jr.    after they   trade   skins   in the mirror  / stage

It's not a natural  thing          to  go  some place     and to say      this is mine    

so they ride the echo down
pretend to get lonesome for a storm

To keep a human voice raised against the night

Ananda

Hypervisibility

In the parallel  I held a laughing perm and swarmed the classic skin bleaching ads for  Ethel Ennis   and all the girls who somehow misunderstood the promise   were chanting   no more death    no more heartache   no more                                                          misunderstanding     and  my tan was a fancy palindrome  for  their seedless rebellion     and once in a while hybrid eucalyptus   grows like dandies   and I'm  still obsessed with dandyism in black men and in the revelation that the dream was teaching the dreamers how to live    which  was teaching them   how to die  and apocalyptic second coming  and I am unphased    which was why   they  stay    buying into every play siege  as a wideness/   thick tedious  lips / to abide then/  generous   dream  to teach  its endless germ   in the clean  way      and safety is clear   thinking and radiance  redeems   pretense now and then    and I'm again  making a tabloid   monument  to    us and them   and   us/again     The spectator must be allowed some distance    because  the difference   between innocence   and devotion    is a sudden one, sullen  one, sublime  hunter   see how we run some  light            Photo of Cornel West lunging into a crowd of uniforms   all   my unadorned  objectives    could I get abstract enough to rescue desire   from  fear   could  I get that   and is seduction   at last   militant        

      

To love and to be indifferent

Campenella's Utopia

Oh cherub
 Oh rubber parody of the bare ease of spring
body afraid of mending as rival militias mend / Dissolving our western selves in the interest of survival
A new book is out, about the luxury of foraging, the luxuriously hip wilderness, did you liken the risk  of too casual an existence to Odom's Cave,  the way black women saunter into danger like preordained saviors, like the club was the underground railroad   and   maybe...      afraid all our ideas behave like rhymes, too final, chicken grease    in  a dim        in Adam  —   Oh barely  entered summer   we plan to scorch    with mumbled confessions—      that was me    bent on producing another kind of man through the mobilization of rituals that had no value yet        
That better have been me

Black joy in the hour of chaos

http://afrosonics.tumblr.com/post/119450052739/the-devil-during-slavery-destroyed-the

Eleven, yeah

But I will not be as lenient as egypt

God and the Devil in Black Music

It allows them to repeat their destiny (overheard theory of the chorus)  / the successful restoration of abandoned buildings (this isn't working in Detroit or Los Angeles)  / the rushes and stoppages  /     sin      and bottled  water       until  the ladies  fell over like ten  pins   tin  pan     him    and       when     him   is    simply     a metaphor for the cotton curtain   (don't answer that)


   Pleasure  torments me sometimes like I'm not worthy or too worthy, god or a prostitute.  I never wanted to judge my sister, for selling her body for freedom and dope fiend that she is proof that you can babble beyond good and evil and still split them into enemies in love like mom and dad, but I would borrow niggas from the pawn shop and beat them black and blue until the cops are high fiving me     leadership   be      the recurring  nightmare  of the    clean   slate   coon   I     blooming in some ecstatic meekness    


Isn't this another way  to pray  he  says   turn  around        Ornette Coleman  version    together    we know     all the winners and all their lyrics by heart  like sheer titles  are   far   to be stiff    drink    up         wake up in purple velvet    and   lost track of the difference    between a gun   and a microphone   when   Sunday   waits   for its bones  to break  as gardens   do     


You can be up to your boobies   in gardenias and still be on the plantation 

All good things come to those who stay true

Cells grow like trees

Nat Turner, 1831

http://afrosonics.tumblr.com/post/117680435949/i-think-that-niggas-is-tired-of-grabbing-shit-out

The day our church grew a stage it caught on fire

MJ turned slow white selling coke   and carbon  broke free as melanin   is unreasonable   again  

st     what light      The ghosts    are right  to   poke fun at  our blindness   which  we love  the way we  love them    for sentimental   reasons     and   can    no   more see  the   shine    in   it   than  in   Sam Cooke on stage  combing his hair  and looking  in the mirror    to invent the black teenager in the image of   pleading       and mercy   is vain   like  we are  like   niggas     is   vain    and   mercy  too    /    too thankful      for the pain  to question it sometimes  /   Junkies    rhyming   punks   with     with   undeliverable     season  

wake  up, bossman    Your territory!    Is so far from your character   it's  coming  between     two  invisible   men          not to mention         what happened to all the worshipers