The importance of small talk in America

The cherub keels over   toward an era of all manner      and I'll translate   that    no  surrender /
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Good, Morning



Are you vegan ?
Are you listening ?
Traffic report smells like lipstick and caffeine
Are  you starving for the revolution and all you see is safety      button  down   gun braced by class clown     color  blind    noun   lie    like      the Fountainhead    Black people   are always   ready  

I wanted to know what he meant by ready 

ready?   Ok.   I still pray  in the Delta    show my face  in LA  show/ face   show yourself    face   yourself   face   I still pray   in the Delta  though    Kind Hearted Woman's  blues   focus on Kierkeggard  and stare  hard at a nigga til  he comes to me in the movies  

Big Chrome

It would be immoral of us  not to     return  their blows  

I play car with the radio martyrs

Papa, Papa,

I've given up trembling


I'm ready to join a country club and trouble the ghosts beneath   us   with        your mother's empty cassette  cases   my double  inheritance     my flare for rare  tears    I found them, her cases,  filled with  folded Angolan  flags    and pictures  of you and Nixon     and a doo rag  in one, no music /   we so  country,  papa,   I was lunging   into a field  negro  I wanted to spring  loose  from  / papa    I dropped to my knees trembling


                                                         and remembered how much you loved to watch westerns    every night at dinner   every night  black  man  sits down with his family praying to cowboys and a damp slab of ham—Had  I been,    a loyal   daughter  /  bend in the hero  card     and I understand  you,  I want my oppressors   to save  me too     I want my oppressors  to save  me   too

As lust was a hollow technology

Time to heal all wounds but mine™

Why's your pimp so strong™

Little Chromatic Solutions

Blue horizon in training
I want a human/ chance

Recognition Scenes

I couldn't stop googling mugshots : Prince, Madonna / billyclub on a  Monday   plot locked in Aristotelian... like in  Clockers   / runner addicted  to malted  chocolate rocks, and  Papa / Papa     the pills /our pills     toppling into sold  songs and mammies on the tv dinner tray in wrong aprons imma run again—

And what it's all leading up to is the longingest reunion, hundreds  of us  on one stage  like it was our ships again... I mean all of us, Malcolm and Mlles and Nina and Etheridge  and them,  chanting   a fantastic silence  into the expectation kind of    maple  hunger   becomes  anger/funny  and a sun in my heart   the nights we spend   listening to jazz and watching porn together until we lose track of the difference... unprecedented    even prison is romanic   and heaven is dumb and  is there anyone who isn't sold into songs from one or the other or wondering at the slave hunter, is it my turn

A man and his world

Papa, Papa, The pattern, the pattern! Jazz business. My massahs. My sermons. My abandonment. I'm wearing mostly animal prints this season. Soda crackers. Ethos. Stowaway. The reasons that we Earth Wind and Fire by way of Charles Burnett. I'm etiquette if you're sober yet. And I want my eyes to be that many cages wild. Stablemates, Playmates. Bill Cosby, Richard Pryor. Ballerina straddling a loom looking for costumes or rumors of gossamer, somewhere, the one I love is copying you he dares himself to be true. Never saw combat. Played a mean bamboo flute, convinced Langston Hughes to call you a democrat in defense of your thug dandyism. That was some party and the sun is coming up

Correspondence (8)

My heart belongs to daddy

Good seed but he wants to be evil or beyond himself. He wants to turn peace into a totalizing / violence sublimated into form   and poultice of late capital  shafts and spokes  of impact/ hope   those mourners  who are actually celebrating   the last angel  in history  come  close  to their childhood tricycles/ archetypes/soldiers of the hype machine I go forth from you unmuting, groping the air  near the sullen orange  tree    preacher   man    preacher   man,    I lied  about  the color  of the tree    blood  red  as with torment as with liberation lynched men and criminals  and token leaves    as with fast song  into slow song and back  like  morning, I lied about where I belong to get there and    who needs a heart and I made a list of people who need a heart,  quenched my fear of withholding