Sometimes facts sound like accusations His deranged felicity both the pulse and corpse of
American Blackness Imagine a rich kid like Miles begging for the great white all minus the burden as if in the midst of his martyrdom he had lost his faith
We fall in love like enemies because it takes forever to grieve our sameness and
those statues can't be accurate I mean the ones who suddenly appear on the highway of my nightmare where the clean coon blooming in some ecstatic meekness that passes for militant is / shot back to his will by the fascists he hired to document his ghosts—tell on them
free at last
And too many of these tabloids end the same all the safe and jaunty decadence crammed into a jazz man's ass and out his trumpet or matte pastoral I think
if affection didn't have to be so violent to get true
if genius wasn't out of this world like jesus, zeus, and zarathursta strung out on otherness
that crime missing a criminal and I wonder also if part of the task of uplifting the living black myth isn't to demolish the sanctity of Cole Porter pray the ideas slur
and some unlikely hero emerges telling everyone to go home at once and love a man
