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 ?