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
