Saturday, December 12, 2015

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