Wednesday, December 28, 2016

Thursday, December 22, 2016

Tuesday, December 20, 2016

Sunday, December 18, 2016

Rollcall / For all we know


The God/ The Source / Nature™


the scholars who learned into junkies


the bigots begged to be cops


the people who watched from the post office


those loud cowards who fought on stages  their tender parade unfists   so bloodless


the day workers who stay for sale


the ones who you sold           mama      they pay   you yet?    Net   netherwold  


R  E P A R A T I O N S


one        repossessed corvette      at a time      Rahsaan's  One  Ton  heckling climbers (social kind)  off    blue       minor    


lost men rolling in the mud   miners   blacker birds/     agents/ fat pillars    Algerias  of the will


desert men rolling on the water  tongues lobbed out as dogs'   soft bob of black sails  


his atlanta now    Atlantis-proud daughters   binding plastic claws to their fingers and slabs of lotion as coarse as seafoam


cream and moans     cream      and   only     you     atonal   newday  homeland                 se cure ity  cured  already    parched flesh and salt  


If you can imagine fleeing to Birmingham


then I can clothe that pregnant mannequin


and my role was to bring the press down,   so that the day would not pass unnoticed   flash


Daddy's distant eyes  the way he hurled that lawnmower   into oj's yard  paid off the nervous bystanders , went back to his nap


from time to time ,  some of our more unruly ancestors were found   floating  face down


there is no refuge from confession but suicide  ,   and suicide is confession


This is a red november


this is no place to sleep


with the liars who bled november


heaping salt into our wounds   


the afternoon swooners shuffling across prison yards looking for anything to lift


their penniless women, free at last/  hissing whore hymns at the catch-all sun   not  him   not him neither      damned   are the


                                            trespassers   fixing to hunt our ledge       

Friday, December 16, 2016

Everything came from sound (light) and it's going back there

That's the only way you're able to store your genetic information

        In between two pillars of light  and carbon       picture a record spinning with your dad's black face all up in the whirlwind       making you a person, a sound  a wedge of noun / Amun / a few minutes of leverage in a dark room and the man could make anything scream with rhythm  :  light    carbon    light carbon  light carbon light carbon       light    carbon  light carbon light carbon   light  carbon light carbon  light carbon  light carbon     light carbon   light carbon  light carbon   light carbon        light carbon  light carbon  light carbon  light       Atkin's ass kinless niggas
                                                                                                       plotting your destruction
                                  like
                                  light
                                  like
                                  light
                                    ice
                                       spun
                                                                              dark in the carburetor     bard in the flame  be our sun

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

Monday, December 12, 2016

Sunday, December 11, 2016

Storefront Window

I do revere and love the image I keep learning  not to want. How do I?  Walking by a price tag that reads: this radical loneliness. Have I been invaded for clues into it? Refuse what’s been refused to you. Such that freedom to be a slave is luminous. Emitting light without heat, total efficiency, its gesture being the first flesh computer peddling quecards in the marketplace between exaltation and shame, I let myself derange for a while. Just long enough to play auction block with the bargain shoppers. The first goal of a freed slave is to purchase his children. What if they don’t wanna come. As if self-realization is a threat. As if they are never hungry. Knowing : the subject who was never here can never truly disappear   only haunt.

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

Is this some kinda hustle?

So our god is an all consuming fire and we are its embers burdening the sweet dog's mouth?   
Black dna has been changing rapidly since the 90s, and we are evolving?  
You've got to have a hellava ego to think that you are harming the planet 
the people who study the ancient mysteries know that the earth is heating up to save us and language is a lazy hustler
My words are gonna click again, and scoff and slur into Birdie Africa    cohesive again gripping the gnarled root of no more winter      and you, baby    shy and naked in the yard  living on  the borrowed sugar of a wrong  idea  will butter the dragon's mouth          We are diamond people now, we who have gone through the milling process of utter hell    and come out telling the tiny horse how to escape from time    

Sunday, December 4, 2016

Saturday, December 3, 2016

Resurrection / Black Supremacy (1)

The wind blew a chain from        spectacle to bait  and tackle /   are you offended/ Hi(gh), Black    you didn't see how that was god's hand coming in to save us?    Before the crack addiction and the sex addiction  and predilection to sterile suburban forms of  barely joy  before you became terrified and artless  and called   that   growing    up      growing into the lie  inside  you          we   made   a life ,  I , unlimited vessel,   came back  to life with the matted brevity of our need           How does a woman forgive   her partner  in genocide /   lightly   like a soft fake smile  on the wobbly edge of well-being     or  never     bye  bye  blackbird  / or never      / Howler  / how I've become , come to be, all that I've carried    run  from   hung   some   embryo photo  somewhere unsung in the mind  that now knows how to chant  

Thursday, December 1, 2016

Star Killing

Fight  : the gridded spotlight      bleach blond weave (again?) miss piggy looking muppet type  clutches Lee Morgan cement                        Sluggish fame machines   everywhere touch denial and it's a mall spilling foam made of snow  on Los Angeles,     say  the  word  bleach   with  me   like  leisure,   like victorian sleeves ripped in solidarity with Fidel :    dare a hero to be a killer    for justice,  for  just  surviving  cointelpro / leave Lee's blood    flowing slow brass levees in  the street,  Fidel strutting up the heavens. as the bleached sugar rolls into Havana, leave him to teach the hunt to sunny mutants,      but bring  his name  inside     To all the women   who struggle   for a better world, who know revolution is personal and wash and fold the guillitine into the morning coffee like good liars       Nobody's messiah  is nervous   bitter   or allegorical  AD         as Assata crosses  the Jersey turnpike , her gun arm steady  around american coffin flowers : sweet rebirth   , sweet beneath its destiny, marks the profound generosity of decay

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Sunday, November 27, 2016

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

Sincerity/ Elegiac hope

There is a part of all of us  so-called oppressed peoples hiding in the west at strip malls and restaurants   colleges  amusement parks slabbed in ginger   google owl misfits and wanna be Grace Paileys afraid to run Coney Island in the snow      
                   She  waits   for a crisis   he awaits  his just outrage   so that we can behave as we've  always wished,    like heroes   no longer traitors in act  or in spirit   we can turn away from the bourgeois dream they  sold  us    in full repulsion       disdain the comfort and convenience brought about by centuries of war and pain     touch the land without shame  touch the machine and wince,  sleepwalk no   more         But in that   same    nook of our shattered hearts   we loved the role of the moral custodian from behind   the oak  and glass podium in the  brick forum built by slaves and the ghetto combustibles assembled by tiny women in factories and the berries farm workers picked for us, their sweet rot on our lips,    You have no name in the streets, no ones image to clean  up    you,   baptized  in blood and paper and selective forgetting  are the dirty lie and the music of its undoing

Monday, November 21, 2016

Subway Couple / We all fancy

I used to be against the aesthetic of puff coats, thought them garish and indelicate, scoffed at their function, thought them the swell of over embellished egos and all the torment suffocating under snow feathers plucked out from the Book of Job or the fifteen hour days ten yr old girls in toxic regions of rural china spend differentiating the carcasses of bloody birds from the influenza tract housing so Uniqlo can lower the price of blunt cotton and I wanna be down, I wanna be down with you, once a love song, still a long line of garment workers swaying and sneezing to pack the shell.  I used to mistell the difference between armor and style. Paramour, Blackamour. Mantan Moreland. Bye, bye show will. Remember when Dior mistook the negro talk show host for a tin pan mammy. Sho is sweet to me. Show her to the revolving doors of hijacked soul, and call the applause So in Love, Curtis Mayfield version. Damn, sometimes I wanna be a virgin again. Walk through a reimagined erotic landscape, bleed into a new time-capsule-forever, yellow bright bird/yellow bright bird, watch the shine capsize into glimmer and then parachromatic shine again, today kind, against the swarm of our blessed reciprocal entitlement. Chinese girls in a factory full of infected feathers, trading their time for white rice and spices. Supplying our feathered armor, confiding in us     and we pose back with depraved satisfaction. Call that the understanding. Tuck your hand in with my hand and lets skip across the metal detectors decorated in the understanding. The station will be crowded and newly  gut renovated and Beats by Dre and puff coats all over like a faux rebel uniform of the proletariat. Let's share. You swipe your chip hand it back. And I'll slide it too, through the adverse strands of metal til it approves us both. And we can flood the gates in almost unison. The mundane reimagined as erotic. Cyborg closeness as we march toward home. Let's both wear our china feathers and stand side by side statuesque as the police surround us with their tantrum of accusations:  Why did you share that paper magnet, why are your china feathers plush to the adversity. Where do they take the girls with swollen knuckles. Why are civilians filming us in love's defense, we're the thugs of state power, truss. Hands against the wall! Police crave affection too. Touch their blue compliance. Complement their confusion of force with lust. Starve the grammar of their consummation. Don't let them get off as they hit you from the back, blackman, blackwoman. They want so desperately to reimagine their erotic landscape with you in it. They want to be as important as this Subway Couple, two black teens in love, inflated by the puff of china birdsongs, huddled around a bent card, on fire. And then disappeared. Verb meaning to be taken by the state, made nameless. Shame is not a virtue. And then the civilians filming, disappeared. Ushered away in handcuffs and a cacophony of pleas. And then the doves with broken beaks appear on the tracks covered in oil, hope's zebra doves. A machine shoves into the tunnel like a stuttering phallus. Blood splatters all over the tracks in the muted strut of an emergency. The upholders of the authoritarian regime are very lonely. They dance us like blow-up puppets, they dress us as luckless birds, we step up like pageant contestants addicted to the casual invisible labor armoring our days. What difference does it make, whose blood shatters the walls and whose becomes the rubble.

Sunday, November 20, 2016

Aprendiendo a vivir

 I love him like a child who awkwardly tries to protect an adult, with the anger of someone who has not yet become a coward and sees a strong man with such round shoulders 

Friday, November 18, 2016

A Violent Taste for the Tangible

A black boxer is window shopping at high noon and comes across a pregnant white mannequin, naked, vacant. He stops and about faces, gazes as if he's found christ and the antichrist together reminiscing. The other, the fertile other unfurled. The subtlest muse. Roland Kirk's Salvation and Reminiscing billows up into the atmosphere. Passersby shift furtive glances his way and speed up their gaits. The sun shines like in Camus' estranged Algeria, right on the tears welling up in his eyes. Right on! nostalgia for the future, I. He goes in and tries to pawn a broken quartz crystal for the mercantile statue and when that doesn't work, hurls it over his back and runs down Rodeo whistling I've been 'buked and I've been sold. Keep it secret, keep it safe,  the ancient practice of backwards revenge.     Their baby is black  rich and free       holes patched with copper   eyes hacked by stars

Sunday, November 13, 2016

Tuesday, November 8, 2016

Monday, November 7, 2016

Sunday, November 6, 2016

I wanna eat with my hands

Make camera nervous    for us      motherless  child     have  a hard time   roof   in a pile   on the concrete     spinning        ham      and    farms     her hands in a pillar   crown  his skull of songs   melting as rubber   into  wave  grease     we reach the phase    of this regime   we covet    black chant  cycle  mumbled into babylon sun      wicked  babylon    he's   gonna eat  with  its hands  ham  and   farms     become part animal   to  hunt the mule   in you and kill it , with its own hands   can  all hunger  amount  to  a loss of  self   in what it hungers  for    can  it electrify  that lie  forever 

Saturday, October 29, 2016

Thursday, October 27, 2016

Revivalist's Dance

Payback be cackling   blackbryd in the morning  nibbling on glass and radiation   accident  or not the clouds    look like soldiers'    footprints       at it again   or not   you've  angered    the natural  chaos   with a fuzzy chorus  of mowers    Moorish  or not    Othello  tore it up     he grabbed that pussy he didn't   mind   the bleach  blond  weave   fraying   into   first   thing   looking   afro     

Saturday, October 22, 2016

Thursday, October 20, 2016

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Slave / dance

In a panicked   enjoyment   of picnics    I found  guilt behaving  like  agreement :   yes   because I love   what    damages  us     yes     because    I   love  embroidered fable   dresses  made   in Vietnam  sweatshops made in American dreams    ,   what damages us?    Yes because I love  men    even   as   we lose our mothers to  aunt Hester's  scream,  yes because I love Frederick Douglass   yes  because teach  me how to Dougie     bitch /   yaaaaaasss qween   because slang is obscene and beautiful   cleanliness/   yes   because I wore the fable  dress to the club   so dutifully    my  silhouette  amazes   you ,  yes?  New to youth :

At the point of the bayonet and under the cannon fire        Don't  sing in tune to me   sing the pieces    west is   like     listening   to   fertile crescent  wheat mongering and going deaf to your momma,   west  is like    domesticity  turned glamorous by mistake   you're   getting on my nerves   making all these terrible   mistakes     count to eight    in your native  language     gather  eight   racks   of  blue    find me   eight examples   of the centrality of violence in the making of the slave  and reenact them backwards and     you're so lazy   you obey

call that living

Thursday, October 13, 2016

Monday, October 10, 2016

Wednesday, October 5, 2016

The October Revolution

On the opposite side of the globe there is an abandoned volvo made of mirrors
Where the same plants grow and same questions,  unanswered  burn in the black mind,  as chant

How many times have I been caged   for my beauty   rages  in stray  lines   a sip of hops  just in time

How many times  have I escaped      what kind of fugitive   did it  did   it   didn't   run    tumble grow cumbersome  hum   slave    hum   something   I can call     my favorite    when no one's looking

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Monday, September 26, 2016

Sunday, September 25, 2016

A stream and a machete


Tricky lunging in an upright way   to hop the rocks    that bend the stream   that separate  the cane 

       from    reason      sunny  mansion/ so   many mansions       we need them all and   none 


caress the word ceremony  with your tongue   it's a whole phrase   really   don't you moan  none   in a 

     caress   becoming  the character    busy  lighting   fires     under   words    aggressively  passive  race  of   warriors  they've   been eating   our bones   as  Domino  Sugar     see how  dominos  are  black   and   white   scar  patterns   first they   eat   the flesh   and then the organs   then the bones   are shaven into  tiny white granules  and then you love donuts  and cake  and hip    hop   /  are hopeless     but   it's the end of the fossil  fuel era  , we can make  an elegant transition  as Coltrane plays  Easy to Remember seven times in a row   in  our defense  



Their diseases are miles  ahead of them     run                savor the ghetto    run    they start in the language    uncaressed   and broken  
   

Later  that century  an abandoned Smallpox factory just outside of Manhattan    is turned into a spectacle sponsored by a black   wanna be Gatsby   figure      who  has painted his eyes  blue, to be clear.  Fashion week , the fall line     has called for multiracial   models  only /  his eyes    ring   a demonic   bell   of  boast   and recoil      in the 100 degree heat  and as the women   walk    the narrow stage/ road in stilt stilettos  one by one their ankles  buckle and snap    and they   collapse          back  onto that stream      between the cane   and the    domino   having never made it all the way across without a pang  of guilt   or   fear    or   we   miss our oppressors  as excuses    to be here    

                                              the angels   have  gone silent    

                                                          in the middle of instructions   about   how and when   to fall   

Saturday, September 24, 2016

Tuesday, September 20, 2016

A story about the body

Watch the lash  lasso   around the slave's back         as      your father wraps an arm around your 

mother's             rib  then    Look at pulp fiction   sleeping christians do not have buddhist                             dreams    

his mask   /  the bearded 
                                    man     who   should be my    defender   is  fleeing down a ladder? 



Samuel L.  Jackson    was once the highest  paid actor   in Hollywood       owning  nothing , not even    his own stage/ name      or that    charitable disobedience       fame tamed him into     New free words    like   he was  eating Othello    new   low    like   wondering how  that  tastes   in  a cradle  of snow     each fuzzy dent    aerobic     with   senseless light    it gets   ridiculous   to  love  in hiding     does  the body   understand  opinions     it   gets    so  fun     waving  them away   in the parade     


Sake sake sake   sake  black maid descending a staircase in uniform  to the rhythm of furious nearly violent clapping          Clay   and a lady     strapped to the peaches  like  apologies  

Friday, September 16, 2016

Monday, September 5, 2016

The dance of the masked man

Luring the enemy into strange territories,  the forrest, the pasture, the swamp, the mind   skirt made of hay   skin  opaque velvet   vestigial nipples exposed like bullet holes in a pool of benevolent chicken grease     you sicken   me     I   love you       because you're a fool and don't know how to love yourself

Holy Riddle : 

A benevolent white supremacist enters the hooded jungle with a gun and a bible and comes out with a negro and diamond studded poker face  and I can't name one brave associate   friend   or  enemy, not one  but I'm writing a       beautiful   lyric   about the    way     Bud Powell tiptoes across the Seine looking  for   notes     and  renderless noise       and sinks into the window of his   reflection    mumbling I'm famous?  Ain't that a bitch 

Sunday, September 4, 2016

Sunday, August 28, 2016

Thursday, August 25, 2016

Worksong 1

After eating burger king for three days straight while trying to finish an album my father had an attack of pancreatitis and had to stay in the hospital for three days.  On the seventh day we rested. He packed the car and left Hollywood and his newest and last recording deal, and we drove to Iowa and bought a house across the street from his mother's. He ate grapes and watermelon for three days straight and taught us how to crush the bitter seeds with our teeth and eat those too, the true nutrition in the fruit is concentrated its seed. Bosses aren't known for their laxity. At certain angles we look like statues and others the elaborate kinesis of breathing patents our astral duty. Don't be afraid to discuss blackness around white people. Even the time burger king almost killed you and saved your life. Supernatural messages stacked into form. How the size of your nostrils indicates brain development and the seeds the fruit lost make ghosts in your DNA haunting you into uselessness. Don't be afraid to fall so deep in love with yourself you disappear        There are no seeded grapes in Los Angeles and so many narrow noses    And beauty, finally, is about something you know   that only your body can communicate     I know why saviors take the long way home     why the seed tastes sweet even though it's bitter     and how to eat it   even when it's not there

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

Thursday, August 18, 2016

Monday, August 15, 2016

The Black Saint the the Sinnerman

A man and a woman meet in the marketplace. She is selling her body and he is beating his drum. A man and woman meet in a concert hall. She is thinking the music he spins loose as tantrum.  Ah Um and other standards of misused/freedom.  A man and woman meet on the radio. He calls her a hoe and she calls him a prince. Jokes are science. She wears white lace and he wears no rubbers. What eagles, also shrugs. Slugs Tavern smells like burnt wheat and hussies. A man and a woman meet there to touch. A man and a  woman meet at Univesity. She is studying Frederick Douglass and he is learning to count the bones. Jesus was a geneticist and we are mapping our way home. A man and a woman meet on the way home. He tries to corrupt her as if the sins of the father are being visited in prison. Dial tone. Heart bone. Copper and carbon make electricity. Ringing and spinning into thought. The copper in your pineal gland and the carbon in your cerebral cortex. A man a woman meet in the mind. She is electric and he is legba, the trickster, sluggish under her lucky sun. Not every love story is a fairy tale. In fact the best ones simulate the process of waking up from a nightmare; a man and a woman meet in that glare, fuzzy-hearted almost despair of morning. This is a story about the body. Brown in white lace, disgraced and redeemed. There are no more sour grapes. My teeth glow like a railroad. A man and a woman meet on a train. Your brother and your sister don’t speak to you, and I don’t blame them. Do you blame them? Sin is not as simple as breaking a man made rule. Sainthood is not as simple as being good. This is a story about the body. Sweet grapes. Sweetback. Sweet race. Sweet runner. Sweet earth/rising.

Friday, August 12, 2016

Thursday, August 11, 2016

The state of New York vs. Alfredo Bowman

It is absolutely necessary that all the niggas in america take to the field 

Monday, August 8, 2016

Saturday, August 6, 2016

Kiss my circus

But logical or not, scientists' fascination with the black body was about to enter new arenas, from the clinic to the circus.

Friday, August 5, 2016

The original anesthesia

The body of a black kid slave, age five, seized by laughing white medial thugs, is forced to inhale ether, and left for dead in the street



                                                                                                                   

Thursday, August 4, 2016

Wednesday, August 3, 2016

Tuesday, August 2, 2016

Sunday, July 31, 2016

Friday, July 29, 2016

White Pussy Porn

We must never forget what we endeavor to forget          there's another one   bobbing   on my desktop   sent across spacetime     by a nigga, not mine, but      my   nigga   but not mine     claim   numb,  claim   no   one       next  he'll send  a ghetto  concerto    next   another  loop of a white man and a white  woman  fucking with foundation and mascara  all over their faces    both of them     vaseline on their  teeth, velvet robes covering the backs of their cloth and oak dressing room chairs   next    a blotted  ballad    dipped in his cum and stolen moments    and one gif titled  little nigger girl gets white dick     it is best to be literal about these things   no I won't vote for Hillary Clinton,   no I won't forget   how she must have suffered over her husband's love  for blow jobs,   not at all, she did not suffer, the other one suffered,  next an excerpt from red desert the movie, with english subtitles,  next a picture of me on my knees with his dick in my mouth, we are brown or something, golden, I glow here in the dark  on my knees and am needed  in the boardroom   to explain the role of mitochondrial dna in all this remembering, smiling enslaved africans carrying bales of cotton and the lady who played the gangster's wife  for so long and I,  hope to run this freedom off a cliff and let it wake up on the cross trapped in a sex tape looking for watermelon with black seeds all over LA. Bill Cosby went blind today. #ofabloodlessrevolution 

Thursday, July 28, 2016

Thursday, July 21, 2016

The ache in #cake

And the slave became Peter Pan in blackface

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Plantation Hoppin

What makes   you think ?       What propels the electrical circuitry or circus / bent current  you call a mind. Kind soul please tell me.   These  trees  wrapped in 72 deadly magics    taste   like grapes  and cabbage    black  hearts   breaking, suicide leisure     What makes   you think         hedonism  is  anything     but suffering,    shut  up  and love watermelon    with me       


And as for liberation,        that chameleon Lincoln,    Plantations were large townships run by black slaves. Don't expect the movies to prove you. Are not famous. No one knows your slave name.   Angry beautiful  regal black African  slaves were the fabric holding the economy of the American South in place, and they  were killing  their pathetic captors in acts of brilliant retaliation    far before the Civil War. The so called owners, planters of an indomitable black seed,  were afraid, outnumbered, their avarice had backfired.

So Lincoln freed them, not niggas, not slaves and black saviors. He freed the ghosting planters, that was the role of what we named emancipation.    And as soon as black people left the plantation, the police force and the prison system were established to replace its aims. The goal has always been free labor without backlash. That labor includes entertainment, music, dance, literature, our most advanced technologies, which we sell in exchange for some mirage of progress. Now that we aren't tolerating that and robots are on the horizon, machines to do that undesirable work,  the goal of the prison system and the police force is quickly shifting from the holding captive of free black able bodied laborers, to genocide. They kill us and sell our organs and stem cells on the black market in effort to become more like us. And all of our artists are so preoccupied with outcry and vengeance that we enter into a numb frenzy of performed resistance. In both the conscious and subconscious minds of the white man it is known this American experiment is coming to an end. And when the small time crooks convinced they’re on a winning streak see you laughing by candlelight—

Tuesday, July 19, 2016

Monday, July 18, 2016

Eugenics on Fifth and Lennox

We muttered the words  s u g a r   h i l l  until they made  a praise chant  

What are we celebrating?    

Slaves still in the swamp  harvesting   cane  today   Big Daddy Kane's bling is hollow   and wade in the water is still  a relevant lament.  More slaves  died for sugar than niggas die  for one another more slaves went under for sugar  than for cotton, you could pray over the cotton and program  it    safe    but  the sugar   water   alone  much less full of shit  and blood  and moaners  

Safety is a pathetic notion   to a black  body     the same boy who was rapping about roaches invading his generic cereal boxes in the projects last week, is in Soho this week claiming he's never  tasted the slaves who tasted the sugar they made of him  even as they whisper   mercies across his burden  
--
I am shrinking a heap of cherries   so shiny  and ruby    they   reflect  me    ,  glimmer   when I blink   a sudden puppy steals the seeds and crams them into the grass desperately   more will grow there and reflect   that  teaming     how  our black genome is  hilariously    impossible   to defeat    but every time  you crave  a  taste   of that white  powder  picked  in a field you can't see by a nigga you can't save    on an island you believe is  a resort   every time   you pretend  cake   is a casual  delicacy     and     smear  that blood into  parties  I wish   you   the deepest        enlightenment     Yoruba    you rub off     sweetawfulblues

Friday, July 15, 2016

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

The Attempted Lynching of Jasmine Richards

I am so happy  for   this       I    found a star   tree   leaf       the blond boy screeches running up to his obese   equally blond sister, he shows her the plucked green star,   she giggles, yeah!, and they  run off somewhere.      There's small lizard in the parched grass and a toy drone in the sky above it. Buzzing, swerving over some kinda fat camp congregated, playing freeze tag, whites, mexicans, and me in the grass in my tiny red bikini reading James Baldwin, God Save the American Republic.


Jasmine Richards, a young black activist from Pasadena, California has been charged with felony lynching. That's almost funny. But no. I caress my throat checking for rope. It was something she said. Something beautiful. Calling all hoods, gangs, and sets. That wet church on television with a bomb in the basement. Every black girl needs a diamond studded leotard and a flooded church. I carve out the headline and run down the red hill, past the fat camp and the blond ambition, in awe of my blunt innocence, mama, they wanted to see us fly like star leaves, collector’s items   us  black kites of empire/ even your daughter is a runaway slave, even me! She shrugs. Yeah! And turns up the volume on her Martin rerun. I am so happy for this     the blood in the grass is blue

Tuesday, July 12, 2016

Friday, July 8, 2016

Monday, July 4, 2016

Saturday, July 2, 2016

Dreaming and Responsibility

You wish to be responsible for everything except your dreams. What miserable weakness. What lack of logical courage. Nothing contains more of your own work than your dreams. 

Sunday, June 26, 2016

One for Nearis Green





This patient arcade is finally dimming
                                                                                        Nearis Green is glowing in the   dark      
                                                                                        Lonnie Holly is glowing in the dark
                                                                                        Coretta is a martyr too   the graves floating up to the surface      are   too         the river's  food    no one  owns the   river     and all the land is free too      lazy niggas are free too    discipline is a reasonable     form of beauty      the   only       truth   too much   and you get free too     free      from     egregiously       renewed to clarity



Where are your other   eyes       ,   Charles, Charlie              the part where you look in the mirror and dream   you   were we           the inverse / have  mercy   /  you must not know 'bout me    part   of our  dripping   territory       is   loose    on this     era's  ending        


Now show me the part   where Jesus comes out of KFC™

Thursday, June 23, 2016

Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Sunday, June 19, 2016

Saturday, June 18, 2016

We're all full of nightmares

But isn't your biggest nightmare becoming     some    prissy little thing   who's always been living                                                                                                                                              happily ever after

Friday, June 17, 2016

Tuesday, June 14, 2016

I will not be punished, I will not be tortured, I will not be guilty

But back to Little Boy Blue, his eyes are closed, he’s holding two roses. One Pink. One red. His mother, above him,  has the most beautiful calves and the hands of black rapture as she readies more flowers that her son might fit around King’s casket. That’s our king! Fetish objects will fight you, and keep winning. The satisfaction in this young boy’s eyes when they flutter open is not sinister yet, not stolen from forgetting, not a fetish of his stylized shame yet. Shame gets styled as devil-may-care, wild cowards. See Kanye West. See namelessness or corner’s best hard liquor. Obama fried chicken. Twerk competition. Nor is it an accident, that this violence is also peace. That one black man gunned down on a balcony in Memphis turns into this beautiful boy kneeling in a heap of our freshmost roses, humming the loose notes to a blues called : I want my oppressor to save me too or the deepest condolences of the American people. 

Tradition is not what we think it is. Do we think it is? Kawaida a little.  Dusk wilts. The Sun kills questions. There are no seeds left in the watermelon. The women who eat them will  be barren also. They want their oppressors to save them too. Digression will be the most fertile substance. Left. Yes. Our legacy. Yes.  Listen to jazz /again. Against what light! Our native language. Our only language. A sin/tax of digression, of falling apart and coming together with new intentions like the sun’s best muscles. Tropical Truth. Tradition is not what we think it is. Do we think it is? The tradition of leaders in the sun with their killers. The tradition of mistresses weeping on Monday. Wives burning grease in a vindictive slum. And someone always wants it to be Christmas. The time when everyone wants the king to live. And everyone but the King is living/ the way our king didn’t want to live. On our knees in these beds of flowers. 


In a time of crisis, the mundane will become heroic again. It will matter that you know where to patch the water and how to work this barren land. How to pretend you don’t need to the man when he’s with his children and still feed him the hunt when he comes for it again. How to trim the stems at an angle and hand them to little boy blue without tensing your beautiful calves toward the hint of infinity in them. Our blue boy is heroic in a time of crisis. Do you recognize him? He lives the way our king hopes to live, on his knees in a bed of roses, coveted, raided with mercy,  a warning pointing in every direction at once, our getaway totem  halting   beyond the frontier  of revolt    or —

Thursday, June 9, 2016

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

And why is Echo my friend?

Because I love sorrow and echo does not take it away from me
Because I love joy and echo does not take it away from me

Is that Sun Ra chillin on a camel in Cairo, 21st century romance
Because I love hope and Sun Ra does not take it away from me

And the man with the rope in his hand will not shine your shoes 

Friday, June 3, 2016

Wednesday, June 1, 2016

Tuesday, May 31, 2016

He watches himself as if he were an enemy lying in ambush

You and 12,000 others like this photo of Billie / Holiday   sporting her cheerleader's uniform and head tilted west. Her hair is tied into a ponytail, slicked back with the good gel, and her lips are bright red, parted slightly, spread as cargo and low ladders. First let me thank the divine creator, the neter, the god, is really beautiful      and all of the delirious souls who worship instead of embody      are so remote and so. Her crown chakra is amber violet. Her violence isn't shy but hidden. We violate her crown by it. Invisible clown bias. Hands clasped low behind her back, a bow with its captive satellites alighting the heart. We are our own hypocrites. There's a man behind her, out of focus, with a whistle between his lips and a djembe in his hands. Black. Very beautiful. Look over your shoulder before he disappears, Lady, but if hollers  let him in through the front door with his hands stuffed in his pockets and rescue the laugh track vault. That's vengence and not apalling. He was the snitch hired by the FBI to rat out her habit. Fell in love with her but he still did it. Her hands are hidden. An eight ball and a tiny gun in them. Toy money for black entertainment always in circulation as adornment. A little numb and floral resentment flickering in both their eyes. Every spectator is a coward, a liability

Monday, May 30, 2016

Friday, May 27, 2016

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

On the shamelessness of heroes

If the hero is unambiguously guilty the event disappears and there is no destiny 

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Hear/Say

I remember when there was a McDonalds inside of Harlem Hospital   and Malcolm’s blood was practically strutting into the afterlife  slow down  I love  you    and who else remembers the killing taste like cravings set forth by the victim himself    who else   comprehends will  that well      

Monday, May 23, 2016

Sunday, May 22, 2016

Amy isn't a militant

There are no militias in her will to tell

                       What the fuck happened to Eric Dolphy's forehead     pesky  transference / is it  the horn   of                                                                                        
                                                                                        the devil or the fisted wing    of his will  to unfold    /   cape /\  pillar    thanks     a million       the storyteller / true   killer   there she is with her gun aimed     still              but  I have let you live    


Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Good-Time People

The first time I heard the word Africa and knew it loved us    was struggling to reach us and love us,    would exploit every tragedy  in the business to reveal its trouble/joy    we were in that battered women's shelter in blueblack Iowa  rural hush to the authority of our curses   me and mama and her nine months' belly pretending the elevator was our flight to California, hearing the slanted beat of a tambourine between floors and cots and wounded bodies, redemption chore choir  in the water with the lights  shy flickering in the hide-and-seek mannerisms of refugees, hiding from who we longed for. For a lifetime. And the one ally we made in our shelter, Mr. Williams, round and brown and longed for, would close his eyes in the middle of a story about our impending Hollywood freedom/I'm waiting, he would drift off to his standing sleep before giving away the meaning. African Sleeping Sickness, he called it. Where was that. Why was the sickness theirs and so far away. Why was he the best at solving our case, in his sleep. Break down the grace of luck. Where was his gun,  I wondered. Where was his agony to match. How did he plan to fight it. Was he anything like us, runner. Like me and my father and my future. What was he doing to keep from living   this other man's dream. Our first and most modern Sisyphus, redeemer, redentor, casual healer, recalled in the field of my perfect nightmare on earth, you mean, I could have just slept through all this, could just turn the suffering into the dream, live happily ever after in California?

Thursday, May 12, 2016

Wednesday, May 11, 2016

See how nature can expose a nigga

In any case my body makes the sentences. Now I'll never know which bruises you gave me and which ones I made myself, running through our melted rehab looking for green grapes. Leaping into limp air to soar past the famous graves. Is salvation that laugh you hear coming closer when Alice Coltrane plays Mantra for John. He beat her to it. That was rude and chivalrous. Those were horses and fists in his eyes and remorse and a child, goodbye. This is a world full of sociopaths and when you change, liar. This world is only love but most men love backwards. Did he beat me, too? I want to ask my mother. Am I lovable. Am I part of the tribe, screamer. I don't remember any pain. How do we get any closer unless we cause one another pain? I don't remember

Tuesday, May 10, 2016

Bel and the Dragon

A folk tale ridiculing worship

Sunday, May 8, 2016

Saturday, May 7, 2016

There is this ambivalence that I must deal with

How do I deal with it— how?

Originally a dancer    are you certain they're talking about the same Butterfly McQueen   Gone with the Wind    Gone      leaving      get out!    And where were her own children    who was watching them   while the trauma of fences     and Scarlett O'Hara is my mother's favorite  heroine   and    she's rolling down a spiral staircase   right  when the police come     We know our father's push them but sometimes  we wonder if it was us      if we're  in cahoots with every oppressor   on every side   because I am that powerful      that ruthless   that abiding      that ambivalent



Thursday, May 5, 2016

Haitian Folkloric/ Lossless

We have to begin to look at our behavior as cannibals also 

Tuesday, May 3, 2016

Breaking news my niggas

They've been dubbed the Holy Outlaws, the three black female teenagers chased into a night/river by police officers in St. Petersburg, Florida and left there to drown on the thirty first day of March in the year 2016 AD.  Dominique Battle, 16, and 15-year-olds Ashaunti Butler and LaNiya Miller. Beyoncé is alive at the Met Gala without her so what husband, she's painted the black eyes on, in the tradition. I no longer fear anything, the Syrian girlchild asserts as U.S. backed snipers gun her mother down. They might have been joyriding in a stolen vehicle the golden tone of your stolen peninsula. Thief who stole their sad days not knowing that everyone who dies is suicidal. Even in the movies, don't you see. Don't you paint any blackness for me/neat.