Wednesday, March 30, 2016

Monday, March 28, 2016

Black Hollywood In the back of heaven

Your eyes look majestic  

Is that a yes?


Monday, March 21, 2016

Not to elaborate on a thrill

But to teach the monotonous silhouette of morals that it does not matter, that all gates open on one witness who is the same witness   and the grapes beg you to eat them before they rot in the symmetry of obedience     in their distracted  beauty   which turns into the part of you opening     some   logo  window      Imma paint my face    imma paint   myself        the  salt   in the way  could light up a room      the song  on the radio   could  bloom  into  daddy

Friday, March 18, 2016

Thursday, March 17, 2016

Monday, March 14, 2016

A lot of blood flying by candlelight and all that

Anyway, we're not alone,

      Which is a condition that ought to induce prayer     or the parodied vitality   we call terror / fatigue

Lead acoustic, where? Ah, Imma boss   up, where ?   There is a Caribbean nation suing Great Britain for reparations   ?    Where     are the Niggas   who know    about statelessness    and still wear dazed Nikes    with a three piece         Are we marvelous      

                                                  is this our value   less   the escape   route      

did the Odyssey make ownership     a destination         even for souls   loved by   nature     did  we know   better    and   was better   a destination    did   we make ourselves    a better destination     every    wave   of disappearance     made    new     way   safe   and impossible   again        and the look on  the black man corpse's   visage    is   always,   gotcha!   Dismissed, dismissive, or how our martyrs   get    ahead

Wednesday, March 9, 2016

Float on by the Floaters

Doo wop in opposition   to the sister  dying      of impersonation  or   your sister  remarking   how                                                                                                                                     intelligent seeds   can  become

or three men harmonizing   in powder   blue   with the white ruffles   and the mule variations    peeking through  sober auditoriums

                    and the two  black  maids   in   the backseat   of a DC  taxi    teasing    how we  dream  too much      to the sudden  editor   of their sorrows         a risk              even the candor   is nervous  
even the man I love  puckers    into  double dutch  like   a motor   or   my  otherness    exposes   a tormented    radio       that no longer believes   in suffering     and just like that     you see a crown in the servant's  attic   and appropriate  that grief     as mastery