As if there's no such thing as vibrational medicine

The City Admits no Wrongdoing

Somebody put a golden girlchild on a southern railway in the 1920s, with a satchel of chicken. Picnic for one. Northward  toward a better life. Billie Holiday loved somebody who put her on a railway with a satchel of chicken. When the food ran out, they called them honkeys. The white men who drove up to harlem in fancy lawn vehicles and honked outside of the houses of the goldenchild, praying for sex and no wrongdoing.  O’hara loved you. Orson Wells loved you. Miles loved you. You are loved. I love you, too, What is a heroin addiction, really? What does it indicate? What is the difference between a honkey and rapist? Can she live. Can the stage be riddens enough, the begged for bruises, the softly-spoken desire for a frozen pit bull and a club of her own, northern promise enough to make trouble up. Poised suffering. All she had to do was sing, one man wrote. And cook her dope into the chicken. God Bless the Child. The white actress Judy Garland was sent back to the country to ween off of heroin around the same time Billie Holiday was hospitalized, handcuffed to the bed,  with no friends allowed to visit and her last five dollars strapped to her garter, and no candies. She loved candies. We need sugar. We run on sugar. Melanin is carbon. Carbon is sugar. Billie is shook, hurry, you love her. You worship the one you've broken. You still cook the fur off, chicken. Sugar, I call my baby my sugar, I never maybe my sugar, that sugar baby of mine. Funny, he never asks for my money…    Put on these amber glasses and all the light ain't blue.

And therefore I go on rejoicing

Actual Civilian Science

Music has saved your life

Live in the black forest

How is it possible to condemn escapism?

We join together in a dark room that reeks of rotting plants and grains, ferment, not to mention the flesh, rotten, bent into coward stances, and we dance. We believe that this charade is a kind of romance and get attached to thoughts of men and women ignorant of what they are thinking, attached to what hints at an ecstatic freedom of the mind but is actually our most tender disaster after birth. What if this life is a past life? What if this rifle on our shoulder can be folded into flowers. What if the bull while charging, is weeping also

And the objects, though solid, have no shadows. And it is this violence from within that protects us from a violence without. And can I thus alter the principal upon which I enjoy my life, can I be a starship on my own    terms     transcend the risk of depletion, kill the sun I once worshiped, peace should not be a negotiation. We are negotiating peace. Peace should not be a negotiation. Are we waking up from a chain reaction, the way only love can wake us up, only the love we have denied, lost, then reached out for again sleepwalking in the dark. I'm interested in sex and clothes. The way our bodies react to all of this sitting   how passive   even the passion is    in pretty chairs   and houses

Sacrifice, "making sacred" (from the Latin sacrum facere)

A very simple light of illumination

In which the remote becomes near

How then does the world come to appear as a collection of solid static objects extended in space? 

Because of the intellect, which presents us with a false view of it. 

 

http://afrosonics.tumblr.com/post/143007024969/in-all-those-stories-the-hero-is-beyond-himself

 

This is not an apology

At the very last minute the curtain is pulled back and the audience witnesses   the state killing  

Troy Davis has refused the sedative  and his last supper   he names  his innocence the mercy gods are to have   on the  souls of his   killers, for hire     for     Fury    is convoluted   on purpose     Love   is  unusual nerve      his family is charged for the transport of his body from the prison to the coffin   and     he is still alive    and     what   else    feels   like  will and is actually  fantasy    the too easy  overlap between saint and sociopath   and

Not another       no   other     puttering  revolver    in  papa's   panted dream drawer  where he always falls into  a skin of  words,  is blind, murdered, healed     gall bladder   first   in the crying   room    in the  humor at the bottom  of  a scream   we fear   we mean   it     that we will actually   unleash our power on these ignorant     unsuspecting  ...       Cause of death  listed   as    Homicide,  a  blankly matronly  concept   pried  from resentment   by truth      you'll see the salt  misbehaving   falling from your eyes   in chains

Fantasy/ Prestige

These are our good ol' jazz labels/ fat  bull  in gallows    I  have the same birthday  as Hitler   sorta    close   but not quite   and Mingus  and  that white nigga who wrote all the funnys    and   in  black  and green  we  pen   a brief   history   of       eugenics     shake    your   seed    off    the   sun      plant   the hunted  soil   there   where      events   never occur   in the abstract    We want  to wonder past the point of fact but that cannot occur, never occurs,   the images  conjured in the heart by wonder turn  to facts on contact    have  another   Village   session  

                                       what happened to Wakiesha Wilson  

 who   could  lean   on a stoop  better   than  a woman  bounces   on her  knees in court/  or shipwreck   acoustics     what unjust fantasy are they fixin to  free into  fact

Why are there guns in our piano

Why    is   our   beauty   this hospitable   under the wood and under the animal       lets    you   in   lets   you   go    black  beauty     why   do you    ache      for   proof   of yourself       ad   acting brand new like

"Do your part to save these tortured monkeys"

 all casual, actually talking about monkeys in the jungle   who   fetch  coconuts     for the west actually a victory   for parting     double take       take    three        you cannot   steal   a vibration   but     my man's lazy  eye    is   wide   again ,  cry, Jimmy, cry    my father   has  balanced  tears   again     yes     it's   about     him    again     always  crying   through   my soul    to   mend   the trends  of being    and    then       the more   you feed   a sick person   the   more you will harm    him        so self  assured    so rational     so   alone       he is talking    to the   gun  under his most piano    and   I watch   slow —   you can choose   the speed   at which  you observe your father your  fall up     I   watch  backwards   and the  trigger   he releases   is   us           when we   were still eating rocks   at the back of the school  bus   and gossiping   about   our Dostoyevsky  homework    like    where    does   the crime  begin to become its   own  punishment    and didn't   any of    us  have    a rigged  brotherhood   in our shiftless hearts    that  we want    to make  good  on      

The future of an illusion

you   against  

you again

you again

you      

That racist black power stuff

What happened as we were traversing the whole heaven

 is that the imagination lost its power to sustain us/  It now adheres to what is real    and unless we are what is real    it forfeits us   in this transaction    and  we become    the other we must contend with in delight and in suffering    as a kind of competition    between what we believe   and what we perform


There is a petty needle in Art Blakey's   arm     he imagined   it there       today   you may hear the sound of   intermittent    gunfire     and   be asked    to   laugh     at the blackness of blacks    methodically   on   that   actual  bicycle

As yet incomprehensible

You woke the cancelled paradise  and it was   some hoods   in there with the Goody™ combs  stuck as moans    in     the play pony     goodness    you called    the pleasure   the understanding   and it answers    can   you imagine   the level of revulsion  that true understanding   is  constantly risking,  the  under emphasis   of risk   the  tripped will of diversion            even  when  blaming  envy     if you    can understand   why these people   hate   you from behind their smile suits, you  still hate yourself   and are useless   to the revolution    which   is useless to itself    just as


unknown ass patchwork muses    the acoustic condition  of shipwreck        or Bess entering the garden  with   flowers    in her hands     and the laziest answer is to throw a tantrum   about intentions


become ashamed as offensive    love  is a laziest   answer     and



                                    I feel like that man    at the piano     , my father, guns   strapped to his chest, he's somewhere  in Beverly Hills where he's   a black  man in 1970 just tryna   stack paper   and raise his family    when he decides     on safety    decides    he should be the one-man neighborhood watch   cause no body else  is as  strong     as beautiful     as  long      feared.    He knocks    on your door,   you're  a white man, he says   he's   here   to  keep you safe and protect your family from outsiders and hooligans,  semi-automatics strapped to his chest,  his bare  blue   chest  carved in resurrected diamonds ,  and who   again   are   you, mister  man    ,   who   again      I  feel nothing   like    him       If I'd  had my  way I'd have been   a  killer