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