Sunday, October 15, 2017

Thursday, October 12, 2017

Jimmy, run

He    stripped    and    strapped      his     semi-automatics            to   his  bare  black      chest           and    as if      that    wasn’t         beautiful        and     American        enough          some       homemade    dynamite.   Dinah  Washington’s   This Bitter Earth teetering  on the turntable      while    he     asked    who     could     be   like  Micah    but cousin,     who    couldn’t?      Fast  twitch   muscles    bulging     and     gleaming       as  he    marched     through   this   white    suburb     the   Nazi’s    are   coming     but I’m    here     to   protect     and    serve .      Later   in    the   interrogation    room      when   I   couldn’t     remember     who     took    the    first      shot     and      he    tapped     me     on    the     shoulder     grinning     and   sobbing    like   in There  Eyes are Watching  God  .     The   police  weren’t    gonna    kill    my    father        even    if   it      had     to     me              I    got     to   leave   with  Frank  Sinatra      and    all  these    magazines      and  clips       in  the    heat      of     withstanding      could make    me   be    glad     just   to   be    sad     thinking    of    you   

Monday, October 9, 2017

Sunday, October 8, 2017

Joyous Surrender

Rupestral design    in the stuff of sound     and the psyche      of the   universe   in   a    disk      on    her   fingertip     she         lounges      like    it’s        a     life     or    death     mission     to    sit    still      and      watch    the          kid    kiss      his      reflection         hunt       and    kill       his     ghost            she     sits    still    while    the   harbor  hipped     serpent       crosses        limping               I  haven’t   given  up     on     the    serpent        yet   

                    I  haven’t   left      my    pancreas      alone        I      have    yet    to    surrender     thought     to     feeling       when    it    comes       to     being    touched       traced          suctioned     with   the     venom    of        behavior       I  haven’t       tasted        the     poison     yet      and        spit   it   back         at     the   dreading   sun      I   am   someone     unafraid     standing    at     the   nape    a      of    flame      and   wagging    deeper        reaching    Montana       numb     and         acting     heaved       by     some    practical    hunger      pretending      to    crave      what     he     craves       a   stray    mime       of      desire        cause    I     wanna     see        what    I’m       watching        I     want     a   seat   with     my   seed   at    the    table       I    wanna  topple     the   table      and    everything       it    upholds       

                            Make     sense      of   this  boyhood    unraveling        the   desperately     stooped    stance        the     antler     rancid      stench        of      copacetic           black      boy          you       can    get      it        he     can     get   it      I         less        than      whisper        tease        turn         to       catch          his      yearning       eye         cry      blood      to Kyle   Abrahams              Does     the    slave      inherit       a        need    to   be   watched           was   I   past    that     and       making   slaves       like factory       with my seeing             Did     I      slay     my     daddy            before     the    officer    could     or       just     after                 we       lost      the      13th    way             of   looking          close      your      eyes     baby          Ma     gon     be     a     wild     one                     Ma        don’t      confide       in        the      god    of     surrender              but     tempted      by        the     cliff      and       emptied       by     temptation              My   black   chosen      one             My      black     chosen         one         
Image result for vintage black doll ads

Friday, October 6, 2017


Had    me    fooled          I   got  to     the  auction     and     left    talking     windows                a   little   less    broken   than    Angela Yee                Minty        had        sold      me       for   Sandra’s      leased      freedom        on         lease      with   no     option       to     buy.       See       my    name       on    the    bill        in       lead         in     Flint        in         innuendo                  the  soda   dimple      coming    up   even     when     he    frowns           folds        amounts        into            months      and     bloodhounds,       and      bloodhounds     

Thursday, October 5, 2017

Sandra, run

You know what’s more important     that  candy   painted   cadillacs?                   And       the    cactus   saddle  of        raspy       husbands                     that     piety         strummed     with   ride     and     dread                                       The       p  o      l    ea  se         please     don’t     call           no body      free       ‘til                  we   keep    visits      brief            strict        records                 of         dismissive        twirls               of    all     that     hair      in   a   world    of    ropes              a      garbage    bag     around   the  throat           because       she    goes          hard                          or   goes    home        

Then  it  was   time   for   love

                                                       Then  it was time   for   action      

Wednesday, October 4, 2017


Like the earth    is    rocking     a   baby    in    the  bosom of   a    cage     and     I’m    hugging  the    vagus   nerve     to    play     crowns           I’ll stay              with      the     frayed    reluctance         of      jade    eggs          perched    on the        bed      gripping      the       break             The   weight     of    another    man   on   top   of    me     crushing    the     ache     into    these     sweet   blooded   lemons       I     can    taste    on      the     edge    of     every     tremored   scream    a   sermon          I swallow        for      spoken     language           or    languish    in      not   so  silent    pleas        I    shall   be        released      Stanley   Turrentine   version      I  overheard      Minty  had    a  bill     of    sale   on      me    I   believed       I     was   really        traffic     that    moving   loss   swimming  in     black  lights           It     was    terrific  ly      sad         hips     gathered    at     the    risk    of   flight         of       floating        off     a     billboard         Ma a    f  a           so       missing            she’s    a  lounge    singer    on     the    strip        Her    sister’s      a     stripper      in     texas        Her    wrists     hint      at       yes     crosses        yes        Ma   a    fa      so    lost         and   pregnant     in    las   vegas            and       from      the       snowy  sheets    confesses        less    sacrifice     than      readiness       I   come to   these    dark   places     to    find    this    medicine      

Go forward to meet the rain

Tuesday, October 3, 2017

Bratty Niggas

There’s this  trend   toward   oblivion      and bourgeois   establishment    condescension   paraded around like  a  new fangled  remedy  for   blackness         as     if      to  have  made   it you  have to back sideways into   a  stupor    of  access  and hide from yourself  there          There’s   this    excessively   well  adjusted    affect       to  match          it  questions    nothing     predicts   immunity  to all sorts  of   catastrophes  of which  it is    a   symptom     hunts  for dashikis    to  wear   in the  club    titles   to  rub   the   eyes   with   like poison   ivy      IV  truck outside  after  the  party    Tick  Tock    rubber    meets    Hitchcock  road      leap   from   so   what     to    egypt  strut      amnesia  so  cluttered  it’s   near   remembering       it’s   near  slapping   some   sense    into  the   feigned  contentment   of   derailed    exponents    of   that   dreaded    and  deadening   anointment  men   call   fame      No    name    in  the street     ass niggas      it    lasts     as  long   as  paychecks   in   casinos     it    lasts     as   long    as    the   end  of   the world        You’ll  hear  the  fatalism   twirling    like   spades   in   the    last   lung  of    capital      breathless  with  act     and    cold    as Michael       an  air   of   battered   ego    veiled    by     sailboat   in   the    NASA   greenscreen  moonlight       I  love  you    in spite   of yourself  you’ll      say      as  they   trade   that    in  spite     and  sway   off  the  platform  just   in   time   for   the     train    to mangle   all  their   self-flagellating  elephants    These  suicidal  men   looking    for    respectable   ways   to   die           Looking   like   lies     when  they   shatter            Don’t   let   it   happen  here     

Thursday, September 28, 2017

Rehearsal for God Bless the Child (1)

There are no wealthy black people, I overheard.  We get  rich  though.  We show up in gold with delicious appetites  for luxury and leave in rags and discontinued yeezys. Find some more gold and pawn it for chapels. Capitalism lacks a redeeming fable. We are that fable. Blackness is that. Black people. We wave the bull into charge with nowhere to run but toward him. We break this constant danger into its lyric shame or shambles and roll out.        Roll out.   

When I fall in love it will be forever

Salute  the     screeching ladder        It grows  on   a     tree    it     falls     as             dead    cadavers       are    floating     in  the  streets    and       some      sardonic   needle  approaches  in   place    of   a   boat   braced   with   fever   and eluvium         the  toothless   smile    of    new   sharks,       feels    like    everyone    is    in     disguise    while  I  tiptoe  by   naked    and   stray         carrying     the     gifts      revealed    by   their    undoing     or   being     the    gift      an  offering     that    isn’t     sacrifice        but    ribboned     gauntlet    sharp      and     fast    to  slice     a   burden   into    ash               assure   them    of   their    safety    from   the   podium  in the   saddle   of   a   bomb           the   jaundiced  trauma   of    triumph     doesn’t     warn      the    lion   it   will   become   its    own    prey     on the rim  of   conquer
 lonely    man       lonely    man       doesn’t       warn    her       as   fists   of   laughter    slur     the   name    through  lattice    and    fastened   tilt             ma        a        f a                 ma      a aaaaafa         did    it     really    happen       I don’t work  for  him       do you   work  for him ?      

 A   rumor    mute   with     two-way   memory      and   as    empirical    as    lazarus     who          had   the   fire    all  to  himself     and    forgot     how    to     burn         That   habit  of  starting   over   of  getting   it   better     or     getting    it       the    same     calls      himself   black    with a   6 at    the   l     with    a  hissing     accelerator          calls   herself     ma  a    fa       mother    and    father      coerced    onto   the   song  as    shadows   of    the   flexed     hands   of     silent     clowns           

I came  around   in   silk  gloves   and    a gown-like    overcoat      scarlet   puddles   on my   lips   and   held    the  ropes  of Sonny Liston’s    ring    before   he   was  a    bell        heaving           this   jester  of  me       into    his    sheepish    eyes         beat  me      as    hard      as   you     would       if    you    owned       me        I   whispered          and    we   went    over         some     rules     together         

Tuesday, September 26, 2017

This Lit

This belligerent     devotion    got   close   to  Rome       hit  send     senseless     until   the   s   was  invisible   and   swollen   machine     I   love   you   so.       The  world    has   ended   with   Stevie  Wonder   on two   knees   as   a rising       sea    collapses   over   Puerto   Rico  and    my disdain for literal  negroes     vanishes   with  all the lights  out.   All the lights   went  out   and   remain.  All  the remains    are  about M a a f  a    and  I’m a main bitch    to   every   somebody,  hush  now     touch Jehovah leaflet  with   a been-saved howl   and      what   color    are   the   weeping   eyes   in   his   kneecaps   what crooked   childhood   50  yard   dash       he  was   always winning   because    he   couldn’t      see     the  finish    line        she was  always  cheering from      just    beyond          All the electric   lights    that   is.      There’s   still   this     trophy  wife    highlighter   by   badgirl riri       there’s    still   a    dirty   blond   leak   in    the    sky        a   crisis     of      shine     a golden     time keeper      a   public    enemy    with the    watch  tickling   his  neck     for   creases       and   fight.      I keep  fighting     like   that  golden     crisis        like    that    blind    singer     on  his   knees     in       prayer     like      the   ice   isn’t    melting  into rabid azul lace    and   the   others    aren’t    eating    one    another    in a mellow   tone      while    the   lights    shone     well     underground         and    the   bite    marks    roam    like    sirens       Ima   eat  my   baby  first    cause  I don’t     want    him     to    see      this      Ima   feed     him   to  the   abstract     birth    slipping     free   from    time         I   ate   my   baby    I   bled   him   out   into    the   high sea  screaming      fight     the   power    fight   the   power         I  had    a  nightmare     this   was  medicine   for  a nightmare    

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Dear Babylon,

Once upon a Summertime by Gil Evans is as irresponsible as a fairy or free niggas. As us hugging boats and smiling. The way his tone leaves you stupid as blue lake no. 1, an additive, sped up and pitched down, ducking bullets and big lights, another Adderall addict, healed of attention as a broken child, heralded in the wild odor of shy lavender and burning servitude in the service of not anarchy but some hip nudge between brothers about to leave up out the rhyme. Don’t ever let anyone break you, eyeshine, roulette, you, and I. But did you want to recover (anyone)? Did anyone want to, or the new earth too, recover?  Did you want that self back, the patented only-the- impossible-happens one drowning in Sundays. I had started to see paradise in mass extinction  a jagged winking mirage of new area codes,   new hoes, hoses cobraing in black and white photos  above the protest as   you chew the dangling leg of an octopus, gather its eight hearts in afterglow    in   Agharta, in the middle  of us   tweaking  on the cusp of  the moss agate on my kitchen faucet like a lost gate parting    soft dirty green    be  mine,   earth    sleazy minor key,  be gone.  I had started to like us again. Slanged as candy good as gold, us. Letting life imply its opposite, I had picked a side. Bye bye, daddy,  and Babylon, to  be alive   there is no wrong  way     to  be the song so longed for    to slaughter  all the others   

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Saturday, September 2, 2017


M a   a   f   a    trusts      a      song               a    whole   wrong    note   don’t      just    disappear      Ma   hops  on a bus    with   Lonnie  Holley     and    bends      metal       into   what    arose          A sort   of   tenderness     that   is   almost   grotesque      were     it     on    display  so he hunches  over    gives  me       a    way       to    rinse     off      in      the   morning        and     leave     before        he    wakes   up,       already     be     making   time  on his  fuzzy   ass      Already   asking   about Berlin.              Whatever     was   inside     me    then,   whatever    akashic     shyness    released   to    bleed      in    silence          it    disappeared    on   that   boat   on  labor   day       Melvin  paid   me   in kelp   and then         crept   into     recess   with      the    other    patterns      ruby  jade   plaid    and   laura   dern   in   blue    velvet       was   she    in   that ?              She  in it  now    

Monday, August 28, 2017


charged with a sheen of obscene   armor      then     leaning  on   then huddled in a gazebo  along  the boston  commons                  I      Ma  a   fa         I      strewn   across   the  spine     of  a   stallion       locked    in    all  time    with       the    pale     man      and      then     when          I  ejected     him       running    through    his    dreams      as  the tender  nymph      in     visions      unhallucinated   hallelujah     at   the   pew   stump     which   stunk    of     cotton   leather     tears    and    ham hocked  collards            it    was   a crime    to   call   them     dead   birds,         accuracy     a   form   of  murder             that    I   still   want   you     and     I    want    you    to    want     me   too          dirty     hallelujah       you     cuddling    with   the   flood     in    solar  plexus   orange  rubber      knees    up     shoulders    back   chin   stacked     on      saturn’s     rings      and   pressing   for daisies     

Sunday, August 27, 2017

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

Dear Babylon,

When mom fell in love with Dick Gregory I tightened   my  eyes   and   pictured  a sled  in   the  desert. Her in the sled. Me with the water. Voices like sheets of ice or edie sedgwick biting warhol’s neck til red soup commercial  showroom   warm with iodized salt.  I’m all about the sea catching slave bills on the walls of these museum mansions. I’m always the leader   the  one who casts   the heaping  net  of reckless judgment  to say   get   away    get  better   get  a  way I respect.  Heckle the mirror of yesterday into a confession.  Of what? What should it confess? This used to be a minstrel balcony before Eleanor Roosevelt read poetry from it, the sicilian tour guide reminds me of every failed hunt, every wild urge  Get it, gurl. I might have said, to the mother, lovingly repelled and counting melted freckles that amounted to wounded suns. How’d I get so ruthless? How’d the edge get this close? Chuck D said nobody is safe when he strangled William Buckley on that desert sled. I promise I rather be deserted than situated opposite a rehearsed pledge of human faithfulness. Stevie’s fulfillingness plays and balloons pop right on the sand, and pop mutiny,  righteous and shrill, I’m better than this,  I promise I’m better   than   this,  he  promises.  Don’t look at the eclipse don’t touch its sizzling driftless  scissor  burn. That      tolerance  is   reckless    haughty    upcycled    crest   of  lost or overworn   love.   I can’t   stand  the  way  she sucks  fruit    not  my mom   this other woman    meant   to  be  a friend    I can’t    stand   her  voice  on entering  a new   room   and the way  it pitches  up in search of attention and acceptance,   and anyone  who tries  to be cute, I can’t stand them.     And the man  I   love    I want   him  to   adjust  his shoulders    and become  Malcolm X or Miles before  he hit.  Tie around the elbow.  Me on my knees in front of him, not in supplication but  in supply  and demand and  aching oneness.    And as for  the framed bill of sale of a slaveboy called “Mink”  on the wall at this  castle   we toured   like   hungry  mice,  I can’t  stand us. Our  famine    our    dumb   hunger/   I’m  using my stomach muscles   to   sit   coldly   on the  hood  of   an   eagle   and  heal   my perfect   heart.   Here’s  where  I start   to stammer     here’s   where the plan  to murder   false intentions    arrived  at while  on my back  with legs  spread  in   happy  baby,    squeals  like  a  victim        I am not the victim  here      I know one thing from another    I can  soften   my    eyes   and  look   up                           I  can   ask  the five  men   pointing  to heaven  why   they killed  their  brother         but I know   they  think     by  now     for   love             I can   soften    my   eyes     I can   burn   the bible    while   I recite     it      I can be   that  unfussy    I can shrug  instead of boast  or  resist     but  I won’t    not  for nothin

Friday, August 18, 2017

Thursday, August 17, 2017

Wednesday, August 16, 2017

Maafa to Herself

God talk now             I’ve   overtold the story  to this point and I’ve lost where it was       that we were   at   

   the   question             is   treacherous        you  up ?   banal allure  of  a trifling...   the   leather skin,     preternatural     whatever   history    we   have left  :   racks  on  racks   on    racks       as   yet        the   part  I    left  out  until   yesterday     the   sturdy   and   dazed   part  I  left  town   about       the part   where   she  held  my  carriage   my   crested bassinet  or dangled  it    above   moving   Sunset boulevard  traffic     screaming   fuck  you    at  every  passing      baffled    go    by     vehicle    and    sobbing           Maafa,  you come    all   the   far  way  back    from  chattanooga   for   that  slow    yellow   thrill     or     was    it   fast           to  the   point   where     by   the   time   we got   back   to the   car     and   she paused  with  unlocked   doors   to   check    the   map     the  two  bright  black  men   with    happy   guns  who  got  in    and drove us   around   yelling   how   come   you have these  black   babies    screaming   how   come    you   got these     frayed  saddles   for    saviors     you’ve    got  money?      you’ve  got money!       And   lifted   the  white  Chevy   out from under   us      those  beautiful  thieves   who  saved  our  souls     that    night       and  I   never    got   to  thank  them     or   sensed   the  tension   between   two   modes  of survival   that  their shy guns   and   me   and mom, she   drunker than  ever, us  huddled   on the sidewalk  outside  the police  station    gates     that  night         alleviated      There is  nothing    anyone     can     take    from      me      There  is nothing    I  can’t   have         But all   this  having   has  demanded equal  wanting        How  much  I must   have     wanted      a  bright  black   honor   in the front   seat    to  drive   us   on    home    that    evening    A safeplace  mistaken   for    rage      that   perfect    seeping      night       when   violence    wasn’t   a crime   but an  intervention    on    my behalf      a    mis   en  scene    angry   gods  sent  to save  us       There     is    nothing    anyone     can   take  from   me     There is  nothing   I can’t  have      They   went   to jail     they   ended   up   behind   bars     walking   muscular   circles    in   a  square    cage        I   wonder   if   they   remember        my   prayer    my   prayer    my  prayer     my  prayer     my    prayer     

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

Thursday, August 10, 2017

Radio Shack Closing

Another black hose down slow snake so down so clean whip stains with machine aim meaning at a fuzzy frenzied mangle of tone blown through silver afro roman protest hymn couldn’t be so sure it was Maa fa ‘s pastoral but you mumbled she’s a pastor in the checkout line over a chorus of machines clutzing paper toward its quota what ruptured franchise told of deafening scooting ears towards the weathered ledge of hearsay or the banal heresy of craving Riri’s rabid didn’t I tell you that I was a savage mama snorted white wishbone hash could have passed for the matted tofu in my lunch pail while I did the Cabbage Patch in the middle of an abandoned electronics store and all the screens wore me for selling, mama in the corner snorting staticy coke off the broken one and waiting for Willie Hutch to come over to get over / to crush and distill her into a fine pearlescent powder he could wear in public like the sun   tumbling isotope of mulatto indifference so aloof   so vigilant         so trapped in hints  everything must go   so mating dance whimper come calamitously close to Johnny Cash husking the molten propaganda into a pace meant to ruin enthusiasm with pleasure

The addicts had it all    the stereos and their barren roll call/ the rollerblades and the swtichblades and the rebel belle rolling out like an ancient scroll counting to eight over and over    the way a circle  reaches   she  held out for them

Saturday, August 5, 2017

Thursday, August 3, 2017

I’ve come to get what’s mine

Can you talk about the mineral industry  ?  Leave the caution tape off the ghetto with the loaded   habanero and area code soldiers?   Can you lead me   over    my feet are taped and bleeding   can we    coach the yankee money   into  hysterical pillars   of   road shoulder  red tethered to tricks we be turning   and turning  and     it   hurts   this   slickness    the way  his fast ribs go cripple   in a row of hazardous   colloidal  …       jonesing  I’m   jonesing and    Joan keeps disappearing …  My babyfather found her bones in the basement of the building he was gutting for the local developers  for minimum  wage   for  say   we  fight their war  with our days so great  we become    its wages  its  sable  toned  booty      booty  for days     for      cobwebs   hobble-toned cleopatra  and  a fat  truck passing  back and forth   in handcuffs    and brought them to me in handcuffs     and he brought her to me   stranded  in   roses and cufflinks   her  bones  he’d  spent  swan  days  scraping as  cement  off bricks   wandered into the center  with Crispus Attucks     mama   did you tuck  him  in     the  harbor    like a  barber  or   a funky  singing boat   or  let him   float   on      home  ?      Where  was  Joan  and where was Mrs. Jones     I  swear    if  she   keeps disappearing   in the middle   of  the dream    Ima   turn mean   like that   one time       Ima  mean your   time   is  rubbed into her  blood  and dangling  from the redemption  of black betty’s   body    on   lease    on   less    on   Lisa Bonet  and Mickey Rooney  tumbling around on a filthy  mattress      got stuck  together   so  violent   with hesitation we    swung   braced   in the   tongues of   cicadas    almost forgot   which   one   you    was     such  was  the   curse  of  reappearing      such    was  the mercy     

Friday, July 28, 2017

Friday, July 21, 2017

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

Boy, ain’t it time you was thinking about your soul?

A baptism consists in words and hands pouring water over the head                   strings plucked like wheels to make   a   chorus      the stabbed-in-street-war boy  running   home to mama   and the  balm of psychobabble   and peroxide, cottonblood clung to ribs as he dies in    her arms       Disaffected  disinfected  affect   of   going   under    of   struggle with Siddhartha   for just one  grand    mushroom   or to prevent  china    from   invading Afrika    with  roads  and coal     and  rugby     a huddle of thieves  buttering  the iron       muttering  runners    thin  with the grief, flabby, ugly stampede of good unwieldy  dreams  of what to become on all that land    the skirts  of hay  on stilts    to  pray to    or burn   to       Bernadette     churning  in the chalk  like a redneck  wrestler      we  loved  her   prayer /  we  struck   it   down      terrified of  such   a  love      of the glove of    recitation     of  the resuscitation  into a place  the smells  like bubblegum   and  graves where proudM a a f a   gobbles   silver   from the earth to stay   alive     her  hair  growing  like a  weed   skin  shedding   into  some peach  horror   peach tree rotten with waiting    flips on its   gauntlet  hue  and  harmony   is reduced   to miracles    to the mouth of the fruit  opening   and  heaving  you  into its  sweet resume    to resume  sweetly     and need to  be tasted   

 Maybe  not cannibalised  in  the jaded  ward  of   gardens     but  gorging  the mouth  pathological    what is sickle  cell  ?   Indelible  hip bone  feeding  on itself    until  he was  in near constant  pain    what  came to the center    when  he yelled   and twitched   for help      what kent state declension had them reenacting that rape  in the fields    forever      

Thursday, July 6, 2017

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Monday, July 3, 2017

Sunday, July 2, 2017

Guided Meditation

Cover the table  in junk newspaper    and shut up about protest  and  communal living and the way it feels to touch thin ink and weep    Picture Cuba Gooding Jr. with those silver balls weaving his palms in Boys in the Hood   Maafa   are you  good    are you    here     and you good    here     Lady be good   be here   and be   good here, do you hear me, ma?  Looking good ma,  thick  and  brothel clover  occipital  killer   but not really    you  want us to live.   It’s 1995  in Compton and you have the nerve  manipulate survival, to call it forth from the sandalwood smoke, to  know how we’ll live when the tension between two greens is hunger  and   it   bit into the grass  like a natural out there on all fours  ass up   testing  the  melasma  of  slurred verdure   I heard the blades  snap on your tongue   I felt the mirrors   home in your mouth   I know   it hurts   and be so proud and beaten  cover the newspaper  in the corpses  of crabs    make a bib of the real estate section  and let their flesh  melt through  you  in some  crude glory in black and white Noriega stripes     do   not  do this  hock the gnawed up grass onto the headlines  and pile  numb  melons  until the sweet stench  collapses     don’t listen  when it acts  as if  there   has to be a naming   of the devil   that’s a trick   don’t call nobody  you don’t want to come

Thursday, June 29, 2017

Sunday, June 25, 2017

Serious Workout Music

I don’t know where I am     ambulant clairaudiance  so maybe Brooklyn, new guinea, foster home or leniency roaming around in the strict scripture of choice            They were crossing a bridge in a stolen Accra while     I binged  on vapor rub and Tupac   interviews     my muscles stooping like thugs in a hood duel       In the grassy center divider  a sepia woman in a headwrap cradles a white baby  while the mother tosses a bag of rice  and whispers    this  is white  rice for  the children    I cringe around a wu tang hymnal    and miss a man   heedless  of where I am    a prodigal  scam   to  look so close  at a landscape it immolates   becomes grotesque with inevitably   becomes a city  you   can never leave  for trying     I know I’m in Costa Rica   having a dream  about the moon crumbling, caving   and everyone standing still  in their doomsay while   I run   and  run  to the pace  of summons     I know mine are ruthless   my  intentions    my   feet   my knotted   release       as I’ve  always intended   to love black genius out of the rubble of two wills          His father kidnapped him and brought him to Detroit   his mother found him   and took him back to Long Island      A shy     pawn   with a lawn made  of ice and bloody  Ike Turner                  We  turn toward  retribution   

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Monday, June 12, 2017

Sunday, June 11, 2017

New Mutiny

 Looks to me like you’ve been disinherited, mute-chanting   while sirens scatter the will into a dull blade that can be attached to the muzzle of a rifle like a shadow    or  braid joke.  Stray dreadlock at the bus stop/ black on blue/   and grape flavored bayonet   that’s the word, French, daisy hued lemon enunciation of when. I heard you were leaving this country    and   you tried  holding Rockefeller   to   daddy’s     promise    in the corridor of being reasonable       and that he  who could not sing   should be made to sing        and the crow   pecking at synthetic kinky   reggae   would stow ‘way   home           If we start thinking  about the things    that keep us  in  a  place   we know we   shouldn’t be in        and   as the gates   swing    open      jump rope  like boxers   training  in velour short shorts    and spitfire    just to  keep brides  in the jungle    sequestered / the sore lavender nipples of the dairy cows  add a rude dimension to the tasting menu   but that’s   what feeds  you  this sour mold juice, like the tiny yellow hands that piece together these machines    american dolls  and   darn that  charming  cardigan  made  in Stanley Cowell’s   incantatory  shroud of a  winter  power outage  ,  every  shimmering  object  settles    in cold  blood   but    I will not be interrupted of it     I’m sending you two black babies    the greeting card  reads    the wood of the reed splits    like the chief’s  prophecy/mask     Ma remembers    the   one that  sold     her  first      was   it  her father      what is   a   father  bay on  net  lots  of stray turtle   doves     in this tribe,    ruler  and thundering    Beula   sucking  on the missing leg    of  a queen’s   stool,   hers,  aa  fa s   nursing trumpet     was   she   her   father          I will not  be interrupted     even to be my  own   father    watching me   dance   and earn him    a village   even by Black Christ of the Tropics     begging   to learn  his name   in   silver  verses          I  will not be interrupted    I    will  not  be  interrupted

Tuesday, June 6, 2017

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Thursday, May 25, 2017

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Red is for Ritual

I can tell when a machinegun sits cocked on whitey’s shoulder from the sightline  from the watchpoint —from the squared close up  on a stoic crowd   of negro cowboys  each one  with bloody M  a a f a   toppling out of his             arms  into colossal  Otis Redding        And if  you ever        oh how grateful I would  be    He  teases   their  urges     an opportunist      what is it about the american  west    drugs  taste   better  , the blood gushing  from  the clone’s veins  sweet as a prop,  the joy  of being watched  overrides the erotic fear of being hunted    and the in their haunted  crossfire  we   can  admit  it to one another,      our disaster survives  Maafa   survives    alongside   the desert  beggars  pretending   themselves   scarce   on  all  fours    in a pond of her genes   she’s  ever   reassembling     she gets  closer    he taps the trigger  is flooded by     a cargo  of  yellow  ribbons   instead  of   yellow women      and  the omen  in women    mellow   as   ever   as  we tiptoe across    the   bloated  ocean    with  machineguns on our shoulders,  heads back, laughing  —    should   have  told  her  you loved her that one   time    ,     should  have    known     bend  from  shine     now   even the timing  of angels        is hysterical