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    

Friday, May 19, 2017

Saturday, May 13, 2017

Honeysuckle, noble soldier

Dear Babylon,

In the hollow fuse of doomed adventure M a a f a  got fertile as a flickering Novemeber field   and egalitarian   indicating rape   or surrender.  Middle hysterias mistaken for surrender include    sleep love   hunger  prayer  penetration   shredded carrots encased in plastic flickering like descheduled devils horns    empty FEMA caskets buried deep   in the shackled imagination  and the playacting play cousins   whose agape gazes lose track of those playing dead  or replace   them   studiously.  Don’t ask her meaning, ask her use.  I think she had a body or two inside of her when the third one came alive. I know possession works both ways. I’ve known rivals and they perished trying. I know the canoe sinking into the lake hurls debris at the psyche of each silent threat and the cloying Barracudas don’t settle in no coy truce like two cars and four walls and emancipation paper ransom note:  pagan, pilgrim, roll up    glock in hand and bible sandwich.  I know when he called me babygirl a pressure gathered in my chest, a disgusted readiness disguised as pleasure-seeking, a tribal worm writhing from his heart to mine    and no minor island remedy could be so ready as the womb        Babygirl what’s a barracoon     What’s between a miracle and a nightmare  whitenesss ?   where    Yeah baby  right there, split it open      Maafa finna go in on these wings

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Monday, May 8, 2017

Sunday, May 7, 2017

Hippocampal neurogenesis

Dear Babylon,

Had  you call  me M A A F A       after   the rock cry out.   No longer wanna lick you off  the sides of my mouth and spit you out in rhymes.  Would rather murder you and do my time in dula numerals. I counted tunnels  in the funny junkyard.           counted the minutes I could spend in open air and forced myself illiterate in American values and it was lit.    Neurotic with hip teeth and  a  Thad Jones lisp.          We needed to get outside.  Even if we had we to run up   on a liquor store    promising             I ain’t never  coming  home no more

Thursday, May 4, 2017

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

Fat of the lamb

M   a     a     f   a              f   a  t  i   m   a      and them       watch   the planes   circle      coffins      and skip   dance              in    step               

           ma   tha   fucka           ma    fad    fodda r            locked   up     and   bloodletting        such wretched  survival         

Ma  fa        far   away   rival  of  a veiled    shove of    a crier   back  in the   wailer’s  mouth          

Ma   a  f a   Jonah     and  them           punch   the  pretentious   air    come   candling     into    narrative like      give  or   take    a   few    haints     the train   was  plenty   empty            fa  low    me       

                                                                                                                                                In  leaving         

The Chinese character    for  crisis     means  both      opportunity      and   danger         fa   low        me   in   undervaluing        that   shame         that      planned  burden           Ma  a  f a         and    a flock   them     

Wacka  Flacka    is      woke   as      fuck            when                    flat  much   of     a cousin       secret     lover   

        Rubbed   mauve         doves     on Slauson     posing   in    massa   lottery      g  wagon           with   Marvelous        and      unsentimental     clarity    

Sunday, April 30, 2017

Thursday, April 27, 2017

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

Mind and Time

 Mineral      so close to mania     it's a slow   uphill slope    mounting someone's mama  and a mountain    of mammy  figurines       could be the lantern  fallen  incendiary   that lights the path to will      so clenched  as a golden million dollar baby      could be the way   we objectify our dreams together    always feminine    and some violent  entrance disguised  as sensual    some pretty kill 

      My friend flashes a diamond in psychoanalysis  while explaining how her father raped her relentless     the  clock   kicks the hour toward a paycheck   the lithium  is about to run out when a young kid in uganda volunteers  to pull it from the earth in exchange for his silence    This desire to tell a story   where the answer is the dance    is  all  I ever       swore I was kneeling in prayer with a half moon in my belly   wept neatly   a bundle of needles   in a  slow singular drum     

Monday, April 24, 2017

Monday, April 17, 2017

Friday, April 14, 2017

One night I had slept quite deeply / (unboxing) 1

The naked blond barbie  is everywhere    waldo  waldo / so territory     so Jay Versace  squinting in a barrel of expired ruffles    at the army surplus where they house Alameda County homeless and feed them expired food products   and bow    silently  on the way back to townhouses   at     the    way   it feels   taking to the fields   the way it feels to burn them    down      that thrilling and lifelong hunt   for an enemy   will paint  you    will send   you somewhere  funny     to fall to your knees  and mime rude   pageant gospel     or pattie labelle in a different world  or shop   for hospitable    dollhouses           The hose is on in a ghostlike  way     the raggedy   white hyundai is so clean   a meth head can take it  to a fix    with the naked blond barbie   strapped into  the front  seat    oh    baby       didn’t  I feed you   bleach     and seagrams        didn’t    I   pull the lint  from velcro         


                                                                    Ain’t that crow  circling stolen  from nabokav    give  it back baby,   return  that       lullaby  like   exactly      aestheticized    sickness    to where it burns  in you   

Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

Friday, March 31, 2017

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Sunday, March 19, 2017

Thursday, March 16, 2017

Goldilocks Zone

Astronomers are searching for rocky planets like ours   in the goldilocks zones of other stars   

In the desperation to become  more  like  our  brainwashed selves           I counted five thousand black women with blond hair  and pituatary tumors from  the dye and toner   no recollection        has it  been worth it    this muppet aesthetic?             

Our bodies form based on the spectrum of sunlight they  are  under    every planet creates  beings  like every continent    get closer to the equator and  the mouths  lush as fountains  eyes bending light isles of natural magic in a row of machine addicts    I choose you  and all your miserable comfort   goes     dissolute

When their tans  fade      they could almost  pass     between the two  tropics and get back to their violent wishes        the   house in that fable     is a  black  body      the  moral  is don’t  be a whore     

Ethnic cleansing comes on subtle   all of a sudden   black girls   are all platinum  plato  humming dope in the bushes   he means   a flashing   question  : what brings you here ?    and next thing you know   the chain gang hobbles  along  whistling  dixie  or your body’s so flimsy we could lease it  with no credit  check   

You have pledged such reckless allegiance to this land  can you shake it down  

Monday, March 13, 2017

Welcome to the Slaughter, Children

Whispered: it could not  be dreamed          gutted castles   and heme  group fairytales and the occasional rebel    laugh     factor  the   wind      s   dashing  babble       soft brushes  on metal  cymbals   and the way a liar   folds   into   himself   over  time      trapped in a stranger’s    bible        becomes   a nest of hints   

                      You  see the kephra beatle  always  pushing  up the sun  then beating his chest shouting:    tell me I won   tell me   one    difference  between   hope   and memory         won the movie    !   I won the movie      Turns out it was bootlegged   and not   in HD  and the bright  parts  looked  like interrogations      and the   black men hanging from saturn’s  rings    were  not actually acrobats  or actually   fugitives    they were  just  mapless   trees    perfect maples   spun  into  language in need of me to use them      one   screams :  
                                       This is the next best  thing to being a black woman  another sobbs on command   

Fatten him for winter   catch the human  furniture         too  many  commands     in literature    too few  questions  that  are their   own   answer         Never  anticipate  the voice  on the other  end     what is your  miserable  comfort?   

                                                                                              Step   right   up       step   right      up        
That auction chemistry is critical  and    delicate     

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

For real niggas who ain't got no feelings

Helicopter pilots  look  at the sun and the   propellers give them  seizures   

Yes Child,  Sing it   

And the violence of the beat began to calm  the violence in my heart    

Draw me nearer , eyedropper full of clear skies

The stage lights  swung  like   circus   lights    

Get it, gurl          

It's  sad to   see a window   shatter   

Sure  is    ,   matter   of    fact      

ten   just     this          tensile    weekend   of   sundowns        send  someone / anyone   

Did you  let  the sun    catch   you    crying     ?     Send  N  u  d   e   s    

             seen       shy/inklings   

Three times       only    three times    

  the  machine survives   our light   addiction but your stillness falls  from the clouds  to catch it

that was an astonishing surrender

what an astonishing surrender   

such an astonishing          surrender   

Sunday, March 5, 2017

Saturday, March 4, 2017

And sing a sorrow song so tough

 Everybody's  brother    bent over  in Korea    whispered  Jeremiah  at the bloodlined  earth   and came back with a    better  ride     Is that a cow's   ass      or are you   just   happy to see   me      turn  up the volume   on   Miles'   Solea   at the place  where the intensity   gets  unbearable     warm  shards  of   indifferent     air        round    the   delirious   bend   in your   soul     that has   you   screaming   citizen     big  crowd  of them  loud  motherfuckers   with their   inverse  entitlement    and amplified machines    what   is   an   audience    what does  it really  mean to just   watch  this 

I was singing  to hold  up the world         

And If you only   you   knew   how   lighthearted  that is     how far  past   bitter  how   my incessant joy  is   the  cruelest   thing   in    there is     the  only  belonging  worthy  of   the world   built   on endless grief    this     grin    

                       He shows  up    in,  with   his     clumsy   horse   talking   bout   get in   teeth  like   gates and   patience     and I  know I'm no  longer    dreaming       up   citizens   and   great   jungle flowers  in the garden   of what    might  have been     No longer an American like  that        cured  and   drunk   on   relief      humming  and packing    away  my invisible   strings        

For   a second I wondered how I could ever   have lived here     how anyone  had lived  here 

can you shut up about  lust    and  accept your  nakedness   as  sacred   
as   I   have         can you hold   sacred  the nakedness of  another 

He  laughed  again     and    we  made   the  light     

Sunday, February 26, 2017

Sex Tape or Future and Audre Lorde Fall in Love

Despite all their fervor    they were headed somewhere  limp  in the intellect    nursery rhyme dialect   headed  somewhere   all   circumference     hunnid  something for Sumerian  tablet happy meals   where  you get   to munch  the  code-cold   sun  upfront        the rest  when you've   eaten a bit of rat flesh   in the shape  of yesterday    perishing      

                                youth addiction   Future  dreams  of codeine   nibbles the white nipple wedged between him  and his    soul   stice  staaay sis     what  is this?   passes out   on   the battlefield       improviser  /   wisest   man   I  ever     mumbled    alongside          Power   with all the wars      in    it      ain't  shit       in    a   flawed   system      besides     self-destruction     may  all our enemies   become    powerful    and  empty    in   the  west       while  we sell our bodies   these   mumbled   prayers           codeine  ain't got nothin    to   do     with my   love, child     either  

labor   in the holds was painless 
bled  til  the chains lost  their grip   
And there are  tapes  to prove it 

Saturday, February 25, 2017

Friday, February 24, 2017

Compassion can be as various and devastating as the sin of pride

Blood is mostly   water         she thought to herself   catching what he coughed up  on her tongue  and thumbing it   into   cotton    costume     his eyes were  weaving   ,   growing   wings        his   isle was to wobble     ghost    mock   the   omen    most   men     override   in them       their very magic     torment          

How could you send me   here       to the final  broken   image   veering urgent   and  eternal    how could the sweatshirt hold diamond studded reindeer  and still be     casual /   a    munition       illness launched as power  or    the aesthetic of             limpid   stolid   lips  on the wall   hip  as  luck blood   or the new water somelier                                    carving  that bucolic  tunnel   into  the   bolted  will             

Give the black man the freedom  to  be his  own  enemy       
That’ll be the end   of Uncle  Tom   

That’ll bring your daddy back   and all his   guns   and song    

But freedom cannot   be   reformed    

Monday, February 20, 2017

And I just love that plastic horse so much

as in a plant whose roots are not in earth    but in the heavens     my soul  my seven elephants   my  old flame   enters  the lemon  tree and falls off / green    ferments   to  ripen   tastes    tense in glass         like memory :    you no longer have to listen  to a nigga sitting on a couch    

What was the significance of the kool-aid colors, then?  An armor of what kills us gleaming on the outside like a shield    and   no more mumble   rap  whole laugh track cacophony  into wave cap ad    /  clap for me     fuck your couch   /  latitude about  delusion 

And if you objectify all of your experiences    your soul  will seek   revenge in this    as commerce           or take   it  / in blood    

I used to trust   sugar     lust      and  municipal water      I used  be   an easy rider    Cheeto   fuzz so  pretty  like   carrots   but the roots of both left you for dead  or Jimmy Fallon   house band type   wanna be ready      and now come back to Chattanooga  acting brand new    looking to sell America  her own  rotten dream  by becoming   it        such rookie   mistakes    our best black events    such a young way to ruin