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   

Saturday, February 18, 2017

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

Monday, February 13, 2017

Never leaving las vegas

Sometimes we speak in my head/ a crest of breakthroughs.  You ask what I am wearing and I ask why so much the things from the yard. Stray lace and a marginal luau. You ask what color and I say is the strippers pole also her mirror, green. You say some shit about my mother and I watch you walk into a wall of glass. It shatters and I watch the blood turn to ash. The ice in your drink unites with the poison and before they took the tones out of language there was a word that meant stop poisoning yourself when the ice melts or it will take you along. Sheets of song not sheets of glass. Notes not blood. Corrosive dystopia, strut up your luck. Angela Davis debuts at your favorite strip club. In her fugitive days, lithe as a razor to naked cocaine. She has on her best Betty Davis nasty. The one who got beat not the one who got eyes. Black eyes. Sigh. Got ‘em. All on me. Ever wonder who taught you that need is dirty? Ever kiss one in the mouth?

Deep down we are most proud of the part of us we ruin in solidarity with this endless american winter : the need to be loved by the men we need to love, ruined  as them           ruined as them    

Monday, February 6, 2017

What jesus did

So I, in my own case, in order to become a moral human being, whatever that may be, opted to hang out with whores and junkies, and to stay out of the temple, and this is if course what jesus did too

Sunday, February 5, 2017

Friday, February 3, 2017

The terrifying swiftness of form and action when they are perfect

The fire  ever nearer   slices ice to mirrors     absentmindedly  you find yourself in some mellow eden    lunging toward a buckled shore     the crease in the water wears your last breath  like its taunt, forever       almost        terror parody  almost     fever  era    pony   on the   wall  of an ancient stone    gallops  off  into the crest   and   lapis   and  centerstage suddenly    aloe leaf puss  from the double eyes   of double niggas    find that word in every arena  like home   I find   my baby sister back on her texas pole  shine      they say we have good genes     kind  could be anything  genes    scene and been needed for anything     genes    they  say    the arrow  plays  a joke  on the target   and swerves into its mother    full force      and everybody's   always   alive  some more    is that what we're fighting  for     form     not  just shy    elbows  on a 50s diner counter   oppressed ones tucked in leather swinging from a ceiling  somewhere with poplars    would you walk there with us under a canopy of the rotting flesh   of everything you've  ever run from     had you been hunted  but not  eaten   and what do the millions of us  waiting to be consumed  do  in our huddled truce of luminescence     having been made into fancy pets    blacks  they call us   with  affectionate  disdain     may we bleed the ladder with our  elaborately non committal   pride  maybe we laughed too hard at our own suffering  maybe the clowns  got lonely for a storm