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