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