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
