Thursday, September 28, 2017
There are no wealthy black people, I overheard. We get rich though. We show up in gold with delicious appetites for luxury and leave in rags and discontinued yeezys. Find some more gold and pawn it for chapels. Capitalism lacks a redeeming fable. We are that fable. Blackness is that. Black people. We wave the bull into charge with nowhere to run but toward him. We break this constant danger into its lyric shame or shambles and roll out. Roll out.
Salute the screeching ladder It grows on a tree it falls as dead cadavers are floating in the streets and some sardonic needle approaches in place of a boat braced with fever and eluvium the toothless smile of new sharks, feels like everyone is in disguise while I tiptoe by naked and stray carrying the gifts revealed by their undoing or being the gift an offering that isn’t sacrifice but ribboned gauntlet sharp and fast to slice a burden into ash assure them of their safety from the podium in the saddle of a bomb the jaundiced trauma of triumph doesn’t warn the lion it will become its own prey on the rim of conquer
lonely man lonely man doesn’t warn her as fists of laughter slur the name through lattice and fastened tilt ma a f a ma a aaaaafa did it really happen I don’t work for him do you work for him ?
A rumor mute with two-way memory and as empirical as lazarus who had the fire all to himself and forgot how to burn That habit of starting over of getting it better or getting it the same calls himself black with a 6 at the l with a hissing accelerator calls herself ma a fa mother and father coerced onto the song as shadows of the flexed hands of silent clowns
I came around in silk gloves and a gown-like overcoat scarlet puddles on my lips and held the ropes of Sonny Liston’s ring before he was a bell heaving this jester of me into his sheepish eyes beat me as hard as you would if you owned me I whispered and we went over some rules together
Tuesday, September 26, 2017
This belligerent devotion got close to Rome hit send senseless until the s was invisible and swollen machine I love you so. The world has ended with Stevie Wonder on two knees as a rising sea collapses over Puerto Rico and my disdain for literal negroes vanishes with all the lights out. All the lights went out and remain. All the remains are about M a a f a and I’m a main bitch to every somebody, hush now touch Jehovah leaflet with a been-saved howl and what color are the weeping eyes in his kneecaps what crooked childhood 50 yard dash he was always winning because he couldn’t see the finish line she was always cheering from just beyond All the electric lights that is. There’s still this trophy wife highlighter by badgirl riri there’s still a dirty blond leak in the sky a crisis of shine a golden time keeper a public enemy with the watch tickling his neck for creases and fight. I keep fighting like that golden crisis like that blind singer on his knees in prayer like the ice isn’t melting into rabid azul lace and the others aren’t eating one another in a mellow tone while the lights shone well underground and the bite marks roam like sirens Ima eat my baby first cause I don’t want him to see this Ima feed him to the abstract birth slipping free from time I ate my baby I bled him out into the high sea screaming fight the power fight the power I had a nightmare this was medicine for a nightmare
Sunday, September 24, 2017
Thursday, September 14, 2017
Wednesday, September 13, 2017
Once upon a Summertime by Gil Evans is as irresponsible as a fairy or free niggas. As us hugging boats and smiling. The way his tone leaves you stupid as blue lake no. 1, an additive, sped up and pitched down, ducking bullets and big lights, another Adderall addict, healed of attention as a broken child, heralded in the wild odor of shy lavender and burning servitude in the service of not anarchy but some hip nudge between brothers about to leave up out the rhyme. Don’t ever let anyone break you, eyeshine, roulette, you, and I. But did you want to recover (anyone)? Did anyone want to, or the new earth too, recover? Did you want that self back, the patented only-the- impossible-happens one drowning in Sundays. I had started to see paradise in mass extinction a jagged winking mirage of new area codes, new hoes, hoses cobraing in black and white photos above the protest as you chew the dangling leg of an octopus, gather its eight hearts in afterglow in Agharta, in the middle of us tweaking on the cusp of the moss agate on my kitchen faucet like a lost gate parting soft dirty green be mine, earth sleazy minor key, be gone. I had started to like us again. Slanged as candy good as gold, us. Letting life imply its opposite, I had picked a side. Bye bye, daddy, and Babylon, to be alive there is no wrong way to be the song so longed for to slaughter all the others
Sunday, September 3, 2017
Saturday, September 2, 2017
M a a f a trusts a song a whole wrong note don’t just disappear Ma hops on a bus with Lonnie Holley and bends metal into what arose A sort of tenderness that is almost grotesque were it on display so he hunches over gives me a way to rinse off in the morning and leave before he wakes up, already be making time on his fuzzy ass Already asking about Berlin. Whatever was inside me then, whatever akashic shyness released to bleed in silence it disappeared on that boat on labor day Melvin paid me in kelp and then crept into recess with the other patterns ruby jade plaid and laura dern in blue velvet was she in that ? She in it now