No men will break our bones

 

http://afrosonics.tumblr.com/post/168006957234/those-men-will-break-your-bones-dont-know-how-to

 

Superfund

If    that  man    was   my   father       then   maybe    you’ll   understand    me       when  I   give    these    neat   instructions        :   Tuck    in    your    floating    ribs  and  stand   inside   of     a  mountain   Sinai    or any  rounded sufi Denver    or Vail  or     Turkey,   Blue Ledge River     peru    or          Egypt   receives  the second  most   aid    after   Israel    from the    United   States       Mohammad   the   prophet   of   mercy   will   kick    your    fidget   spinner     out   from  beneath   your   palm        hands    to   heart center      in  prayer       heart   to  your   knees   in    surrender       knees    to   the   dirt   in   supplication         eyes       closed      and    blindfolded        and   as    if    there     is     a  rigid     rope       dragging      you      into       the      distance       resist    to   urge       to    survive  it   and    which     disappears    first       you      or    the  mesh   loop   and benched messiah   trying    to  guide  your   will      How  deeply    do   you  identify    with    and    depend   on     and    feed    on     and    demand     your    own   destruction,       deception     Marshawn  Lynch    hung   like   a   hamhock       to  answer   every  question   yes  suh   sweet  daddy sungod  suh      if    you    ate  us     alive          whose     was     the   invasion     and    what     band     of  bones    counts   the escaped  graves    while    you     stand     inside   the   mountain  humming  Hendrix and      collecting   orange    berries         calling  the  reasonable  ones    superfoods,  hunting  the honey  away  from  its sting like  true  cowards          would   you   go   hungry   if  we    changed   your   name ?

First Supper

The way a white  gizzard like  neck  hinges back in  shameless    awe   and      erotic   hatred is    the  exact  inverse   of   the bow  in  the  lynched  man’s  head   slinging toward  the crowd   or   one  side    like   a nod      or   endlessly revolving  paddle.  Better  to  leave  here    alive   than   to  leave  here    dead    the  bled  out   body  knows     becoming  the molasses of   the  sycamore     and     the   history   of   your   festive   sickness.     Next   is    the   castration.  The  part they’ve   all been waiting   for.   The  preacher   does    the   honors,  the  hanged   was   a  sinner    the    score   was    his    color     low   in     the   dim      with    a  whisper   of   ocean   bottom.   He   uses   a   simple  pocket  knife   to  cut  the  ripe   sex   down    as  if    he   himself   has  birthed   it    from   an    emptied   scripture.     Then   someone   starts   a  fire with some fallen limbs     the    crowd    gathers     eager    and    waits    for   the   dark member   to  char  and   everyone     gets   a  taste     of  his   own     desire     to    be    part   of    the    body   under   the  sycamore     tree—     Nothing   animates   these   people    like    the   flowers     of    their    own     evil,    only   the   veil  of   death   makes  them   dance.    Backing     away     from   the   scene  to   get   a  closer  walk:    a    crowd   of   white      men   and   women    surround   one   black   man         hang   him in an arbor   until he’s    presumed    dead         castrate  him     and   eat    his     seed      never    looking     away    from   his   naked   body                for long enough         to   appreciate  this    sacred   birth   of  their     nation    

A little girl casts her being up through the menace of being that

The    aptitude       for    holding   back         the    erratic    limbs      of   the   defenseless       by  bending     their    frequency  toward   reckoning            makes     her      a       dream.            A     dream     is   a   death wish  inverted. She  makes  you     want     to   live.  #metoo.   A    dream    is   a rambling    valley    full   of   the    horrors   and  obscenities  lurking within  your  personal   utopia,  bitter  and rogue and forgiven.   If   it’s     so     perfect   there   why  are   you    wrecking it  with the   diversion        that  you     are.        If    the   clues    are    unsettled  agonies   and   euphoric     grooves   against   the daggers    of    looking      whose    sight   are  you   testing    with   the    blind   man   you  said you    love.  Why   is there a towel  in     the   flowers.   My  hands   don’t fit    around   his  neck   but  they   fit   around   his    reckless  cock like cloaks and lords,  so there.   And   there.   He  won’t     even   give   up   dairy    when   I    tell him  it’s    why   he    can’t    breathe.    Not  just   the  police,    though   they    have    an  ivory green    hand     in    it        not    just     the   open    fist   I   render    round    his   adam   in    a     dream,       his    means     of     telling     his   subconscious    he  wants    to    survive      he  wants     to   be    punished     he    wants     an    assassin       as   if   he’s    earned   anything     so    generous.  He   wants   an   accomplice.   Maafa      :   as       dreamed   up   as    the  god   in   machine.     She’s   a   dream  of   his   dream    of   her    dreaming       a promise  that   sleep  is long gone    as   the   stars   flaunt and  fawn    the   darkness  for admitting  to them.   We   are  not,    never    have  been     secrets.     Not even   when   we   see  killing    and    saving     as     the same     heathen   in them.   Not   even    when     we   break   a  man   into   a  god    just  to  prove   god   is    dead    again.   And the devil  he invented  is  so   emotional  about  himself  as   we  go    on   being  his   most honest   mirror.   A   man  who  can’t   really    be   evil  can’t    really   be   good.    A  woman   too.     Do   you   believe   that?     

Giovanni, Run

Are  we     even        bending   over   to   touch   our    feet   in   the  morning       just   out of  bed,    sleep crumbling in the     eye   crease      reticent         crescent   sun   flinching   from    kettles         releasing   the lumbar   spine   arms   hung   like   crimes   head   caressing  the  feet  with shadow        are we   even    over    ourselves      by    the      time     a    rich    man   pulls  out       his    lumpy   phallus        sneaks   in      from   behind   promising      we        like   it.          Retracing   my    steps.     Yes, I had doubled    over            yes   there      was    a  second      version   of     me     who     needed     to    see    the world     end     in   this     disheveled   matriarchy     yes     it      was  a    good   excuse      for    all   this   running     no  I  did   not   like   it        no   your   cum        wasn’t     sweet    and    right    where    it     landed          in a corpse   of moon.     I didn’t    confess   because    you   didn’t    confess.    It’s   better    waiting   for   the    secret  to   eat  you   the  way I taste it  everyday     as  our endless bluest    intimate.    Palming   the   velvet      then     clawing     it  then  laughing   like backwater  at   an impasse  about to blurt itself out and be everywhere,     Fuck   your   couch.   

Ai, Run.

She sits there like I didn’t slap her a few seconds ago        rapt in the smiling copper/mine    and sniffing   dust   for the  final bit  of   industry    could be bartered   for         a  night   in the    square    with   no  morning.    If   she    hadn’t   died young-like     all    the    ones       she   left   for   dead     in   the   field    or  cooked     into     the   confessions,   confections,   infected   suns,      aestheticized.   If   she   hadn’t     treated   the   brutalization    of   women    like   such     a   problem,    been   raped   on     prom   night     and     then     again      and   again      for   as  long  as   she could   count   to  zero.   And dissolve,      be  solved for hollow  peaches.  So if I seem   broken  and blue.   Angela Davis’   brother     is   the   CEO   of Xerox,     I heard.  Bitches  be  copying, niggas too,  everything,  desperately,   keep  this  record      you’re  disappearing  and    disappointing   me.     I heard  she’s  a narc    and the   narcs    are  heroes    and   don’t    get   killed  off by   the artificial   intelligence.   It’s   all lies    and   scorned  rumors   of course,   everything  important  is    by  now       so  numb     it    howls    in   silence with  Julien Priester and them  and me,     keep  this   record.     .   Ai    the  poet        not     the   pitted  plum   of   our trophy   hunting   and     unintelligence,      not the   dead    sardines    that   keep washing    up   in   cans   and side   by   side  on   Dr. Oz.   It is in her   lavish  violence  that   we   recognize  the   depth   of   our   need   to    be  loved      to   touch  devils    with   feathers   that   unnerve  them   and    sever    the   red   clay        of  gender   with  knives   as patient   as   mirrors                cracking  inside   the   flesh    like wasps  nests                  hatching     as   the  disease   you  catch   when    you  outrun     everything     and  can’t  forgive   yourself     this      delirious    and  lonely  beauty              

What is it about the negro?

http://afrosonics.tumblr.com/post/167552105394/what-is-it-about-the-negro

 

He keeps me

He keeps    me   sipping   pearls          fingers   in     the   socket            feeling     for    his     wet   corpse    and  crying      

 

       I     insincerely   can’t    remember            I    do   remember       wanting      him     dead     but       I   blank     at   the        going   through               and   then   I kept      wanting       him     back                       Never   remove      scars      

Card  game     suit    of  flowers       in  the     cleared   out     sugar     factory         when  you   fan   them   down    and     declare           defeat        I’ll       be      watching      like    a    lucky     scar         from    the     show     window     on   the         top    floor        with   Jim     rotting       invincibly         becoming      a   crime            He     keeps         me     criminal      minded       and      I    like     it       very   much                 to        capture    Patty  Hearst   in black      who   one      day        will      start      craving       babies  of  her   own            That’s     the  difficulty    with  being    a  woman     and   militant  tender        one    day      you’ll       want     to   breed        something     innocent         of     your        disordered     longing      and      a    world     that   doesn’t     need    remedy        and    you   might   have    to   settle     for    amnesia      for       taking       someone    out     to   make   this    a    safer   place           and    you    will    consider      yourself      innocent       and     reborn          

You don't resemeble nothin' (1)

You’re a poet he said, and you don’t believe in love?
And he put his head down on the table and began to cry.   

When I say vision I do not mean dream

How do we do that

 

http://afrosonics.tumblr.com/post/167229506044/to-be-irrepressible-finally-to-not-be-stopped

 

Blues for the good manners of vampires

And then here is somebody offering me a million dollars to become a whore.  I take it and become a  poet.  Find out there is no difference    between  words besides who and what wears them and the environment they intend when naked—seduction or truth, or seduction for the sake of truth,  or truth for the sake of seduction.  I take it and become a poem. Pathologically true and etheric residue of a body that’s been sold into this blue sound for profit and feeds it back to the capitalists as prophecy, blues blood for sale. Come out to show them. A whore is just a physical embodiment of all your deflected desire. You pay her to hide you there in wish-fulfillment,  to hold you hostage in her revelation. Poems are that. The opposite of whatever you let draw blood until you’re so anemic you run from what you need for fear of healing, for fear that real touch is more dangerous than all this pretend intimacy. And it is. Take the money. You can only become what you are.

Say Her Name

Baldwin, Run

That’s the best mountain.  Go inside some. Inside  the mountain.   Without the Bible.    Put out your cigarette.    Your whole  family  is hungry.   Don’t  feed them    yet.    Go inside some.   Inside   the mountain.    That’s   the  best     mountain.        Are witnesses      snitches   too.     If   you  snitch   in the   ghetto.     See   Amiri’s   front tooth.     Never   fixed it      so  inside.    Inside   the   mountain.   Bent  over     moanin  riot   slum  hyatt regency  come up.       What  kind  of   moaning?  Both kinds.    You’re   lying.   Snitch.     Liar.     Pleasure    hurts.      That’s  the best     mountain.    It’s   a     set     up.     Up  in the     inside        enclosed     and    no    way   down    but   deeper  in    and   higher.      Your   furnished   room     is    ready.     Your  burning    river    blood   red       ready.    Your      dead   hunger       your    other   Daddy      the   unknown    the     battle   stricken   inconnu     is    the  mountain        teller      troubadour      sweepstakes       at   the   door       with      a   fake      million   dollars      and    even     that      isn’t      what    you’re     hunting        inside    some   one      inside   the     best    mountain          stuck     on   the      peak    a    needle        or    oligarch     or      yourself        when    free  from   yourself        lured   there   by   need    kept     by  defiance         a  good   ugly    plan       a   beautiful    answer,    orphan,   ofeo   folds    the   rock     and     waits   inside          thumbs   on     the   tender   arrows   in   his    ears                pressing    legere  as  hoods and pale as the tide sipping cotton