Wednesday, November 29, 2017
Tuesday, November 28, 2017
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 ?
Monday, November 27, 2017
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
Saturday, November 25, 2017
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?
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
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.
Friday, November 17, 2017
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
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
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
Tuesday, November 14, 2017
Friday, November 10, 2017
Tuesday, November 7, 2017
Monday, November 6, 2017
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.
Wednesday, November 1, 2017
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