Papa the hot simplicity is crazy in East St. Louis the hamlet the brigade these damn mittens dangling from a stainless steel fan and Ali’s championship gloves lit up by the haitian bombs when we were just dancing words spared by the tom toms except the speed of his injury is jazz a lazy lexical disaster pace we call that riot now the only retail left is the laundromat and no one will come clean again and the hunters on the rooftops are my fathers and the catch is the inertia of their sorrow with his free hand he’s nibbling a soda cracker to stave the nausea the noosed intentions with my answers I’m sitting here in copper chokers asking a ghost if he believes in ghosts because nobody can say no to me this summer nobody can say the large red grocery is worth saving nobody can have the gloves and leave the glory nobody’s father is a lot of rooftops and freedom of information acts later called a hero for knowing when to run
Mine is though
That mine was finna blow
Who was that mine finna blow high with my glimmering overture
A hassle of light gone still as a hex severed to sharp as
a natural star
And everyone was cheering/ kept asking
who’s next who’s next
