Tuesday, June 26, 2018

Black Spring: Amnesia

Don’t forget this country has tried to kill me. Don’t forget I haven’t raised my weapon yet. I’m sitting here, knees to my chest, speaking to the waves and gulls. And the rhythm of our hymn is wet with deluge Slim and delusion, deluded expectation, so many drugs and windows until nobody knows the difference between DMT and an empty heart. Flashes of cards and clubs, topdog rubs his laminent, the iron red fingertip of that grips a flush in a mudra for custody. What would you do to save somebody true. I would do that too. We made this pact like George and Lenny but backwards. Don’t forget to kill your father if he heads toward the plantation foaming at the mouth and crying mercy. Don’t forget to get him some mercy.

Wednesday, June 20, 2018

Invisible Summer Moons

The alienation of labor is almost  complete and my trance from it    is a feat of candor not dirty and deliberate  like machines dirty and deliberate like a     woman heroic with carelessness like   a worker of a loom moon blind like a municipality   and glutathione the antioxidant they take to go white as whales     the valve of hope in the   almost   in the alamo   is that it  can be stopped    that dread can  watch desire like its   prey and let us out into    space I’ve been led out into  space lured there like virgin remi   braids and endless shadows and there are    still roosters here little girls clad in dog   masks with fists in their mouths a perfect gay   couple whispering about Chekov into the hills chekov   soft as roosters while their boy child writhes hips criss   crossing with fists at the sun, moving like a gif come to shed its seconds into something eternal and vivid,  making it rude to look away and it wouldn’t be the first time the light was winning all mood   vanishing in the name of attitude all of us screaming this like matter baths joy   seeks  eternity     are  we its   good habit  or the bad   and do we need  categories in the invisible    where  blindness implies wholeness    by default they are shaking   chubby hands about it now children   shackled to the oars of slow boats like    the soggy caskets of all your weeping ideas      while space songs urge you to remain calm sure  that light is faster than disaster birth will split  their palms into feed for the broken factories come     native suns and nothing resists completion like a lie            all any man yearned to do now was believe this and resist it himself      and go crazy and tell everyone sell some records about telling everyone

This process alters the contents  of happiness The shadow we wished to  become is gone now and the famers listed    as murders are turning up alive  in its place  if    you reshape    desire you will  reshape the earth       they   whisper     hitting it   with the hoe’s    edge frozen in  their deepest moment of  provocation and okay with    it their bodies hoeing together    making a maze of guitars the strings   and cables and Billy Harper and asking    like it’s admit-it-or-be-cursed and forced into   another labor camp, what did you make today, show me ?     I used to think pimps were evil and lazy. I used to believe the white shade    was shedding me in moments of relief and exile we stuffed needles   in the blank and I saw my ranking in the compliance my way of    of confusing dread with desire my love of looms with my love of workers

Sunday, June 17, 2018

Afro-fascism: A Manifesto

No more tiny prisons of the nondescript diaspora. No more Ezekiel luddite shit. No more capitalism. No more democracy. No more blackness. No more negation or shadow as scapegoat. Out in the open, our bloodthirst, our hunger for power is no longer a secret. Our evil is no longer a matter of being soulful and docile when the time calls for revolt. We can hold rallies for only those who love us indifferently, indignantly, too. Live in a bent grammar of fanatics. We can rent out the Louvre in gyrate about what’s reduced to beautiful in fluffy hems and sneakers cause that’s in style, cause that’s the truth. We can  gargle with magazines and be opulent runaways. Runaway in your best dress and jewels because later, for the war, if you need something to sell you’ll be wearing it. Promote your radiance because later if need the dark you’ll be its master. Say the word zeitgeist faster, we are all rappers. Nigga shit and all that, that’s ours. And then when you want to get sensual, and stop being so defensive, deliberate, didactic, you will have the rally’s momentum to hide behind and can glory in the privacy your spectacle creates and make something realer, less relatable. Your propaganda for a self will save you from yourself. And you’ll have the patience to tell a small town story about somebody regular, a girl walking through church as she’s tossed into a bomb, no not her. A girl walking to school along a rail of knotted ropes, impaled as she begins to skip. Not that girl either. A black girl without a care in the world because her fascist parents control your image of the world. Does she know how lucky she is, how many risks lift the roses to a terrace above it all where she can sit and think about egypt or the history of exoctic healing plants, or when she watched her daddy die and was told to clap, and he was clapping too and that was actually a movie in a reclusive benefactor’s house, she wasn’t supposed to see it but that’s ok because in this perfect private life he greases her scalp while she devises new ways to forget what she’s supposed to see. For a while the whole world forgot who to be angry at as black entertainers took over every system, for a while that forgetting was a kind of peace, a kind of renewal. We deferred everything. We let everything go, for a while. No more vulnerability around trees and oceans. The cross is an instrument of torture and we abdicated its tyranny for a new kind of rule. No more pretending God is dead. No one calls you too nuanced when you stop pretending.

Thursday, June 14, 2018

Black Spring: White men praying to me with my own hands

He was the third white man that day who had   sent me the brown hands praying emoji like a   lyric in the sheering empathy my shrug broke  into shudder and I charged historical processes  were becoming biological ones they were thanking me   with my own hands sensing the guilty shamelessness in his  slang I sent the silence some watermelons and spreadsheets    a couple lemons ten rainbows and a gun with my own thumbs with  my own war and I thought to myself this girl's crazy but she's happy

Wednesday, June 13, 2018

Sunday, June 10, 2018

Black Spring: Reckless Abandon

Whatchu  know about   emotional ties         and the jive soul  of going rogue    I was telling the truth  again wearing crushed velvet  to the gym sending the FBI   love notes and threats : if you   keep spying on black people we’ll keep  Whitley in your ear and the rebel buzzard drone  you call a heart scars every steep patch of nonsense    with meaning an enemy endless machine that you   carry me is a matter of your own desperation for clients       for feathers scooting into the wing loosening the old rugged   cross

Friday, June 8, 2018

Wednesday, June 6, 2018

Black Spring: Differentiation

In my perfect imagination      touring the ransacked garden of  eden his naked black body hanging  among les pommes his palms cusped  around the genitals like any man caught   in the clutches of his own sentimental aggression,   histrionic the veins in the neck still enlarged   with the choked off scream it’s like the ghost of redemption   in that hung up soul is walking on the atlantic like    it’s his stage, toward the backdoor of the christian myths with his    dick out laughing, asking Job to reconsider righteousness is it really a   virtue to love your enemy is it really the tree of life dangling all slain    fathers in an outward pronouncement of thirst am I really breathing or just talking  to godheads like they’re less and less yesterday maybe your scissoring heart is a scab on my guard’s    good skin and him falling back into the earth only to grow forth again even less reluctant to know    what he is and show up to it guiltless playing some space stuff humming Somewhere Over the Rainbow, grabbing his dick  while you slit his throat

Friday, June 1, 2018

Black Romantic Lead

They’re calling me the first black princess  (liars) the wonder royal the mark.   They’re calling me a fugitive an accomplice      an escaped convict actress at the cattle call just wanna play  that one black singer with the hands, the romantic lead. They’re calling   me black like it’s a riddle and my mama blue like she’s   a loose level of sky in the new iambic five rimmed human that   limb that infringement blue lake numb They’re calling me Angela hussy    sustenance intentional in my suffering in my next life in this    life the wealth of it aches having been stolen from love the neck  of it drifts to the left like an eavesdropping yellow dove if I am being watched    If I have a guardian If I am to witness the grinning garden feed me to its carnivores and  madmen They are calling me a savior They are calling me a slave I almost forgot I am that man’s   daughter product of a love so grand it birthed its own object They’re calling me that too a     winner / the black miraculous but I heard winter and tore the netting off in chapel swear ima roll  out the green glass of happy endings and step on it till my souls bleed them singing won’t bleed me       the   many  voices   of blank    boychildren paid    to call me and  hang up and hang    me by sun up and mount me  to the metropolitan wall and    gaze muttering baby  you look  so unfaithful     at the gates        They’re   calling me      a faith a  low down religion       a lazy way be born  inside

a    runaway  a runaway    a runaway a  runaway

               a runway flurried   with her magnetic disappearing