Sunday, October 7, 2018

Maafa and the Moneychangers

Any   city might     fall of some   lumber keel wallow   wheel in a low low altar     made of now that the revolution   has—
   
    Castrated   its last    rape victim               I feel safe do you     feel safe? In any city I might      pick the night’s last trapdoor hour    to run half naked to a lover’s  house negro trench coat and lace now   that the saddle is drilled in revival              

                                                                                                                                   Meeting tomorrow I know I keep asking but is this tomorrow? That scratch off lotto gunk       in the conductor’s thumbnail makes him tin man christ hollow in the joke of bloodlines   as if anatomy is out of time rhythmless heartless if this is the last gimmick before    the end of law I’d give him the softest most final manicure in the trigger finger          a mannequin of an apple prying the mouth open to tell how even the inanimate objects have their insistent    violence feel idle and virgin without their gun or nagging wonder when I arrive at his door safe    and half naked he looks like he’s been fucking white women I grimace and back away defiant in a      daze of safety they reinvent satan give him a spraytan give him a woman to love and one to    damage make them the same woman now that the revolution has ruined indifference we’re all so candid and  empty it’s like there’s no more alphabet it’s like the whole s e t is mute the whole brutalized radiance I was so used  to