Thursday, March 28, 2019

Wednesday, March 27, 2019

Literally the Autopsy (of the so-called black body)

No matter how far gone he is   he never lets himself get killed  in a dream and this vicious  nonchalance this Sports Chalet shit     he pulls when he’s afraid of   his vision hems and seams the scam like    a carcass waiting to be kissed painted given    its inverse manger yesterday’s kef in tomorrow's  coffin we have the loftiest vendettas we vex and    buck and bled out the tire swing looking for the    meaning of the house it sways from like a vacant clock     of Maa fa do not let the clot lodge somewhere obnoxious and   watchout for the stiff wrists of addicts and what’s trapped inside   his head as madness laughing comes out catatonic screams we need to deal with     catatonia some more the entire turbulence of the digital world silent as a   blizzard as it nears itself dirty as thursday jupiter and rage day to grow    and spiral we need to deal with idols and the sulking boundary between eyes and      yes we need to see inside of the genocide to its heart which must be broken      wound up & dreaming of its own murder it loves go so much we must deal with  blame but who? I feel strange as an angel telling you to shape your mind and die but    what a caress we get in your stillness and we can say the deranged names of western hills        like all bets are off Leon lost his mind waiting for Maa fa to admit she knew where the body was and    float through new snow to the tucked black shoulders on the white bones of water I half remember him being awake   when they took him away in chains and suede it’s so hard to say genocide but Maafa comes out riding how the  savior rides with the endless middle ahhhh or ox and the yes / no eyes at the end of suffering when it becomes delirious        lucky she is the one watching their broken bodies beg for more she is the one saying yes and no and  softening sinners’ limbs into lasso

Wednesday, March 20, 2019

Maafa in Constant Gardens

Torch  the crop    to bring rise   to fertile land and   dance with jodorowsky around the  shouting arrows
I don’t   want to    get all mystical    about growth  but torch the crop   to bring rise to fertile  land

the  black gardener  monsanto murdered     audibly is leaking  and squealing just beneath   the burn his body becoming   fertile land I don’t mean   to blame fertility for killing but  torch the crop and a fire spills its   nerve erotic destroyer and what I cannot   destroy shiva will destroy for me and listening   I see his gust of needles land on g and  grab a moan I keep saying to speak is to touch     he says please touch yourself for me he settles     beneath the torch a middle c orchestra trying for    bea and to be about it row of orange orphan clouds spilling  into new sky like the mild crackles in black hallways and the one  come from the killers to swallow torches is talkative as a  reach of sunflower pollen in the isle pollen in the limbic    shyness of voices that can feel themselves copulating in the field helplessly     like echoes and cold moondust falling flinging itself at the mercy of the season   of broken crops that kiss to hunt the rain that suck on garnet to keep thirst     away that chase the firefly into the beetle’s name so you’ll never know shit from magic unless   you burn one down oh cowards how I treat your effigies like flags of unborn nations and    your flowers the first fascists again fascism has a pact with spring investigate nothing and no   one but the land and the mouths will show as crows with flutes for wings where gardens are   for warnings that never end

Monday, March 18, 2019

Maafa One

There’s a man on the surface of your skin,  
      Mandarin oranges straight from the can   pinched like pimp hand zeros (heroes?)
I was choking
So I only ate soft things    no chewing choking on the softening seed of  a bullet appalling me
From my mother’s  throat Maafa    can’t breathe  the boat to shore
Maafa   don’t study    war no more  
Sometimes we call this intention       but in this case it's that she’s onto the banality of horror  
She’s  bored with the angry   men their broken   livers bending the skin between the brows
   Into    ladders         there has be    a keener voice    a sturdier steam to  tend
This    is the   end of the   beginning of genocide      it begins swallowing soft things
And then pans    to Quincy a    recorder Edward Kennedy Ellington’s  steeple chasing him
In     tented Italian       footage of everything  but the passage down the canal  to level where
He    he calls   the notes  no more innuendo     tell me

Quincy is holding  our baby

Black beauty is the most powerful currency  in the world

Friday, March 15, 2019

Yeah, so

I hear an  h in exile   and in Maafah    also I chase    the hill and rub it     in the laughing skulls      cadillac grills why don’t      you grow your own food why don’t  you touch soap to the must of the       ruins must know someone who knows someone       told you never clean up a crime scene never call     the firefly back from burning

Friday, March 8, 2019

Wednesday, March 6, 2019

Monday, March 4, 2019

I thought about leisure

Leaving the cotton   pastures for the sassafras and moonshine  Laura Nyro was cackling to bind the limbs   of me and my cousins it isn’t      subtle to be free its stench of hops     and poplar pennies in the dirt copper when   it sweats not only greens but bleeds turns     the bloodless colors toward the red cloth of could be darkness     velvet darkness there are no police in the eastern dark in   my dream the weapons fall off the map near Morocco with saddles vultures  dropping out of thick clouds and the most dangerous opposition is laughter   where her music of picnics and stones mocks the dark it roams the countrysides  entrusted with shadow it’s roman of me to listen looking for that lighthearted     torment looking at the wires and wire boxes coming out of trees and seeing bodies       looking at photos of antelope and spotting Penelope no melanin needs song more than the           kind seduced by moonshine hallucinating his own lynching maybe we are rethinking tragedy together      maybe we gave these niggas too much time in the stars maybe we miss the beatings when they turn     invisible and he tried to turn his soul inside out and make a movie of the black maybe