Bring me Back a Challenger: (Choreography/ Poetics/Demonstration)

Or a particularly candid accomplishment. There's a man who smiles backwards in a choir and yanks you into serious alert/detour, toward one answer to the land question...I don't need any of yours
leaning along the harvest of possible things: it is damaged and as far as
some blue pyramid home negro southern different color meaning hip shit, a loss of tension would kill me
the impossibility of trapping my own gain, is how I survive
in this dizzy cabinet to where I can't tell if I've made it, like reached the mountaintop, which is a sloppy destination to begin with, it's cold up here, I really can't stay either, the breeze makes me coy and radiant. Radiant because I desert him when I intend to traipse, for the sake of mild people, and then to tiptoe, for major things are trembling with scarcity in their motion like Tokyo lips, vagrant swells of water called floods, or typhoons, testaments to the loneliness of late capital, a loan, an abundance we've borrowed from shame or Mr. So and So I have the blues for walls, but I don't want to look out either, onto your plot, which is damaged, I've never even touched a loom, or at least I can't remember what your hotel smells like new pens and music videos: I go, you stay, two autumns and a broomstick. The fact that this is ever accurate is a nuclear disgrace, somebody blew up America, he's right. I'm willing to loot every Walmart forever, traipsing, tiptoeing, plugging all the wasted stereos into lampposts and having that life you call a party. And when I look up again, our son is done looking mean and impressive. He is holding up a shy looking sign which says: Now he plays the drum, now he stops, and grinning like the robbery is over and they got away without his muses.

After making love we hear footsteps.

Brand New Retro, for Mound Bayou

The idea of 'always' in a Neruda poem struck at the nerve of the idea of 'never' in a poem I was working/through; an elegy for the Mississippi town, Mound Bayou. I joined the two poems in tilted Siamese, and got this.


Brand New Retro

Like lashes on a dark back, you were supposed to feel actual.

Cool, I did.

In 1919 there were 25 race riots across the country in seven months

But I refuse to accept despair as the final outcome of the ambiguities of these...
Hieroglyphics, which when you bent over their microscope pedestal, fell into the crypt

Collided

This town's foremost emblem of prosperity, its mill, has been turned into a dance hall

Pretty field of sharp husks and deacons reminds me of the early bribe, something dangling in sigh toned opal looks like my uncle, close enough

Though there is no such thing as resemblance any longer, just that the man hung like a flag or sheath or gone

Periscope maybe, voice is to color as

suspicion quickly escalates to conviction

cause we're covered in town and Nobody's business. Maybe, too clever, maybe

we failed at freedom on purpose cause discipline is the true decadence. With its prolific monogamy, ecstatic sacrifice for

look

at all the shepherds, they are never lonely, and the herd formations, so keen and strict, they are never lonely gazing at the swarm of their own black -maybe they are never lonely nor known

for the commitment to one thing, gathering, is so brave and radical a luxury... Even this far forward, I confused being a servant with being sure

Facing you

I am not jealous.

Come with a woman

at your back,

come with a hundred,

come with a thousand women between your chest and your feet,

and rivers

Bring them all

to where I wait for you:

it shall always be you and me

alone upon that earth,

starting

One For Fanon, 48 Years to the Date

“In the world through which I travel, I am endlessly creating myself.”

Kinetic In/difference

Rotary Connection, with vocals by Minnie Ripperton, and arrangements by Charles Stepney and sounds like triumphant disorientation and feels like when..

Shhhh.... Peaceful

Three For the Beautyful Ones Not Yet Born

Event Number 1

I'm black.

This is not a Coalition : They never let me forget it : I'll never let them

And there is no tempo, so you don't have to worry about losing the beat or anything

When I said, I would live in scratch houses improvising yard into my far off dowry. I was telling a story, recklessly candid because the heart had been sealed for slow time, when all of a sudden

You say 'in general' a lot, because you've been injured for naming names. Not the names of soldiers, the names of battles. Blackhawk, Waterloo, Help me. Places I knew dad to be in. The radio. Hollywood. Focus. The Delta. Always. Always is a place. Finessed violence. July. The big sliding open van full of groceries and electric pianos. The weight of his hands on the invisible. Keys. Lantern elbows. Poking around his manic in the dark looking for Saturn or cold pancakes or a clerk to take the wallet from his mouth when he was seized. We were afraid. I guess this means, I guess he spent his last days in jail. That must have been like the yard, clenching broken stove pieces to keep a pedal on the ditch or was it a well, or was the barley leaning down your malt letters fluffier after every sip. It would have been useless to visit. It would have been you, looking pretty in your memory/desire. Proving, you're still five, someday. He must have spent them on the rise, the whistles that used to come out of his collar pocket, help me, Im rich tell my daughter to stop playing their lottery chasing their loss. Loss is a dangerous necessity, also. It measures the imagination. And it is ruthless, and the imagination is ruthless. Mine is through mumbling the titles of weeds across the unnamed we, starts to breathe the blue pause out of its visage. Vertigo. Let's it go as if to pursue it, coughs it up, says where I would rather live is full of months not days or hours or built up hundreds, floors in your circle of fifths cushioned with radio, not to mention, the fund
is cold for them, radial (it's called for them plosive names: paper, papa, wants to say pages into the gap between bars but is too exposed), a void taken on as a way to count moments by what they cost: the house, the jailhouse, the studio, outside, stayblack. He must have been outside mangling his solitude with you.. And without you, it would have been useless to deliver news like, this is our music, who else would wear prison to the grave dragging it behind him the way the shiniest shoe of a fine and mellow pimp is usually slow dragging, holding the waist in a mopey, jubilant L delay. Safe asymmetry. Anyone can place a mister in front of his mercy and raise a lady to watch his feet spell, doo-wop or cake walk or Jake limber. We are. Getting rid of ownership, replacing it with use. It's cool, I'm black too.