Concerto for Left Handed Orchestra

I distrust moral certainty and I even distrust the sentence I distrust moral certainty


We don't have time for 'Body and Soul' and 'I've got Rhythm' 


those dipped berries from the Amazon and a refusal to be subtle won't help get the black sound into the electric keyboard so I distrust that strut they call the door to the cosmos and I even distrust calling these situations that force us to rely on instinct more than habit our music, but I can't tell you that, it's too lucid so I don't trust its understanding of itself  and it might not even exist by the time we give it a title which is what I trust most about it 

How's Everybody

And everybody knows that when you lose your codebooks you change your code
                                      That this is a how the truth reveals its taste for solitude
That this is how black youth reveals its taste for truth and for loneliness--That is how our everybody is, it's our ideal crisis, we're just so happy it's like--- remember that next time you die-- it'll all come back to the center of a greeting, undefeated, just asking for you to live again, re-stage the conflict between your two regimes of sense, there are more than two, that's the conflict, there are so many powers they wander from one another to learn the burning prowl of reunion, and all of us sense it getting itself together as the pleasure of one by one I'm stumbling home from the festivals of the future with the future you, licking the curse off your palms and spitting it like sunflower pod shells in the ghetto, the smell of relish catching up to the meat it covers us local with hope, I always mention the hope, even when it's just a fleck of deed on the concrete some days, or Gretel, and Hansel's coming, but a little behind, and gender is so 90s but be a man, I mean sweep the seeds into a pile and swallow them like a pill and be addicted to me. I won't be surreal, it'll be the actual healer crease in your fear is   steep and delirious again. I don't like you anymore, you're just my favorite person, he'd say, as I listened my way around it to today

Even if your maps are full of stages,

The stutter of behavior on a stay/       Skip that lipstick/   don't explain

I'm not afraid/ of rage/        I'm afraid of /plainness/        And politeness is lethal/ it strikes/ it don't match the ice its shadow in / nuendo /a new end to hope is hope/   poke a nuance in the bend and get me knowing/    I depend entirely on color,  but I'm not in any way, really involved in color in a love act /   except what of that fearlessness is distracting me from the nearness of you/don't explain/skip that hipness / it isn't even/   metaphysical / pause for O'Hara's metaphysical poem: 

When do you want to go

I'm not sure I want to go there

where do you want to go

any place

I think I'd fall apart any place else

well I'll go if you really want to

I don't particularly care

but you'll fall apart any place else

I can just go home

I don't really mind going there

but I don't want to force you to go there

you won't be forcing me I'd just as soon

I wouldn't be able to stay long anyway

maybe we could go somewhere nearer

I'm not wearing a jacket

just like you weren't wearing a tie

well I didn't say we had to go

I don't care whether you're wearing one

we don't really have to do anything

well all right let's not

okay I'll call you

yes call me

--

There's a pregnant woman sitting low into a plush cushion and she's so heavy she can't get up to run so I suggest a book or something to occupy the time between yawns and years have gone on like that for who hears it as a chasm opens 

The stutter of mazes on a map and us back at the hotel in our matching apathy for anywhere else is a passion as telegraph, its yellow unyellow rapture, don't yell when I yell, at the road, I'm not really involved in my own emotion, I'm just showing you you, even if your map is full of mazes, are closer than afraid to that starry place in the massa's eyes 

You Already Know

Blackness migrates for who it is

Peaceful Sit-In

It sounded like elephants, crispy phantoms, confessions that we're taken under tortue, and how truth came to be abandoned. What does it mean to act like Woody Allen, and look like Dave Chapelle or Me or Brother Weldon-- Some crap about Post-Black comes up to a museum and knocks you out. You better go now before the conversation. Actresses win the-- go, you better, now, hurry. Get loud and left-out the script