Becoming a Good American

Senghor will not be shred

love, 
gargantuan gardens in the careful sun, 
fairy story gold, thrones, feasts and three princesses 
summer sailboats 
like cartoon ghosts or klansmen, pointing up
white questions in the blue air...
No. 
Believes in beauty... 


shall we sit on ourselves; shall we wait behind roses and veils for monsters to maul us, 
for bulls to come butt us forever and ever, 
shall we scratch in our blood, 
point air-powered hands at our wounds, 
reflect on the aim of our bulls. 


How proud
How prowed

Sophisticated Daydream

I love questions too, and we have some of the same obsessions. A zen tempo in decadent places. The unanswered ones that pace the cursor looking for hunters/who do you love in a sunny union of immense parallels, when miracles and disasters are one thing together, mellow explosions of habit to destabilize the black myth, and all we can say is, oh well. We know our mothers would get along too well, like enemies. It would be enough to make us feel like orphans, eventually

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