Steeplechase

Without contradictions, a stiff speaker pressed against the womb to soothe the life in there, the brief flash of every likelihood packed in there like our father's character/glass house of ours, rechargeable body. To see me is to see the father, someone chanted, begging to be born. My excuse works in every direction and I no longer need it. If love will mute the myth then that must be its meaning. If all the riddles fall out laughing / miming/ I thought I told you that we won't stop, and we wind up on a yacht somewhere wearing white bikinis in a video about the business,

I leave and I go back (I leave and I go back)

We made our own minstrel show

Save us.

To the tone of Coltrane's Alabama. Let no alibi slide by like a lamb in tribal paints or a candid haint running alone on train tracks that real living humans can notice and act upon    unstrike their poses to run from     Save us.

Then I tried to write about my craving for watermelon like it was lie. When that went idle I wrote a ballet for naked dancers in a plexigrass field of mirror stages and they sat in a fractal and ate whole watermelons for the first 2 minutes while the audience looked on, waiting and craving a taste. Then the only woman in the ensemble rose, spun on her axis like a desert rose for a few glad bars, pulled an axe-looking instrument out from her harness and slayed the casual chicken who had been traipsing around on the stage just signifying blackness and pretty blood collapsed into a pattern that resembled the closing curtain.

Segregation (glorified)

Having almost lost track of the difference between pleasure and pain, the niggas went crazy and voted. Pleasure is when you're white and pain is when you're black, the kids agreed unanimously. And they can flip like golden eagles on the ledge of their desire for stillness/ while in flight I crave this stillness. When all pleasure felt phony I knew I understood pleasure, I knew I was the black lust and white attitude toward it struggling to mean one another. And panic if you float in the space between. And vote for me.

A season ahead

I was trying to run through the literal to the imaginative. The controversy was how the literal got so jealous it re-imagined itself as real. My father said after he learned to read he was in constant agony. You mean god is as unreasonable as me, breaking his own rules every other dream. He walked around suicidal thinking he was a killer. Blamed his father who blamed his father who blamed the boat named after sugar and nobody, Jones or Smith or we the people sinking in, becoming the land and its self-nullification. Nina Simone said if she'd had her way she'd have been a killer. And can you blame her. And would you join her and my father at the microphone, they're about sing a duet about the way the heart sweats out the mind as what we call death, how they came back literate and ready.

I'm interested in blood the same way I'm interested in learning to read except I've always been told there's some inherent value in being happy and now I wonder if knowing the distance it creates between me and you is why I finally am.