What is the question you almost heard

Sometimes I weep at the beauty of our collective ideology, how ignorant and eventful the afternoons become when we really listen to what we believe in like it's the difference between now and danger. Some wry synthesis of speech and place/ image of a stuttering wave that crashes as the blades I mentioned earlier and forgot about daddy's hands stuffed in his slack pockets on a paranoid rocket number 9 in the Amarillo, Texas parking lot waiting for the knot in his heart to burst or resolve itself as chamber music, a lonely black man standing in a parking lot with his wife and infant waiting for the train to turn the corner so he can beg it to stay 

I've been waiting all this time in a tawdry shrine of utter forgotteness      to  situate the voice locked   in the scene locked   in the dream of fear  of the dream   I've  been weighing all this value    against  the shrug   of a comfortable demon      wanting   so much to be loved   by a man  who   could outdrive   any fugitive   on the innocence   of his  scandalous    commitment to the   good     and   then   one     double     hooded    element   could turn   all that   time    into   temptation        

                         There is something I've wanted  to tell   you  And some men do like the movies         If I rollerskate up to the window again   in   terrycloth and linen     maybe   a bandana  hugging my    spirals    and the fries and shakes and burgers  you   ordered even   though I don't believe   their   food   anymore         will  you still   be    there          tucked  behind the window waiting   for a friend   to notice      that sweat  is tears    that gun in your hand is aimed  in every direction    and the panicked hostages   are smiling   into  a pink and violet   sun 

The baffled arrangement

Three Women

The haunted one went on smiling    with her eyes   closed  like   shy     yeses   

Alabama   went   on   by   like         a   windy dress up playing    must of have  been love but I'm    sober              now         

The felon complained of extra  notes     in the   sundown/   oceanic   stillness  of a capital frenzy          from the egyptian captioned     they     fanned    our heads  with  blades    we threaded our braids   with arrows     and rapunzel   fell    out the fable    for believing in herself     too   convincingly                

The liar   made    the most sense   of   remembering     some  past   life antics   wherein    niggas could fly    and     fists      were     the careful   wands     of a  pentagonal   baptism  he watched  his   yellow  mama    fantasize    in   the slow bath  through   the window of his hope          having  lost track   of all the women   he'd   had     he   decided to become a militant   listen to jazz       read   all the tragedies    and     court   sad intelligent  types   who went   on smiling     

Why you felt the opacity of transfigured night needed support

(1)  On the days where the music I want to hear doesn't exist       And I watch the militancy of a dark widow      grow wistful   and a   little   stupid    amphetamine   in her brew   as she chews her jaw onstage  between jittery I love yous,  the jagged rules of rage    are  grace   for her          Was it in that same place     Max Roach broke  it    one night after a/   understanding   that  her vocals    made   on her  rib a  shadow  almost    apparition    of   a mostly   purged    Moses    among her     crumbling   mutiny.      The foretold Abbey Lincoln      sobs     with her shoulders back like Michael Brown's    father     in this picture  of the whole   thing double happening minus   a slow Buick, the vulgar      serenity      of     his   clenching      you would think we    were   all performing    this tender wretchedness   on the wings     of   any spell     besides        cotton  and insurance     and the    prisoner   strutting    in his    seat    afraid   to shut      the    meaning       there    around    a despair that becomes indifferent    to   itself     all    the melodic   vultures    fly        while we    we pass by spinning


                (Another) On the days where the music we need to make   breaks   into   us  like    some   tragic   affinity      to     one    another      I   see     the    good   woodpecker     tuck  humor     in   her  pressure       and   get a  whole   flute    going    red   on      blue   going   into a useless euphoria  suitable  only for the revolution    shunting   and   Tupac's  memorized  muses: bitches and mamas and   pride and   self-hatred     work   so   stable   together              It's   easy to say    he   beat her     and            keep it cool    like she     did     but it's   hard to say    why        the  private    value   of our   shared    temptation     totals   as   the   color    it turns           and    another   catatonic   image        and   I  love Seraphic Light   but it  gets   distracting       It's getting even easier   to   use  intimacy   as a crutch    lately    no  one   on television    can help us


(Another) Hysteria in the men resembles distance as it closes  in   on dense ideas   of    how to be here unlimited         and for women,   the breasts   nudge  the air  hunting   for an infinity of  bloods   who can't  look away   just  yet