Respect the Season

Who sees all things as love

Black Car Through Harlem

And every few blocks there's a lone black man with his hands loose in his pockets, eyes shifty but practiced at it so situated on the traffic like hunger. He wonders if you want a taste.  I wonder what he dreams of, awake, in between getting paid and getting popped, his baby moms and the locksmith and the competition. Is it still dysfunction if he buys what he doesn't sell, tries it himself, trembles like a knot of branches while his child sleeps off the bandanad moon . Is it customary to count, from full to new and back like a sound voodoo priestess at that, the sound of counting. I counted twenty, standing alone on the concrete as models or sudden melodies. There is nothing so dangerous as images. Nothing so dangerous and false. 

Hands (dealers)

'Just who is being serious and what are we taking sersiously'

Repentance (Karma and)

You could start by weeping about how tiny my wrists are. Not even just in comparison to yours but objectively as a rhythm in the universe they ping like almost gathered cymbals in the chorus of an Egyptian remedy. Then you could admit that Greece is killing us all by proxy. It's a situation in the hood and fate in the good book. The fact that we trust the word tragedy with our tears I mean, is how we are constantly dying. You could stand up and scream my name while looking through shady binoculars off a plantation balcony. Is that yours. Is that yours? Is that yours or mine, that shadow of a gaze.  If you're tempted to jump again remember you'll be sent back and have to do it all over. You could tell your mother until she reminds you what time it is. You could tell your mother was crazy enough to love by how hard you try to thwart her genius. You could tell your wife she's the mother you'd always wanted. You could admit  to her a mother makes a complicated wife though. Use the though to add an air of adolescent arrogance/ a doubt that's self-assured. Don't be afraid to go away from grammar to get back to your own sound, cause love lost in that sheltered life, where you act like you're waiting for permission to have something in common with yourself. It will inevitably reunite like the magnetic strands of your own dna with the lantern in your certain spirit. Mounds of light and distance in a dance called this life/forth/didn't force it, willed it, is it. Plus your voyeurism is as dumb and endless as love. Domesticated terror struggles to look authentic in webcam. Gives up and decides to just look black enough for handcuffs. Just to get a rep.

Holding onto the ego/ Neon eagle/neon cross that buzzes

And the story of man is divided brusquely between those who know the sky and those who know only the earth