Comfort Zone

The bridge is a thing of this sort. The locale allows the simple onefold of earth and sky, of divinities and mortals, to enter into a site by arranging that into spaces. This makes room for the double sense, sixth sense, seventh. The two-- making room and in the sense of admitting and the sense of installing-- belong together. In a land where belonging is second to possessing in the sense of entering or going between everything and everything, between earth and sky, divinities and mortals, our ignorance will be our freedom

Maybe he ain't lying

Fables of 56 Hope Road

Why was he so successful with women?

Because he was shy

Why did you call section one I got what I wanted but I lost what I had?

I called every section that

Why did he keep coming back?

Why did I keep coming back?

What is a man's place in the world? When he possesses the imaginative power to want more than he's told he can have? What separates men and women from each other? Why must they suffer guilt not only for their transgressions but for their best hopes?

Am I allowed to talk? He asks

Does the sound or the silence make our music?

An old black habit

We were afraid of becoming too much like ourselves, or wait, should I act unsure and ask him, were we afraid of becoming too much like ourselves? Worried about wearing out the trope of authenticity. Can that be a trope? Sure it can, just look at Oprah. Yuck. Don't bring her up. She's how we got into all this trouble and fear of becoming ourselves. She's shorthand for the battle hymn of the republic. I'm not afraid anymore. Of self-recognition in your wayward ass-- We're restless people, we want more and less at the same time. Satisfaction is the first sign of a problem. It's a kind of dilirium mumbling instructions to itself for how to maintain. Just... just... pretend if you gotta, run in place, mend the hidden with the obvious, find a way to keep your magic without disappearing acts. And as soon as you master it, disappear, move forward toward its myth—

To fall out of love with you, I'd have to fall out of love with myself, he said, and I'm working on it

Poem for Speculative Pharaohs

A great free--
Soul for rent, faculty
trembled as those light score-board-speckled pamphlets about the audacity of disembodiment rippled in the palm wine tannins tempting culty ever since types: sycophants, climbers, to mercilessly reveal how time hurts in the speed of how you see in no time
What I'm trying say-- how you see it so and numb it total, patiently, trial after stoic trial until a child must exist. The inevitability of where we roam is where we get to. Shy arrivance accused of privilege and compliments until the circles got huge like black continent free souls for rent and we went on wanting
Obedience, to convince itself, of itself, but it didn't and so on and so on and 'all songs are crazy'

Moving towards an anarchy that silences these categories with an ensemble time

Hoops

Words are hoops
Through which to leap upon meanings
Which are horses' backs
bare, moving

Neon Sins

Since you've been away so long
Not a movie, tell me numbers, dancer, tell me why you can--

Say my numbers are in the amphitheater encouraging the martyr to make the lion forget his appetite so we can just hang out, for fun, before genius is over and we go on our nerve once, twice, more and over and over the so long numbers give their names for our timid lectern-lit western eyes learning their guilty pride and a league of.. Like a wide -eyed child I naively and innocently trust in the goodness of others, this brings out their best and their worst, in a lazy confrontation mantra where the house always pretends it wants to win the neon off a window and call the theft a disappearance... on the record, on the beautiful piece of spinning material you'd need to outlive every lie to become and then, heedless and passive, lie again to regain your grip on reality

I love a man who tells me movies, and now and then I count how many

I love a man who tells how many and now and then I count the movies too

First Position

A negro stands in a doorway with a toothpick

O'Hara wrote it first but what gives me the right--

I once repaired a man's idea of himself, to have him

What was typically a limp anthem, became... you're shattering all my myths

replacing them with falcons, reasons, come to think of it, another way, I am really a

woodcarver and my words are, come to think of it, another way, sand houses and floorplans to swing from like uncandid archetypes, daguerreotypes, the first thing you picture, the last thing you see, and, to rid ourselves of symmetry, dandy/dandy, a head pitched down a little makes you sound like a canoe in calm water, or masks to ward off manufacturers, damn the thieves, destined to get there just in time and face it all: all the thresholds, all the soldiers, all the silver thinking which aches with freedom and soothes with silver falcons, falcon, kinship, action scene, cut.

A negro stands in a garden with a toothpick.. he loved him madly... the lady nearby looks appreciative in headlights, she looks like she grows more beautiful the more weary he reads her face as lyrics and that is all the silence between them and all the noise and news of what's next

Texture/Texture: Structure

All suffering is distance

Most of it

And telepathy is the only distinct thing left

By thing I mean, texture

By left, I mean, what remains of earth

By texture I mean... sho' nuff

The path hurt like wool tugging away at a lamb, but we made it

And did you see it too, each way the word nigga screwed itself onto the word night to stay dark and ubiquitous

Thank you. I feared I was the only one who saw it two. That fear turned into numbers, numbness, a suburban afterglimpse of passing days and it was too safe for suffering and too dangerous for distance. Thank you. I'm not the only one. All distance isn't suffering. This one shuffles across ourselves like, hush, now, don't explain. I'm glad that you're back--BlackIvory--, don't explain

Moon. Tide. Puppet.

Pulp-puppet tied to such a shore as if it was/as if it wasn't me, or according to something giant as the bloom'sbeam becomes to utter its only lines in tongues/ to the atlas/ do the brackets indicate people getting along, or people so similar they are at war along the lines of assimilation, chanting I'll win the way I've always done, by being gone when they come

I think it means some limbs made sunstark in the sand (a flag up, a hand you clutched in the dark) on the basis of the strings pulling them from unreplacement. Not that they were buried there. (Fixed. Fix me.) That they were there. That to be barely there worked better, like the red segment of any night. Where the freight of bimbos and overt thinking mingles in those dances done between prayers to ibis--Flipping through an atlas you notice the black bodies. Looking at it meticulously, you notice no one. Flipping through it again, you grow an ego. That causes you abandonment. The word we all duck with lies and husbands until, flipping through it again, you aren't its rival, it has no use for you. People stay as close as they go and the only distance showing flips through me in a tunnel the shape of remembering forward is like a spell without the effort or satire, or like us before the atlas and before ibis and it's all alright

3 Minute Heroes

Do you have any blue beats, I mean, blooming, the blue mingling with the green like the one scene or unscene, since we are the beginning, we try to be as mercenary as possible, because we want to conquer the world (fair play, by Nellee Hooper?), verse which sounds like a baseline, and it's not even about black soldiers, (we know these chords work, like words) Just multiply this by 1.1 million. It's not even about black soldiers. Nor playing anything electric, more that we are electric and..

Somebody(who)knew

how to Be

Somebody New

Chances you are my Chances

The snow sits stoically archiving our dreams or so it means to oppose their dissolving
Meet me in the wrong hotel.. and so slowly

we learn to be the time between right and wrong diminishing their hold on joy and

he says come with me, and I will bring you back less suffering

I know something about being convinced