Drums in the Medicine Cabinet/Love Letters in The Last Hide-Out

Spike Lee has a real geologist's hammer, he can hit a rock and split it open and look inside and utter some mantra



Kissass is part of peace, America will have to kissass mother earth

Getting back into the machine

This is a poem about the body

It's trails leaping from trait to tadpole and feeling thus saved and ever more beautiful to be more ravished or ravaged or the way the starcraft flinches and saturates after this (becoming morning) is a poem about the spirit coming across itself on a friendly day
No Sanctified Terror
Back row ears
Staring out at the mind and quoting it three things

My great grandfather behind the pharmacy counter shouting only an equal can mend me and holding out a tiger rag and a key to the 8 ball shooting itself into the take-me corner, pocket across all the green you could pick, an acre, trigger, and call it in praise of the catholic church of John Coltrane which meets in the Fillmore District in San Fransisco across from the Blackhawk, a club or nascent county, every Sunday. They play his fame from, from. But the pharmacy was in Chicago and the hawk was no where to be found in the picture, just Porgy, not seen, but implied by his surroundings. The song loved him, not me. And the fuzz got a cut of that. Until black was the color of worship and willship back and forth and steamships and fishermen pharmacist pimp musicians with library badges sewn into their rhodes like ladders. And the shells of pirates getting away with it, and the soul of a child transforming into a tiger and then back into a costumer who had that dream

The Autobiography of Malik Flavors (Index Excerpts)

You're Fooling yourself.

See, when they gave us that nigga astronaut, they lost him in space

Sapience,suspicion, spinning plates; and when even the allied radio is afraid to sound his way and when they play him, how the modest question (what is listening?, What does it mean, to listen?) begins to render the shuffled bridge a deck in the house's hand with one club missing and one spade shipped to the casino, no answer,

(the more inexorably the principal of exchange-value replaces use-value for human beings, the more deeply does exchange value disguise itself as the object of enjoyment)

The Raven and The Coyote:

You should never resort to violence if it's at all possible to out-think a man


And from this moment on she is the soft master of every scene, she wins the movie

Malik, Is every negro
a potential blackman?

Intra-Mortality, the ultimate aphrodisiac The treble halo/

Pointilistic embrace (she knows her husband as well as she knows profit)

Every negro is a potential blackman. A few shadows and showdowns, ragged grace, poised raggedyness, the middle, gall

Barrel, roll out, Shango, cut to soap commercial or rickshaw, shield, clearing, celebrants... "you did it, you did it"

Reefer helps me focus. And her nerves, are never ravens and never coyotes, and weeping waterless tears

When was the first time you saw a man remember, how he is

the anarchy that silences each category with an ensemble time, what did he do next..get your silence together

(Music serves in America today as an advertisement for commodities which one must acquire in order to be able to hear music)

Forgetting makes it last, but, what's after the future..

Oh yeah... cool my bellhaven/meridian, I do too, forgetting makes it last

The illusion of sorrow narrows into a docile flute I can hear through the wall of potential blackness. Something suitable is about to happen. Forgetting makes it last-- or feel that our knowledge is a fluke out the category toward an ensemble time. You're fooling yourself. Forgetting makes it last

Wake-up Occasion

To the the odd post-expectant way we have of rolling promise and prohibition into one



There was something like the feeling of the idea of silk scarves in the air

If I were the big town I would be calm and debonair

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

What's Really Food (Mode 4)