As though the new maximum

is something about realism, he jingled softly about his not not self in a thicket of cross-promotion he jabbed

The Zombies are here and their kiss is deathly.
They are ruining
jazz
spots from coast to coast. As soon as they start hanging
around
certain
clubs, the decent citizenry
avoid the spots like the plague.
They come
with their zoot suits, long haircuts,
reefers and "zombie"
jive to night
spots that feature
top jazz talent. Soon they become the atmosphere

of a greek attic where tender masks go to shatter and cube the broken glide in search of the healing element is something about realism choking the blue new

Rootwork

I want to take your hands from my hips and place them on a statue's hips. Call you Ransom Lewis. Lift the dewy crane of metamorphosis from its slum near the alphabet. Am I an open window yet? Broken where the repair swung in. They're not exactly perfect. They're not perfect. My muscles of folded jade. Jade in tidy supple bows. Jaded violin of so-what/Let the heir in. I stand on my toes and they burn and scoot and numb with use. Do dances to the muting tantrum. Be the hip frail damsel. Stretch and rip and go up in burning buildings. Come out done talking about survival. Come out prepared to have not come out. Mouthing It is with such intense joy. We spoke in moans of the colonization of 'swing.' Of the wingedness of the statue's hips I-by-you-put-on

Necessary Submergence

You wonder how to play without a bridge, how to navigate what is no longer song but what carries song, bone deep in the deep of bones, ghost-ship rises sunken ark of bones, out and cut of the (radically excluded middle) passage. You've got to move from the extended interruption of the unbridged, the chance of the synaesthetic and what it marks and unmarks in the cut, what it leaves and opens to the senses like a subject broken and abundant in some kitchen, field, or studio of representation, of securing and capturing:

This is my traffic over the night

You can't really mean to look like that

You might get psychosomatic

A countertenor calls

but you won't get the mask

Strike the viol

Touch

oh touch the lute

Aversion to Information

Rudiments of rapture. Great sensitivity to open doors. Loud talk. Liquid speak. Muses. You follow the same paths as before. Only they appear strewn with roses

Both Yards: A Jungle

The martyrs have harmed truth

Must be reborn

Both Yards: A greeting / lied too/ Hello meant, don't be new or double, oh hell no

the number one is skill so rude and wild I come from the prize for vacant rope climbing ripple/ the dealer/ numeral/ broke deck: Too many people standing there with tilted glasses and paper fans giving for grace, after a party answers fell together through a wobbling plank of atmosphere, woke up more reckless, thankless, alive with the tangle of transposed variation,

Sunny: yesterday
Sunny: one so true
Sunny: thank you
Sunny: you gave to me

very very romantic, courage

Drew my face in the seed

You got a friend in me. A real friend and if.

Every record is about a woman
The sensation is not dissimilar to a fix