Little Chromatic Solutions

Blue horizon in training
I want a human/ chance

Recognition Scenes

I couldn't stop googling mugshots : Prince, Madonna / billyclub on a  Monday   plot locked in Aristotelian... like in  Clockers   / runner addicted  to malted  chocolate rocks, and  Papa / Papa     the pills /our pills     toppling into sold  songs and mammies on the tv dinner tray in wrong aprons imma run again—

And what it's all leading up to is the longingest reunion, hundreds  of us  on one stage  like it was our ships again... I mean all of us, Malcolm and Mlles and Nina and Etheridge  and them,  chanting   a fantastic silence  into the expectation kind of    maple  hunger   becomes  anger/funny  and a sun in my heart   the nights we spend   listening to jazz and watching porn together until we lose track of the difference... unprecedented    even prison is romanic   and heaven is dumb and  is there anyone who isn't sold into songs from one or the other or wondering at the slave hunter, is it my turn

A man and his world

Papa, Papa, The pattern, the pattern! Jazz business. My massahs. My sermons. My abandonment. I'm wearing mostly animal prints this season. Soda crackers. Ethos. Stowaway. The reasons that we Earth Wind and Fire by way of Charles Burnett. I'm etiquette if you're sober yet. And I want my eyes to be that many cages wild. Stablemates, Playmates. Bill Cosby, Richard Pryor. Ballerina straddling a loom looking for costumes or rumors of gossamer, somewhere, the one I love is copying you he dares himself to be true. Never saw combat. Played a mean bamboo flute, convinced Langston Hughes to call you a democrat in defense of your thug dandyism. That was some party and the sun is coming up

Correspondence (8)

My heart belongs to daddy

Good seed but he wants to be evil or beyond himself. He wants to turn peace into a totalizing / violence sublimated into form   and poultice of late capital  shafts and spokes  of impact/ hope   those mourners  who are actually celebrating   the last angel  in history  come  close  to their childhood tricycles/ archetypes/soldiers of the hype machine I go forth from you unmuting, groping the air  near the sullen orange  tree    preacher   man    preacher   man,    I lied  about  the color  of the tree    blood  red  as with torment as with liberation lynched men and criminals  and token leaves    as with fast song  into slow song and back  like  morning, I lied about where I belong to get there and    who needs a heart and I made a list of people who need a heart,  quenched my fear of withholding