Electromagnetism

Everything is happening/ all the time

The territory shall be the universe (take 2, seen new)

The Way you Look, Tonight

Your lips are ashy
There's fuz in your meek/'fro
Your whole vibe is dusty --    go home to your wives
I don't love you, no mo'

(tomorrow is the question)

Mulatto Woman Reappropriates Reality

Is the ghost (the thing we call when we hug a G in the invisible/indivisible with liberty and,) a confused angel , must be. Speaking through a notion of immortality that could become a neurosis if you're too careful. And I don't care to focus there or there, gee what character we invent for the dark, and I'm not the toy boat keeled on a lego in your pale red childhood. What blood he gave I collected and painted a laughing balloon on the way up.   It drifts and pops and decorates the rain with consciousness. I got this letter in the mail from a man calling himself... and answering himself. Is there internet in prison? I don't mean to be insensitive. There must be some incentive to shove an orange in the oracle's mouth and decode the eyes instead but is the ghost a criminal for misusing the fruit of incentive, or whatever. The or whatever is there in a solid gold smile, to express my mistrust of intensity, which only proves an ambivalence we want to convince ourselves out of. True love is the calmest thing like a calamity that never announces itself except through calm. The frenzy is fear of love. He went in between (them) like a sound or heroine. I've never tried it but I can imagine better than you can live. And I'm in love's position. Also cradling an apple in bed first thing, thinking about it. And I can think better than you can live. Live with it. Is the ghost a risk you didn't take that haunts like cupcakes to beautiful fat bitches. It feels great to say bitches and be a woman. Not derogatory at all. Purgatory preys on your phony misguided morals. Bitches wanna fight themselves through a tunnel of sunshine. Sounds like the ghost's a hunter disguised in sun god. I got this letter in the mail from the one who claims to be my... quietness I started to reply, hello, your quietness, but that felt too appropriate. Everything is appropriate. Everything is so appropriate. See how the so changes everything... Focus on the apple and the whole room gains a dispassionate green, a moment of exploration, eyes flickering like machines, what beautiful machines! I'm learning the difference.

A decent rant,

is all echoes, and a close up on the contrived unknown. Maybe you do know, what love is. That time you woke and bit right into the ripe apple on the nightstand, cradled it for a moment, lit a cigarette, kissed my forehead as I pretended to sleep, got up, got dressed, and left. Maybe you knew I was awake. Maybe you do know, what love is.