With any luck

Mitochondria

Imma name my baby such. Fuck  your lazy syllables.  Might o  con dreamed   up       a praise name.   You know you ghetto if       and I love it.    Dictionary claims  it’s  the   way  we became human, the jaded program   windows’   automatic roll up,  the soda on the side type DNA lesson made fun on the block  in the sun   with the double dutch champion    and the four wheels   on wide feet   hunting for fat ass that knows how to leap that rope   a joyful scuffle that   almost sounds like the sea having been broken    but it’s just sugar and carbon  stuffed in aluminum  burning your teeth  numb    and fast twitch  muscles   saying  higher   nigga     it’s Sunday        call on the numberless      threads  of your one mazed identity  and swallow them whole   bent  dial tones   then    call my baby, flying  

4.4.68 Full moon in a Kiln / The martyr tries hard drugs

So now we are all in a poppy field     The entire society is all doped up  on hope   and  I'm about to eat your food, homie      leap out from the crease of cicero  the great orator the toreador roars       my phantom tags me and runs    we are watching the mythos play itself out  watching the heroine as she's made        to touch paper in Harlem with an open hand     across the street from the nigga with the bullhorn   Apollo, sun god   Heliopolis   the last place on the rock    our magnetic field   unburdened         these were career protesters trying to wrack up arrests for credentials  greeting each other:      see you in Vietnam,   tomorrow     these we road hoes  with a puppy and a gun    large fur    lark,  slaughter       the purple  kind     dim wine in a backalley  leaning against   the attack  so it  dances   with   me      so now we are all in this poppy /  field  eating from the bottomless vessel  of   wet light  it's  finally ready  to be Dogon AD    could we celebrate   when they hung  him  turned him into wheel grease      Could we at least  pluck a few orange petals and arrange them in our Afros like fangs     

oh, by the way, 

                                 The sunlight is changed by the moon. The moon is a parasite, We are not moon people.    The moon has nothing to do with us.  The moon is not our friend.   

                                                                                                                  Grace notes (8)  

How are we gonna treat the dead, how are we gonna conduct ourselves on this battlefield?

The blood of the thing

I told you love was more dangerous  than   hate.     We’ve  been repeating ourselves since  the late  nt    meaning       behind     our captivity  was discovered  :   We’re   so   loveable    so easy   to love    so easy  to idolize       I told you bible worship  was the same as idol worship      while you feathered  your thumb across my cheek  talkin  bout baby   be my   church n stuff      I told you  danger  lives  longer  than  fear     and set   out   to prove    it      ever seen me look afraid?   Ever  seen  me  say   no to myself  in  the listless  hour  of parting?   Sharp coffee in the morning  and then every few hours until sunset. Nap with head on the marble countertop. Whiff of blunt wrap and car alarm wakes him. Another army band on the box   my god! the needles  sound so holy! Roll me a hinged god spinning so.   I told you sin   was no different than devotion.     They got a wire  on Baldwin  even while he vacations in Palm Springs,   they  watch   him  wake up smoke  shit   fuck   write   suck  the sun out of watermelon    all of it      and get paid too      to   watch        the black dot  move  

Told you they’ll spy on the ghosts when they run out of heroes    turn you into both  and make you  surveill yourself     But just as easy as we could snap into position we cld stay maladjusted, crude in the blood, voweless with dove cut wings    ass to the ceiling   eyes watching god      praise the water that gives back no images         

                                              Grace Notes (seven)