Red is for Ritual

I can tell when a machinegun sits cocked on whitey’s shoulder from the sightline  from the watchpoint —from the squared close up  on a stoic crowd   of negro cowboys  each one  with bloody M  a a f a   toppling out of his             arms  into colossal  Otis Redding        And if  you ever        oh how grateful I would  be    He  teases   their  urges     an opportunist      what is it about the american  west    drugs  taste   better  , the blood gushing  from  the clone’s veins  sweet as a prop,  the joy  of being watched  overrides the erotic fear of being hunted    and the in their haunted  crossfire  we   can  admit  it to one another,      our disaster survives  Maafa   survives    alongside   the desert  beggars  pretending   themselves   scarce   on  all  fours    in a pond of her genes   she’s  ever   reassembling     she gets  closer    he taps the trigger  is flooded by     a cargo  of  yellow  ribbons   instead  of   yellow women      and  the omen  in women    mellow   as   ever   as  we tiptoe across    the   bloated  ocean    with  machineguns on our shoulders,  heads back, laughing  —    should   have  told  her  you loved her that one   time    ,     should  have    known     bend  from  shine     now   even the timing  of angels        is hysterical    

Honeysuckle, noble soldier

Dear Babylon,

In the hollow fuse of doomed adventure M a a f a  got fertile as a flickering Novemeber field   and egalitarian   indicating rape   or surrender.  Middle hysterias mistaken for surrender include    sleep love   hunger  prayer  penetration   shredded carrots encased in plastic flickering like descheduled devils horns    empty FEMA caskets buried deep   in the shackled imagination  and the playacting play cousins   whose agape gazes lose track of those playing dead  or replace   them   studiously.  Don’t ask her meaning, ask her use.  I think she had a body or two inside of her when the third one came alive. I know possession works both ways. I’ve known rivals and they perished trying. I know the canoe sinking into the lake hurls debris at the psyche of each silent threat and the cloying Barracudas don’t settle in no coy truce like two cars and four walls and emancipation paper ransom note:  pagan, pilgrim, roll up    glock in hand and bible sandwich.  I know when he called me babygirl a pressure gathered in my chest, a disgusted readiness disguised as pleasure-seeking, a tribal worm writhing from his heart to mine    and no minor island remedy could be so ready as the womb        Babygirl what’s a barracoon     What’s between a miracle and a nightmare  whitenesss ?   where    Yeah baby  right there, split it open      Maafa finna go in on these wings

Do you find it hard to live ?