a low rug, dust
mites, a roach on a wall. I wake up to see a spider, she spoke a foreign
message. I would if it was good while rumors kill us. a broken hydrant, gallons
evaporating, kids having a time with it. running laps, seeing her face, knowing
it would never be right. a few fancy words, like aeipathy for us, afflatus
passion, at wrangling souls. so offtrack so gifted, it amazes to see her
puffing a cigarette. long fingers, oiled knuckles, out a can damn a glass. a bit
spacy a tear in a jar, escaping a daddy long leg. momma made bail, she was out
15 seconds, she slapped a man in his damn mouth. caught hell. like climbing
gnats. when something seems petty.
much respect to
our souls. much essence in blackness. it feels good to be black. such soul,
magic in a mind-top, rushing through deserts—like warriors in Africa, like
visiting Asia, at Egypt with hieroglyphics. (from the bottom, right out the
mud, they love to see us make music. just watched it, was thrilled by it, all
praises to the Queen.)
a low rug, such
writhing particles, maybe a few water bears. holding an aye-aye, so exotic,
might catch a fine. can’t leave it behind, much wrath about it, an attraction
to something erotic. reminded to hold back. reminded to make it work. reminded
of King Jr.
it ends long distance,
long range, a field made a Disney Land.
