Saturday, June 20, 2020

Knuckle Black Culture


I rethink night-fury the black avatar or listening to colored women: the tears fall while he touches where he never saw a tear. black market deaths, black animal censorship, or black canvas a-color—into days as they blur while color became a ballerina. those tiles in us those mosaic windows or evenings seated at church: begging for clarity pleading to disappear or returning to something like suffocation. the afflatus in us those roses bleeding another’s identity. to take it as ours to starch our hearts to iron our morality: the excuse for treason against a beautiful reflection where life became a-pivotal. I could adore with fury or flat consciousness where direction is enigmatic. the bible flipping pages the window wide open the Spirit roaming our quarters: by dear faith, by kniphofia flowers, while an urn is moaning. those eyes in you. those receptive features. or so unbelievable a woman a man wants. to die with fire to wrap airwaves to bend water. I could ask for marriage if it meant eternity as never another hand that portal. such a dreamer such realism where it hurts with flame—the matchbox gift those cranes falling or being rescued by the jaws of life. so torn from reality so given to reality while everything is either color or noncolor. the evil black woman so uncured where her son is estranged: the black fields or those black webs, or better, our black stirrings. to unlock ice or cause an explosion so near you but driven away: the black mind the color so inherited while it was great to pretend: a man as the black mulatto, or the woman that wouldn’t love, while seeing days as achromatic. the colorless family, as fraught by color, while normality is what we damn well suggest! so captured by tenderness the beauty in color such fierce consideration: the black mirror, those black whites, or those white blacks. so destined to exist or to sing heaven where color seems uncaged by its demarcations. so aloof to us so crazed in us while seeking solace upon strange islands. if but to live into black science the courage of the black hawk. by raven eyes or coal-netted features so extended into the black mystic.        

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...