Tuesday, December 22, 2020

The Fury is Scholarity: We Congratulate The Greats!

 

born picture born glory while we pride our Natives—such blood, crimson purple such brine in our biases. I could die—or live like whales—so much weakness to carry: our livid mistakes our cut nations while most feel colonized. I got guts. I shot in industry. I prevailed in skies; the contradiction those deeper dilemmas as accursed prior to a conversation. at federal loses or chained on a grey goose or rooming with a maniac. so overstepped so overlooked while demanded to submit. as a man unpaved in such re-pavement while gods might need to refight. I loved like a loser I held to principles I needed more than what I earned; but Love has died such a cultural strength as noticed for dear-to-glory resilience. our minds on America, America on election, while too much has failed us. I get slanted I see slanted-ness if given another culture I would be a ghost; the power in color the need of color the vacuum upon color! a man wept. it was too much. while some have never cried. to scream at skies to visit catacombs to become so involved mucus drips from your anger. those fangs in society those raw ass emotions while so composed its eerie. I need an aesthetic. I need something to augment. I need feelings in orders. too composed or too calm while we indict our ethics. a rehab man, a bailed-out man, a fool with so many admiring celebrities’ man. as so aloof or dependent upon wits where it seems so appropriate; as argued differently where one looks solely at benefits—to imagine so much one entitles; black fever or dear pride, such remorse in a green moon. sound into trombones or feelings in saxophones while something keeps ringing—the flagons aside buildings—the shermstick in mother’s palms, or peyote slipping into visage—or pain to reach in screams muffled! we commend excellence we die for our battles we love our leaders; as broken thieves or treated like garbage where one becomes a mental vigilante—those thorny glares those half-witted glances while most must sense determination! we ride in your car we wheelie in survival we tread land where gods perform.         

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...