attn: you who take us by force, a palindrome
at your lightning which pierced me,
how each he has to forgive him:
for this. me running to forgive him;
you, boy defaced by other man
(to a man.)
and might, perhaps, deface, again.
i only wondered, only if you might
, unmask me, only if i may:
take some of your time
your mother gave you,
just the bits perhaps
(just a cubit now from your room,)
does it taste of what it reeks like?
to breathe a cage? not rib tonguing wings to a sun?
but locked by any man?
is what it is now to be?
abled to walk, digressing – free
, out of it,
clenching the racket
night – fluttered with you then ether then,
know, unharmed,
for certain you were.
no god but still
Here
with nothing but the beyond now
faced toward the old world mosaic, discovering
you
admiring or with want to softly peer into the striking colors in the countless fractured glass.
you hope until enacting something beside it
inside it wherein the whimsy is the action not the idea of feeling or the feeling of ideas
nor the abstract, in other words…
watch: joy, chiseled as a bullet, thru the new verb retired
from the department of nouns in the grammar
frayed
before brought back to its own electrical running before becoming what, yes, might run thru it
like blood can thru flesh
in your flesh, a metaphor in its kinetic music; how a beat boxed in its black neck ungulates to bass, tone, slap; how any dance makes you a diaspora of diaspora. any bpm (bembe, calypso, dub, 60’s, 60) can double without
needing to plea dualities. just is. just as.
this case, thru (not with) your jazzed hands, you rapped so much heat, it went over the beat and microwaved aluminum caught in a too-long trough had happened to happen, and
striking cathedral decor
scorched
scorched
into dimension, carved, felled, it,
bent
to an open mouth until out your now beat, boxed by heat, mouth:
returning, under the moonshine of dilla’s snare cracked viscerally smooth as vinyl returned looping this world to some post-crack-era crack, it might have been your old forgotten chipotle, it might have been this fresh, hot, new
gnostic sect after corinthians untethered from the spine as a winter of felled
bark and, like our own pillaged-bridgeless love, it was.
maybe here was broken thru jazz before jazz was, & not with it (with “with” implying under it),
“with” nothing. beyond “with”. it has nothing to do with now,
what immaterial alchemy i make-
shift to get thru it. with, if anyone, nothing but
the Beyond Now. i hope
but fractured glass and
thru, not with, the when.
what can’t, i. what was, all i ever.
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