Preference II (2017 Edition)

the question is something along
the lines of moving half a body;
checking seams in the mirror
against the wet gap

of your joints / considering the
likelihood of being a request
some day     collated features
a clean line running down & up,
insert a siren call, worried.

so the big sun drips a little light
through a closed window
& my face shifts its weight towards the floor,

shadow leaving a stain, here I am with my face
flooding against it, starting to figure it's
not quite blood that gets tainted. I tried to neglect

the word language, here, hostile
as it is, but. what ever
particular it is
suits me.

freeway (for asha)

One day I hope to learn
who taught you how to
run there's
no way you'd know
   how many other
ways there are to interpret
a disappearance     and maybe knowing
is not having and maybe not
having is enough. It’s just
dragging the whys out, now; bigger, closer,
less distance to maintain. We all here got used
to it. I imagine you remain
in motion.

amiri baraka's against bourgeois art + transcription 

war on the horizon; a ship with bloody sails Andy Young slips on his Chamberlain appeasement getup he got from years listening to the CP hype Martin Luther King. is there somebody hear to record this? the US being thrown out the front door? the Russian bear coming out the back door my man suddenly clearly an apologist for new-style colonialism telling us we can't fight the US, those centuries of our dead are buried here oceans of our blood have fertilized the black nation in the South / is there someone here to get this down? can I get a -- like they say -- witness? an eye that can see through this year, in Jimmy Carter's snake-oil show, there is a room nobody talks about steel door, fumes seep underneath inside, blood and hair on the floor bones stacked in the corner photos of Goering and Goebbels and Joe McCarthy and Nixon in the nude trying to put helmets on their peckerwoods; will somebody put this stuff out?  // you walk through a museum all the colors of the spectrum but not one image... except of checks passing Pollock dollar signs de Kooning fortunes Larry Rivers pots at the ends of the rainbows. No people no love no heart and soul insides flowing out no fighting on the street no fires rip the sky no children screaming death no police no state, except it is the state, bullshitting on the wall, no peoples' struggle, just colors thrown by baby snooks a down and leaving unintellectual NO RECORD OF THIS PLACE. as wild a motherfuckin joint America is somebody should get this shit down, otherwise no one will believe it. get it down get it on the record get the hate the horror the lies the rockefeller monsters eating corpses / heey bro, say hey, what it is, dude, yeah too, to do it is, yeah? wowlaowdootieroo baybaybay-BE, carrying a radio on his shoulder eating corpses coal mines, garment center, assembly lines hot steaming steel poured through space / not any of life is there. hey poet. you, artist, he turns in the shadows suckin a marble. dribblin andy warhols lost nut / he is an ARTIST, he is a po' 8. a po' 9. his work is about everything, his work is about the universe, her work is about the universe, her work is about the stars, belching her work is about grey hair lost in the desert peeped in a teeny voice NO BABIES NO SCREAMS NO RED LIFE NO FUTURE, death peeped in a teeny voice, stupidity dripped in a sultry voice 

bourgeois poets yodel nonsense about boring absence, they think of funny ways for letters to sit on the page, concrete fullshit, arty dumbshit, they are as safe as old toilet paper. revolution swoops the world, bourgeois artists stare at crumbs of dust in the light. people change reality. but these dull imitation poets talk to us of fragmented nothingness like 2-celled creatures trying to bebop; the world is heavier than they know. they do not know. they fight knowledge with abstraction and think they cool because they talk to theyself! they are full of shit. like vultures peckin on an open grave / they uphold dying capitalism and give themselves airs they think they shit is profound. complex but the people think it's as profound and complex as monkey farts.

now, meditate.... on that!

no video link - click 4 gods wisdom's wonderful cover of on the beach by neil young. cheers