I Do Not Know the Spelling of Money
I
go to the railroad tracks
And
follow them to the station of my enemies
A
cobalt-toothed man pitches pennies at my mugshot negative
All
over the united states, there are
Toddlers in the rock
I
see why everyone out here got in the big cosmic basket
And
why blood agreements mean a lot
And
why I get shot back at
I
understand the psycho-spiritual refusal to write white history or take the
glass freeway
White skin tattooed on my right forearm
Ricochet sewage near where I collapsed
into a rat-infested manhood
My
new existence as living graffiti
The
new bullets pray over blankets made from old bullets
The
28th hour’s next beauty mark
The
waist band before the next protest poster
Bought
slavers some time, didn’t it?
The
tantric screeches of military bolts and Election-Tuesday cars
Proof
that some white people have fondled nooses
That sundown couples
made their vows of love over
opaque peach plastic
and bolt action audiences
Man,
the Medgar Evers-second is definitely my favorite law of science
Fondled
news clippings and primitive Methodists
My
arm changes imperialisms
Simple
policing vs. Structural frenzies
Elementary
school script vs. Even whiter white spectrums
Artless
bleeding and
the
challenge of watching civilians think
“terrible rituals they have around the corner. They
let their elders beg for public mercy…beg for settler polity”
“I am going to go ahead and sharpen these kids’ heads
into arrows myself and see how much gravy spills out of family crests.”
Modern
fans of war
What with their t-shirt poems
And t-shirt guilt
And
me, having on the cheapest pair of shoes on the bus,
I have no choice but to read the city walls for signs
of my life
No Stars
Over the Trenches Tonight
Malcom X’s ballroom jacket slung over my son’s shoulders
Pharmacy
doors mid-slide
The
figment of village
a noon
noose to a new white preacher
Wiretaps
in the discount kitchen tile
-All in an
abstract painting of a president
Half man on scratch paper
Half pickpocket with flailing arms
double fisted
I am an alcoholic in search of history books
ruining
the local train in search of
history books
I am limping to poetry
a Reagan meeting adjourns and modern plant life begins
along with dry out-of-body insight, tools and nails in a bucket,
a poor person’s bird atrium
along with unprovable music theory
-The poem
turns into absolute political failure
Carceral state mythology of a factory’s first Black chaplin
Introducing:
the bible that goes bump
or a flower of harm
or the knife fight the day after the last day of history
county line cop lights gone cold like
bourgeois state lunch on an international bridge
-the
Mississippi mixtape
A fly studies me at a border crossing
It has been studying everything at this border
Including
the police graduation gowns
Open air silence in the pan
Then silence closing in on an imperialist opera
I mean I
was there the night that
San
Francisco disappeared
Like listening to Nina Simone later in life…
Won’t you fly a little, Lord
Won’t you put a space heater in my grave
It’s the people who facilitate themselves, Lord
My only change of clothes prosecuted
The government has finally learned how
to write poems
I Imitate You
“Believe
in the street, brother”
60s
newspaper clippings and teeth hang on a string
“Like a book of
life, man”
The
unfortunate alliance
between killer and killed
replaces the hippies with white people
I
talked to class-less people today
They
were not overworked nor military captains
They
were not wage-washed nor born in a series
Maybe
I am the last white man on earth
A
church signals another church with mirrors and nose-drips
The
spirit-world up and starts murdering city trees
My
poem
My
cubist-remade scar
My
Saturn for adults
My
junkie industrialism
Made
interestingly heart-felt
“I
knew my father as much as I want to be known”
I Make Promises
Before I Dream
No unclaimed, cremated mothers this year
Nor collateral white skin
No mothers folding clothes to a corporate park preamble
No sons singing under the bright lights of a lumber yard
Quantum reaganomics and the tap steps of turning on a friend
New York trophy parts among
the limbs of decent people
Being an enraged
artist is like
entering a room
and not knowing what to get high off of
My formative symbols/My
upbringing flying to an agent’s ears
I might as well be an
activist
Called my girlfriend
and described
All the bottles
segregationists had thrown at me that day
Described recent blues
sites and soothing prosecutions
I feared for my poetry
You have to make art every once in a while
While in
the company of sell-outs
Accountant
books in deified bulk
Or while
waiting for a girl under a modern chandelier
Or in your last lobby as a
wanderer
The prison foot races
the museum
My instrument ends
I mean, what is a
calendar to the slave?
Also, what is a
crystal prism?
“He bought this bullet,
bought its flight,
then bought two more”
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