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The Compress

Passing You in the intimate hallways of airport terminals You look at me with venom in your eyes sinking the fangs of your consciousness into me as if I were a rodent to be consumed… I am a. proud. black. youth. striding past you as I wear the color of your skin Is it really that hard to believe? enserio hombre I can feel your eyes boring into the pores of my technicolor epidermis, I suck my teeth at your ignorance; but its useless because they’re already bored bitless de-tusked like your judgement is a plague of entitlement sweeping across…

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Written to You, Achronotic Locus

Where does one begin when they’ve yet to decide what constitutes a “beginning?” Is there a way to break free from the shackles of the inner critic? How does a writer decide what they write about? Is it possible to become great by writing from cold-starts? My father Bryan once told me that nothing is worse than someone who does the same old shit yet expects different results. “Asinine; It’s asinine,” he’d say. My father John once told me that all great writers became great not by meticulously picking at their works, but rather by churning out content. Loads upon…

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Airplane Shit-Talk Ain’t Really Shit Talk

Fragmentary engagement, the pen bleeds as if the tongue were sliced open – Black ink droplets spattered upon a page of decolonial au jus,   a patois created as the flight slips from the tarmac: the grip of the tires is required… but words don’t play by the same rules.   “I wish this pen had that ink; I wish people realized the same truths I hold”   yet Subjectivity makes its home in us all; The body is a thatched roof blown open by the gusts of our hearts & our caucus is a flock of sparrows –  …

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Ripped Open

What in the fuck is going on man Seriously I’m quite confounded Up and down and up and down, back n forth and again   and again and again and again I swing my mind to and fro   as I stumble into myself, words hang from me like   trinkets I adorned myself like cracks on a broken   pane of glass, once fully transparent now abject – a spider’s web; a hideous grace   momentary astigmatism, ouch.   followed by silence cut short like the hair on my head   and every drop of magic has evaporated from…

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What Strange Times We Live In

  where “fuck you” is synonymous with “fuck me,”   when “you” is a reflection of the self and “me” is lost, rarely seen or mentioned – being too informal or perhaps not fashionable enough.   So “me” is used when necessary and never indulgently, (we do enough of that as it is) – indulgence, I mean – oh yes. Oh, yes…   yet “ego” fra(mes)(&)(its)elf, hiding between prefix and suffix, rooting a canopy of an idea in your mind.   It’s not really applicable, or compatible or even, odd, et al – and you realize that “me” is kind…

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I Lurk Late, Futon Dreams

And so the raven peers perched atop my head into my perception, bores with its beak a bolt– hole through my eyes   and the hands descend fanning out behind my skull, each enladen with an eye in the palm   and it all fell into place when I traversed the hallway of consciousness, looking down that corridor of books, realizing just how much I’d gotten myself into.   So now I recount this dream on the backs of poems while my three black cats sit idly by– one of them now jumping for the paper hanging from the nail…

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When the Pretentious are Confused

the people sit in circles eating small meals while recounting what came before   when they open their mouths they speak as if they’ve got “it” all figured out and direct their limbs so elegantly one might mistake them for some prominent conductor or maybe even an old Greek statue — how they hold their arms outstretched — their fingertips extensions of their minds   but then the moment passes and they’re no longer paused because they don’t know anymore than anyone else does, lost just the same, mesmerized by freedom’s haunt

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Pas Encore…

Nous Voici. Nous y revoila, se balancant a travers les saisons mon ami. Donc Nous Voici, Nous y revoila, Comptant Nos benedictions seul dans le silence que se couche dessous nos sentiments… alors seul, maintenant seul, seul alors même pendant que nous rêvons de l’autre… Nous allons donc pas l’accent sur le reste. Juste nous permettre a fleur ces merveilleux choses grandissant entre toi et moi: Un Amour Mûri, Une Passion intacte et pure, Un Amour épanoui… Un Amour issu de respect mutuel, Un Amour non reconnu… Pas tout de suite… Pas tout de suite.

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writer’s laminate

“If writing’s what you love to do, then do it and don’t ever stop doing it. Because the only thing we’ll ever have is what we love.” – Cole K. Yet I find myself lost, wondering about my own merit. Gauging my success with a flawed metric.   Success should be derived from accomplishments, feats of independence not from the opinions of others. Even still, our humanity requires comparisons to be made– from one soul to the next we encompass each other as if eclipses of some divine Being.   the pen moves itself across the page and the writers…

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note .

How I’m moved By the wonder of The written word Of information And the way she Dances around me Books tweets Scrawls in notebooks In images and in Memories shes like A Moroccan dancer On an evening In Marrakesh Shadows slip From wall To soft dirt that layered The under foot Candle light Flickers from Each table And she is Cast in a new Light as her Body spins And unfurls Spins and Unfurls and Again and again Gold baubles hanging From her silk Garments flowing With the energy Of her movements Orange light bounces Back at onlookers As she…

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Her juul

Stone slab upon stone slab, cool to the touch. Draft greets them, their window hanging open a tad. “Grab a coat.” Her juul   blinking silently as he begins to unspool a thick lump of Flandria Virginia. “Tin’s low.” Stone slab upon stone slab, cool   droplets of rain collect on the stool where they burn bifters during Heaven’s grey crescendo. Stone slab upon stone slab, cool   flakes of snow now pool over Vic’s car outside. The little mouth of its gecko hangs open a tad. “Grab a coat.” Her juul   crackles again, and– “Obviously,”– I ain’t no fool …

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Teardrop,

A teardrop rolls encumbered by Pain and Memory. One-part sodium, one-part water, three-part emotion,   A teardrop rolls. Wide arching turn, it bends around the corner of the mouth Before dripping from the underhang of the chin. A brief moment of hesitation Then it falls   And a teardrop refracts weight through its curves. It is an inverse mirror, absorbing life into its wholesome body. It is the grinding of stones and boulders, Until it inaudibly bursts upon the floor.

hush (review)

Hush: Media and Sonic Self-Control by Mack Hagood My rating: 5 of 5 stars hush is a delightful read offering a bounty of pristine syntax, thoroughly informed chapters, and carefully constructed arguments. It’s a masterful blend of cornerstone theories – a high-tech trophy case of superbly crafted arguments and rhetorical delicacies all centered around the mediation of sound. hush is broken into four sections: Introduction, Suppression, Masking, and Cancellation. Its introduction is a marvelous display of textual control in which the figures of Orpheus and Collin Kaepernick bear the proverbial torches of exemplification. Inspired by Orpheus’ ability to enshroud his…

//{spirit}

///{Your Name}/// :Never quit.: :Never fade.: :Persevere.: :Overcome.: // :Their tears, our pain.: :Their bones, our refrain.: :From ashes, we emerge.: :From phantoms, we become.: // {life; given}/{death; silenced} {skull; broken}/{soul; violent} // (cleft hoof stampede) (our call upon the Earth) ///{Your Name}/// // :Let rain be their bane,: :young hurricane untamed.: // (song of destruction) (dance of revelry) // {net; cast out} {harvest; plenty} // {writ; bloody, unrepealed} // …opening…opening…opening… // {machine pumps; full avail} // …/…/…/… // [send][receive][save]

Reloj

Blackened spots cloud visions, the gaze far set upon the horizon, the dream lived is the dream created, bodies seeking refuge we are a collective forced to splinter under the weight of modernity & As our globe spins backwards we are twisted like the concept of time

exhalation sensory pit

An extrapolatory tongue dips into jars of ink— Watch it as it jumps down its hole; a rabbit, Elusive, quicksilver rolling down the crease created by your spine… It seeps into your skin, ossmossian mercury; Ichor, blood god of communication takes form: the thought chased, the thought dreamt- now-fleeting while the words become sonic structure in your ear. structure and sound structure from sound, light held back by nothing, birthed from a silent womb dripping down into the depths of words you sink, like a flare dropped deep fading into the pit where sound burns, your imagination, it’s combustion only…