From March, 2019

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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…

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…

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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…