I ran from it and was still in it

I burn communities in shadow, underground, up on the

plateau, then slide with the horny horns. vision’s festival

is folded in overtones and outskirts. j tizol, harry carnival

and feel lined out around an open forte, an underprivilege

of the real presence, curled up around an outlaw corner.
curling around corners puts me in mind of jean toomer.
I think I’ll change my name to gene tumor. I want to be

a stream tuner, unfurled in tongues that won’t belong in

anybody’s mouth, mass swerving from the law of tongues,

let me slip my slap- tongued speech in your ear, the burnt

starry star of all love in your ear. o, for a muse of fire music!
. . .

I often amount to no more than a stylistics. airrion

love and uncountable son and I want to amount to

nothing more than that. my gift is more than you

can carry. all other things are just my style. my thing

is everything is everything and there’s nothing more
than my bouquet, my uncountable thing outside. my
voices inside blow up inside a blackening gift from a

broken hand. we were cagey in our bib caps and our

overcoats carried the hidden weight of our broken

circle. lost city people make the world go round.

remember that time at the marriott wardman park.
. . .

I am foment. I speak blinglish. at work they call me

but I don’t come. I come when she call me by my

rightful name. I come to myself from far away just

laid back in the open. I ran from it and was still in it.

it’s a blue division on my goodbye window. I’m full

of outer space. I’m free as dred all night. I get clung

with a voice that gets held back by surge protection.

I’m daddy I come when he crazy he call me I’m crazy.

I come when he call me once upon a time in arkansas.

when the water come I come to the unprotected surge

and division in my old- new sound booth. I am fmoten.