William Parker

my town is very large array. look at me

look up inside my circle and my sounds at
my music to my left at the birds in the tree
machine. my music dreams about my mama to

my boy. they sing to each other in a secret

for the ordinary culture, the folded play
on the street about bird pretending and flute

stealing till it’s time to go to play mountain.

all this is in the nature of my shelves.

they are the head archive of very large array
and if you listen close birmingham and the

wind blowin’ in from chicago, throwin’ ends

from chicago, california and rossville, tennessee
and hamtramck, michigan to united sound

are all together on the longest road I know

cut door by door in violent courtyards.
they decided their skirts meant something

to do with movement in the page frame, song

for a moving picture of the tone world, for
the remote trio, the internal world theater,

inner ear of the inside songs, the inside
songs of curtis mayfield by william parker,

theater in the near, flavor that inside

outside opening, the ear’s folds, its courses,

in the open space, do it to me in my common
ear hole, its porches, insurge of the tone will,

gone in the sound booth, deep in da inner
sound ya’ll, invasive song up in you to get down

through everybody’s open window. now

my broke inside is a tent city. I live hard
in tent cities. my town is very large array