the truth was

                                 the ship sailed

                                 the rains came

                                  the loss arose

the truth is

the ship sailed

the rains came

the loss arose

the negroes is

the truth was  

Water the plants. Drink plenty of water. Don’t hear the news. Get bored. Complain about the weather. Keep a corkscrew in your purse. Swipe right sometimes. Don’t smile unless you want to. Sleep in. Don’t see the news. Remember what the world is like for white people. Listen to cricket songs. Floss. Take pills. Keep an empty mind. When you are hungover do not say I’m never drinking again. Be honest when you’re up to it. Otherwise drink water lie to yourself turn off the news burn the papers skip the funerals take pills laugh at dumb shit fuck people you don’t care about use the crockpot use the juicer use the smoothie maker drink water from the sky don’t think too much about the sky don’t think about water skip the funerals close your eyes whenever possible When you toast look everyone in the eyes Never punctuate the President Write the news Turn into water Water the fire escape Burn the paper Crumble the letters Instead of hyacinths pick hydrangeas Water the hydrangeas Wilt the news White the hydrangeas Drink the white Waterfall the cricket songs Keep a song mind Don’t smile Don’t wilt funeral funeral

oh antic God return to me my mother in her thirties    leaned across the front porch    the huge pillow of her breasts    pressing against the rail summoning me in for bed.

I am almost the dead woman’s age times two.

I can barely recall her song the scent of her hands though her wild hair scratches my dreams    at night.   return to me, oh Lord of then    and now, my mother’s calling, her young voice humming my name.

When my faith returned all my lovers were gone. That morning I woke to the two hundred and thirty-second day of the crisis; I was beneath my bed. It was the sixth day that I had awakened beneath my bed. I was lonely, but I was also sure. Life without juice had taken on the name and shape of my weakest character, who—when we passed on the street—did not know me. I knew it was me by the way my head felt: people find themselves in an idea and feel so specified by the idea that they are compelled to show it. Today all my ideas are liquid. That day of my faith, friends thinking I was sick came by to see me. It would be the last day I spent alone; I was happy, but still would not drink. The juice on my mind was no longer juice. There was an absence there, but one so constant it became familiar. I did not want to drink it.

We are all dying for something. in. or outside of. or beyond. Collapse imminent & laborious. topple topple. fuck this & let it burn. there was a time i believed i could afford to be kind with Torn Muscled Tongue. every Gesture i searched for: Temporal Babble. i hate being told my Age is the Reason everything sounds like White Noise & Convenient Lies. how to Get On, or how to Get By, or how to Sleep at Night? i ask too often, but never to Anyone who can answer me. i don’t want a Solution i want People to know Everything hurts, but i make it look so alluring. Vanity isn’t suppose to be a Vice. how many ways can i tell on myself? if Everyone else can be so bold why the fuck not Me? ain’t i a Relevant Octave? this is Audacity. for Me a Confession of how all of this converges. my Waking Breaking-folded out & up into this Nation. pretend every White Theatric in which i have played is now my Role to usurp. make it my own. revisit with new Life. i refuse to comment on Anything that can’t kill me today. i choose to comment on the Ruptures that vibrate beside me. i wish i believed in Freedom as much as i believe in Speech. i wish there was Freedom in a Present Politic. awaiting the Guillotine-Shoe to drop i want to know something about writing My Own History if i could tell it you would only know i tried to be. there is not an Age we can be born in & not be Somebody-else’s Dream, Another’s Nightmare. Both Sides is a Battlefield. i lose myself at the Frontline. tag me in the Worthy Aftermath. Soldiers™ of Disenfranchised File & Rank. who can even be out here? dying so ready? the real Tragedies of War exist in the Mouths swallowing the Bombs as beautiful. here i would jest about the things i have swallowed to remind You Humor is the only way You can seem to listen. unless its my Dying. the Audacity of a Memoir a Pre-Emptive Biopic of just how impossible all this actually was. i can’t comment on the Death anymore. Sisters & Xisters. & Brothers, & Siblings & we all carry Bombs in our Throats. Cherry & Toxic & Bubble, clock the Pop. Everybody wanna talk like Us but y’all making Mumble of the Whole Charade & dare to charge Me for it.