After Khalil Joseph’s short film Black Mary
featuring Alice Smith
I put a spell on you;
This grooved soprano is a brackish well.
The ghosts sanctify and recollect their burlap vestments
patient as dolls, swaying, in cipher, holding court,
holding breath, waiting for the services to begin.
The water is always troubled here;
somebody’s some body always falling in.
Something fecund, carbon, wet, swole, Brown
must encourage the bodies through to the other side
Amphibia is the only pre-condition answerable to black prayer
I put a spell on you
There is a bayou swum in broken bones.
This kind of snatching only returns demolished things.
It is not that we are well. Rather we have found a way to nurse
the only water source in the wail of the unpronounced.
History so strident, and always half-erect inside these walls,
swells into an Abstract. Grabs at the throat—any throat—it can find
A shrill, anoints at the half measure, bubbles at half control.
Unction is shook, dangling and wild as the Beginnings
of any thing formed of too many worlds.
Whatever it is, it —it won’t let me—
Ho-o-old my peace.
it has already survived the demise, the burden,
the rape, the extort, the betrayal, the selling
away, of all one’s beloved.
I put a spell on you —Whatever it is— it won’t let me
all the other life forms still yet spawn from here:
that pitch, that ink, that soot, that Blues,
that din, that dusk, that musk, that brood
is-is that which had no way to be enough.
And it is that-that which could not have ever been
Enough. It is-is is-that that-that which would require
all abandonment of need.
to scout out that which might could
hold the prophet inside the promise
of more-more more-more more than enough.
that fund, that firmament, that fire. That-that which
—Whatever it is—must needs be all that there ever was.
All that there ever must will ever be. The Trouble?
—here in this absence of all else—
trembling, roiling through this pond.
Our trouble suffers the drowning of planets
swallowed undead inside the terror of the whole world.
Breonna Taylor died again today in our arms
[why how will she die again in our arms tomorrow?]
she’s mine She’s, mine.
she was mine-mine. She was mine
i put a spell on you;
a cry, for one mortal man, cannot sound like this.
this sound—the stretch of it—the grief straining into the
Fissure at the Universe’s edge. this half-soprano half-beast.
half-killing field half-birthing ground
must be the only siren Left broadcast
on behalf of all mankind.
After Alberto Pereira Jr.
How might a poem ever be entered
If one insists on living outside of it
as if truth ever estranges from its confession.
shut off, attenuated—Severed even—from the silence
hoping for a quiet burial of its secrets
inside the belly of a thing
—is a body
the crushed, frot grape,
the burst skin of an opened chalice
the ferment lust routed towards its own becoming
a swallowed, a delectable, an abusable thing.
plain as evidence: how hickeys cum first, leave second-hand.
mapping, in an instant, the truancy of the desired
and its bruised consequence. the Possessed remind of
their dispossession. the lover, the scorned incite
the tangled algorithms to their dangled,
non-local dance of the Survived.
touch me here
COVID-19 80s come HIV
2020 unspell the undercount of
the infected and the unbelieved. a mirror referees
the chupacabra apart from its chimeric twin
still haunting the olde AIDS mausoleum
toggling between pixel +time,
betwixt Java + script New Worlds
project into and out of the digital forest
where screens screen now as much for the troll
as the Corona; the drone, the android, the teletubby
as much as the quarantined.
Here in Cyborg Heaven where we are all only fans
of the fatte, the femme, the nanosex
the trans, the zaddy, the bear, the cougar,
the intersex and the polyamorous. the non-binary codes
of the sapio-sanct, pan the bi sexual algorithms of the marooned
Here where apples and operating systems bear less and less fruit
more and more seed spill into isolate
and heartache. pills pop, crystals smoke
the anxious and the paranoid into novel forms
of forgiveness and the unforgiven
Every one hides behind an instagram scene
pandemics push portals onto the outcast fringe
of the human condition. Shame and stigma snag
right where the shunned escape, battered and bruised
into their ennui Underground
Every box signals a beginning
of a turn, a twist, an impulse
a tremor, an anguish, a horned head
a taut arm, a whetted hand, whistle
the opened organ called to task
the hardening fruit of the willing and the wild.
The Object is to get inside, beside, beneath it get into it
test how the right entrance can make as much
noise as the Entered.
Touch, touch, touch, touch-touch it!
every crevice, every ending, objects to nothing
Zoom-in magnify how salt, pearl, water exudes for you
behind the glass, in front the screen, in opened air.
Don’t it move you into your want?:
emulsify, trigger, reflex, unfold before intent
Attends to any theory of mind
Touch touch touch me please
I am it and it is not me
blood belongs and un-belongs
to the viral, the virile, the vile
the live stream clings and un-clings to the breathy contour
of its own ecstatic perdition
tunnels, tides, tubes swell their miasmas into
the surrounded air. Our insides bare the implicit need
to be touched, to be held, to be nursed, by the enveloped
suck of hot tongue and recycled wind.
Touch me touch me Touch me please
The boxed, the unboxed
The bruised, the belonged
The looked over, the overlooked
the puddle, the oasis, the pond.
The breeding ground for the succumbed
and the spawned, the required, the acquired
the healed, the traumatized, the fixed, the fixated, the errand
boy, the homing pigeon, the prodigal, and the returned
We are what else besides a meeting ground:
Heart body fluid mind
Touch me PLeasseee
Where mask nor rubber can
withstand the cover of this
blood borne anointing. Laced to my sins, my heart
my obsessions, my endeavors, my crimes, my longings
Received, endowed and pressed into Beings
like me. Touch us please!
The infected, affected, the unadorned
and the adored. Here every transgression belies
the confectioned underbelly to every sacral push
and Insists we hold out and on to some thing
any thing holy, warmed, and Divine (d).