Treatment, a poem

With Amiri Baraka and Auscultation

Coming home, a long blow through the tow’s line, 405 keeping bright, maniacal alive, lit up that magneto cape, what a slight shape, arresting the guffa a, lickety split and we’re back to the raw merging West a bit, to the central pit of awe, above the inch, along the rim, found the itch, strum the ridge, flick of the gas guzzle tongue punk, it’s getting grim, light’s satin saturated and dim, come back in, image, the flicker I once saw digging succulents to run, corpuscle map is what I’ve undone, it makes me charge the rung, fingers over steel, taste of copper on the tongue, gun muzzle owes me fun, fantasies sprung in this psychopathic majesty, yours, shunned, the owed, the debt, the galore, the collector’s spent, kicking a bucket past a credit union fuck it, empty to rust, empty to die, splinter splinter on the wall, in my claws, in my eye, I’m layered and sooted, wood fire tales foaming from the ashen mouth from a form with a claw as a foot, and I’m slumped, slung, done in and for what run? Flicker, Succulent’s gotta suck out that sun, light to bathe, pleasure a privilege, make a minute, give a dime, hit the high hat, run through the lime light, key, keys, sand, sour, sweet, roots entrenched and mud colored young, they go there to breed and be again done, along the edge of that chromatic Miami seed, dangling in flow automatic hollow, holy, empty, blank, slate, wretched, open, beauty, that Biscayne bait, but here it’s all flame, wet and memorized, sip sip bang goes the driest cider in the tamest mouth conceptualized, through which is which, through snout is snout, here they hear, they roll about, dirty winter referenced stout, streaming headlines and its pout pout flick the LCD lit, headlines in caverns is it, a stream of streams, a note for the notes, the brittle pages and the plastic coatings gloat, and the figure eights through Olympic shortcomings, environmental justice pinnings, thinking about Justice playing just as the cops come by again to complain again, age 20 and then, believing in ghosts, cops, no nods just guns, no eyes just—guns, lingering, letting up, a trigger is a snitch, a flicker is a flicked—no, flicker’s a destroyed garden remember say it ain’t so, beds made of coconut shreds, hanging solid, a beg for a pardon, the limitations of dread and a warden, cobblestone sordid, awarded, it’s a heartbeat and a forgetting, a stamped out set of palms on the dash sweating, erasing, churning, calming, melting, blurring, Atlantic tide beat its breast, full of the rest, spit out the rehearsal at best, it’s the contest to be contested as we flex nothing, as we breathe and exhale and say rest to the rest, tired, exhausted, oppressors’ death a lullaby, nail boards to boards and cry, create weapons and enemies for warnings imagined and ahead of these, storming the evil forests, young now, child play pose positioned as rows of figures anywhere, which way, bullet time, never say never, revisited, it’s all revisited, nostalgia, all of ya, the swing and the swung and the swill, remembering a mind so numb it honored a backwash fill, there we were, central pit of Gorham now, speckled and still a disgust as I swallowed and how and waited until the pestilence cleared the bill, results in a regurgitating gingerly spew quite festive I guess it’s questionable, and I wore that red hair, permed at the time, that red mountain dew, so permanent, 20 fluid ounces, those curls damn those curls sullen and slinking, Butterfinger candies nearby blinking, 3 for 1 baby the Butterfinger baby baby, that’s what I called myself lately, age 13 and happily digesting employed and, I loved to linger with that sweet sugar rotting the far edges so nearer, numbing calming claiming to seizure, deep cavities filled to measure, challenged opened exposed forever, crushed death wiping the life morose, moreover, eating, mouthing, consuming, hyper sober, negative space to positive, flavor exploder, positive face to a negative pacing, run for cover, soon cornered, bottles clashing, labor forever, drunken zombie mother for a boss, recycled weapons aimed and thrown, thick smoke like decayed moss from a Virginia Slim long and lone, zombie mother’s gaze and the glass falling to a brittle muted boom, and it all stank, and the ash was a curtsy too often and too soon, but this was then, in that central pit not this here, this then was not 405 bent into shape so stately and the late night affluence ready to be basically driving by, with sties for eyes, forks for teeth, glittering and gallant with a heated seat, awash with loop and Boolean beats, bullshit boop beep boop and woe is me in this utopia spree, collapsed unto a bag of goop, bag of holding patterns soup, retribution of smatters and platters looped, fictionalized lifestyles, carried along by hers truly duped, le fleur du mal du automobile du fleur, pon de floor, memorandums de memories of clubs in Providence and Philadelphia’s factories, incisors steeling as diamonds along the damp grass to hide in and the damper potholed streets take me back to fly in, pockmarked forehead, crushed grin of the passersby lacking in both twin and sin more ahead, neither thin nor spun this spin is thundering and bled in some distant land, some cathartic astronomic twitch, it meant a delicate reference to an unhitch, a sentience, a telescope for us to reminisce, composure fuzz is the stuff and the buzz, and the distance ugliness was flung, by the frantic fanatic’s beat of a heart on fire, and what I wouldn’t do to find those flames, along this same 405, this eye, this view, this stance, gray glass hue, what I wouldn’t do to be that fire, that fuzz, that shift, a lookout of behaviors when the dust of the violence comes to a settle, and the sticking point to just give in is all meddle and kettle, and we let those with ideas spin their spin, while the belly expands, the polluted lungs heave and weakly rise with placed hands, and the quiet and the shy exactitude accelerates into a dawning of certitudes, the same damn figures the multitudes, switching in a deep grayscale glitter, the personhoods, mirrors shattered, dancing scattered, ruins and exiles flattered and casted into semi known patterns, the world a pinched cheek with a shadow on a knuckle, the penumbra causing the viewer’s temporary blindness, the finger skin’s wrinkles blurry ridges moving and quaking seismographic to the arousal of the antagonist microcosmic who can’t stop shaking claiming the world its fabulous plaything, world receiving thinking, eyes in terror blinking, cheeks bloodied and slipping, every urge a precipice sputtering longingly for one long untouched, final fall, pounding into the surface, echoed and echoed, echoing, and then, clearly, a bounty of silence, and a sharpness long since sharpening, the land reformed, morbid, mourned, and still warm sputtering.