('this thisness' redux)
...
BRRRRIKCtikkktiklikttickkcc...
the sound my blackness makes
fading in and out the shadows
and the i-have-a-dreamcicle
incense smoke separating us
brrrrrkkkktickticktaktickkkkkkk,
i lick you/the bootblack of my tongue
leaving a slender streak of oil-slick
slob on your cheek/the globules
of a literary gawlo practitioner.
bbbbrrrkkkktkkttckcktttckkkk
so electric my eclectic shadow
passing its solids through you;
african + cosmic in your nasal
cavity, the cave wall for my
disembodied canon/etching shades
of hatshepsut & franz fanon
on 3rd eye-lid insides,
i kid you not...
brrrrrbbbrrrkkkktkkkbbbrrrrrrttttit
i come from a long line of long lines
the day you can see me
i could kiss you, but brrkktktkktkkkick
nothin' but static/your heels brrklckclicking
like shards of flint for good-witch
glinda to send harlequin bush-babies
to cover you in kansas
bbrrrrcktkckckttkcikcktaackktickkak...
but all there is is this crepuscule on
canvas, this rainbowed excrement & this
- thisness.
(see your doctor immediately
if ochered inflections persist
longer than 4 hours)
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