I Make Promises Before I Dream
No unclaimed, cremated mothers this year
Nor collateral white skin
No mothers folding clothes to a corporate park preamble
No sons singing under the bright lights of a lumber yard
Quantum reaganomics and the tap steps of turning on a friend
New York trophy parts among
the limbs of decent people
Being
an enraged artist is like
entering
a room and not knowing what to get high off of
My formative symbols/My upbringing flying to an agent’s ears
I might as well be an activist
Called my girlfriend and described
All the bottles segregationist had thrown at me that day
Described recent blues sites and soothing precautions
I feared for my poetry
You have to make art every once in a while
While in the company of sell-outs
Accountant books in deified bulk
Or while waiting for a girl under a modern chandelier
Or
in your last lobby as a wanderer
The prison foot-races the museum
My instrument ends
I mean, what is a calendar to the slave?
Also,
what is a crystal prism?
“He bought this bullet,
bought its flight
then bought two more”
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