usually full of something when the "i" poem gets written. only children end up soft while threatening hardness. harlem destroyed most of my romantic. hardness is not invented. it is the healing of many wounds. a prognosis. a technicality built upon/by our million wound mind. rings that make the oak. stars that wound the black galaxy and we say, "it is beautiful."
demimonde reaches out in the darkness for demiurge, this is an "i" poem printed with soot on black paper in this room with no light. Majnun, smiling curls to the shoulder, on 147th street running towards morning without shoes. to not be ashamed seems foolish, but here we're talking hard-as-nails scar tissue where the heart was. blasphemy. the demon waiting in the park for me is beauty.
the "i" poem is speed-metal-turned-liquid-turned-gas- turned-pro. it knows shit. been on a plane to England. that field of "i" lies between four strokes, the Shiraz takes it breath. look, there! a poet in a turban standing in a field of propane, singing unaffectedly because his charm is "i", his wand is "i", his shoes blink. think you'd get to him and have him call you beautiful?
this, the beyond hardness, hard activity, leaves its soldier breathless. 86 it, let's go for a ride. we need to talk. the "i" poem cannot seek beauty, it is bain. it softens. turns the flow into episodes. we can't have that on this mission: increase the wounds, collect the scar of "i". cafe life has its rigors, its blues lyrics. it's where ghosts live, but we grow used to that sound, a certain panic in the presence of beauty.