leaves a race behind takes on the music pop its relation to capital
In the dream my mother pours a gallon of milk over my head because her boyfriend held my hand under the table.
Universal Studios of riot interspersed with whites holdingguns and carryingpeople away.
Bile-colored flutes survive along bog rock,red-veined with a fine fuzz: canebrake pitchers hooded against the good rain.
The sound from some other kind of space or craft and foot set in a downtown, US shotsinto windows
I see visions in my head of Heaven
I see what I’m pretty sure is Heaven
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The fields of Rolesville belong to my kinfolk, dead and alive.
tidal networks of black people cross the road a Walgreens and pizzeria we follow as they walk
I still don’t know if Jesus was the dog or Jesus
See Jesus doesn’t make himself
Apparent like I might have thought he would’ve
I followed the shimmer far down a road I still haven’t found the ending to.
