A Tattoo of batons on the bruising flesh
A Under-rhythm of the American dream
B dreamt elsewhere, those shy, twitching settlements
B jut beyond these kempt measures of commemoration
C like a broke anniverse, a migrant shore, an interstate
C of stragglers and involuntary volunteers. they got shot
A and it don’t stop and it won’t stop, that beat goes on
A like it’s the wrong song laid down too long
B what might have been chant or rhyme fades
B into a murmur of polite passing, a graze, jostling
C and some rough driving by to hop out quick
C for tickets and loose smoke and delicate bags
A imploding under the force of the fist, exhaling
A face this, face this, the true is the unfit, phrase
B afeard or febrile, all those hurtling to from atop
B here pitch, come press in on, having been where
C having been there, having been air, having been
C flore, flare, police passing, our delicate underground
A flashing in flight and and crying out, fuck no
A to the dry see saw of go along to get along
B would and should all pegged to which we
B wedge, then tamp down nestling until then
C which is far off in a never township. come tussle
C with me through the fade, play through the argument
A as if he were lying there, as if he were lying there
A with that dumb look of a corpse, all ash and
B bauble and filling, even through dusted rubble
B past torch and kiln, a remnant sheen keeps
C of a burnt circle but maybe it will be a birthday
C I want to call him kiril and I wonder what he will
A turn to, in the dark days with rainclouds over Simi
A and his colors all blazoned, holding the blue line
B above is a swarm that might rev up to something
B below the hands stutter in vivid but desolate halls
C like the broken video in the first place, the cramped
C frame into an open boulevard, new bebop in reply
A blazing up against that white song that I live
A surrounded by, white noise on the skyline
B is just that, a glitch, a scribble against sky
B swooping sea, whose edges blur and throb
C on sand and concrete inlet and broken rock
C reflecting the city above and the city underneath
A as if they were two maps clapping slowly together
B hesitantly unfolding or trickling to some polite hush
C the frenzy of other intervals
–posted for Laura Kang, David Lloyd, and Fred Moten–