Vernacular Owl

for Amiri Baraka Old Ark, how funky it was, all those animals, two of every kind, and all that waste, the human shit somebody had to clean up. Somebody, some love you hugged before fear, the fear of an in-sani-nation, the No Blues, ruined your bowels. Go devil. Public programs like Race. Dems a Repub of Dumpster Molesters, Congressional whole-part bidders on your ugliest clown. Left wing, right, the missing moderates of flightless fight. Private like the Runs. God evil. Somebody had to clean that shit up. Somebody, some love who raised you, wise. Feathered razors for eyebrows, alto, tenor. Wasn’t no branch. Some say a tree, not for rest either. For change. When was we a wild life, long-eared and short. Prey, some prayed for the flood. And were struck by floating, corporate quintets of Rocks and Roths, assets bond Prestige. First Organizer ever called a Nigga, Noah, but not the last Occupier of Ararat ... got thick on Genesis and electric cello, cell-phone-shaped UFOs fueled by the damp, murdered clay of divinity-based Racial Mountain Dirt. Somebody had to clean that shit up. Some native body, beside the smooth water, like a brook Gwen say, “I had to kick their law into their teeth in order to save them.” Chaser if you straight. Ark Old Ark New Ark Now Only                                  Only Sidney P                           Simple JessB would                                would ____ Spencer T              ____ Dizzy G to turn                               to accent the dinner                         the p’s cheek.                                not the “ ... nuts.” Change the record, Record Changer. Name Change the changing same. Something only you could Art Messenger & dig in any chord. High water, like the woods of secrecy, always a trail a ways a coming. God evil. Move the “d.” Go devil. The Mosque watchers know. Also de wind, de wind and de Word, spoken and written, hidden in love with the intestines of  Testament. Eyes like a woman’s fist, her hard facts — not the crying, domestic consonants “of non being.” Soprano, piano, or the cultural cowardice of class, in any chord of standardized “sheeit” music, lowcoup risks slit. Though flawed, too, by penetrable flesh, some blue kind. Unlike a pretty shield, loaded free. Wasn’t just Winter or lonely. Those. Wasn’t just Sundays the living did not return. Crouch if you a bum or one of  Mumbo Jumbo’s reckless, poisonous reeds. A neck crow man ser vant n a jes’ grew suit. Us am, an unfit second Constitution. Us am, an ambulance full of ... broke-down, as round as we bald. Obeying hawkish eagles. Why the young Brothers so big, what they eatin’, why they blow up like that, gotta wear big white tees, gotta wear white- skin sheets, like maggots, like lard, the domestic oil of death and klan sweat, who blew them up, doctored, who pickin’ them off like dark cotton, make them make themselves a fashion of profitable, soft muscular bales, somebody got to clean this shit up. All us, us animals, on one floating stage we knew was a toilet, the third oldest in the nation, unreserved. Wasn’t no bank or branch. Yes we Vatican, despite Alighieri’s medium rare, rate of interest. It was confirmation. Some say black fire wood. Some love that changed our screaming Atlantic bottoms when all we could be was thin olive sticks with battered whore-ti-cultural beaks, and eastern screech. Flushed, too, every time the Yew Norker or one of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s traitorous X Jedi Clampett hillbillies fresh prince’d us    ... The real religion, our “individual expressiveness” wasn’t dehuman-u-factured by a Greek HAARP in a Roman uni-dot-gov-versity. Where we Away our Steel, “flood” means “flow.” Where we Tenure our Ammo, “podium” means “drum.” Flood, flow. Podium, drum. Flood, drum. Podium, flow. Drum, podium. Flood, flow. Used to be a whole lot of chalk around the Ark, then anger, then angels, their wings made of fried white dust, fallen from when the board of knowledge was public and named after a stranger or rich crook, an anti-in immigrant-can’tameter stretched across the teepee-skin, chairs of class where we clapped the erasers, fifty snows old, like we were the first Abraham, where we clapped the Race Erasers and drove away from K  James V and K Leo PB in shiny Lincolns, sprinkling holy sheeple from the sky, their powdery absolute Rule. Just add oil-water. Belongs to humanity. Just add sugar-rubber. Belongs to civilization. Gold. Days. Nights. Ounces. A forty. Mules move. A forty. Move. Move. Move mule. Whatchamacall “how we here,” and get no response ... how we ... where we fear, how we hear how we sound and how sometimes time is some even our own sound fears us, and remembers the first us, confronting Columbus with thunderbolts,  when “was-we” not good- citizen sober, “was-we”voting and drowning,  and rotting like “we-was” the armed guts of our young? Now a daze, tribe-be-known, the devil the best historian we got. Anyhow.