>> Thank you so much, Julie.
Thank you Jeffrey, Emma, Sharmaine [assumed spelling], and Chris, and all students who were
in the workshop this weekend past.
This made it a really great memorable occasion for me to be here.
This is a great honor.
So, I appreciate it very much.
Basically, Julie pretty much said everything I have to say [laughter], so.
But, you know, I'll say it again just-- since I'm here.
The-- I was digging around on the internet, just sitting there.
It was kind of great.
I have seen it over hear for myself and CJ
with Michael start giving me stuff, you know, books and CDs.
And the music was pumping and everything was cool, you know?
So, try to move in the spirit of that.
But while I was digging around on the internet, I just happened to find this great poem
that I'd never read before by June Jordan,
which I think is an epigraph for everything I want to say.
Although it's not really epigraph, it's just--
she says pretty much everything I want to say tonight too.
It's called Poem Number Two on Bell's Theorem, or the New Physicality of Long Distance Love.
"There is no chance that we will fall apart.
There is no chance.
There are no parts."
So, what I'm going to read tonight, the essay list
or the talk is called "Recess and Nonsense."
And I guess it's got a subtitle, "The End of the Poetry World and the Ends of the Poet."
And it's just 11 sections, so it won't take too long.
One, in whiteness as property, Cheryl Harris produces an analysis of whiteness as a property,
as a mode of property, as something that can be owned and traded and placed in exchange
to the advantage of the one who owns it.
But she also allows and requires us to think of whiteness not only as a property, as a property
but as the principle of property.
If whiteness is property, blackness is the critique of property on the one hand,
and the celebration of dispossession or non-ownership or unownership on the other hand.
This other hand means the critique is anticipatory,
that it is not only before what it critiques but that it brings what it critiques
into something almost like existence.
Given the brutality of property's belated, reactionary, regulatory power,
there has been no more terrible burden than to be enjoying to celebrate dispossession.
When possession is the motivation and constitution not only of the world
but of the very idea of world, earthly existence must bare a homelessness that no person,
if the theory of person that is to be believed, can bare.
In this regard, neither hoping or even fighting for a place in this world, nor any gesture
or movement toward the other wordly will do.
This is all to say that-- to say that whiteness is property is to say that the modality
in which whiteness can live or the modality
in which whiteness is endured or survived is spatial.
This is in turn to say that whiteness isn't just a venal, brutal, vicious way of taking up space.
Whiteness is rather the way in which so-called subjectivity is constituted as spatial
or more precisely a spatiotemporal coordination.
So that whiteness is also manifest as a brutal way of taking up or taking other people's time.
But to be a subject, to be a person, to be white, isn't just to take
up space-time in a fucked-up way.
What's at stake, rather, is that confluence where whiteness subjectivity
and spatiotemporality has such converged, constitute one another and are given
in that mutual constitution as being in the world.
One special way to describe that confluence-- special, because it is a deep intensification
of the exaltation and shame that goes with it, is being a poet,
which is to say being a citizen of the world of poetry.
Blackness in its inveterate earthliness is more plus, less than that.
Two, I guess you could say that if whiteness is the transcendental aesthetic,
then blackness is the imminent aesthetic.
But this is too stark.
Blackness isn't a pole.
It's an impure, refusal of bipolarity.
We're angels of dust after all and we can't forget the asymmetries of sovereignty,
sovereignty [inaudible] and isolation, its sociopathic singularity, the optic whiteness
of its whiteness, its tendency to be or go rouge.
States don't have the right to exist.
Do peoples-- Do people, do persons have such a right?
Do poets? Perhaps existence obliterates the economy of rights.
Can persons be self-determining?
Are atoms self-determining?
Does the kind of determinism that Einstein and Bohm desire implies something on the order
of a more broadly physical self-determination of and in nature?
Are these two kinds of determination cognate?
These are questions of black study given in the open idiom of black poetry.
What is revealed in their iteration is that there is no ontological, aesthetic, political,
physical, or metaphysical fundament whose rest black study does not disturb.
Three, J. Carter asks, what are the god terms
that underwrite human political, aesthetic sovereignty?
But what if the question is rather, what are the man terms that underwrite sovereignty?
Why did man become god?
What protocols of what Sylvia Wynter might call overrepresentation serially reproduces this
collective psychosis, which for fun you could call Anselm's mirror stage?
Anselm the saint I mean, not Anselm the [inaudible] however saintly he may be.
What if the first step is the assumption of a body?
What is it Gayle Salamon to assume a body, to take up a body,
to take one onto one's self a body, for the body and the self to take one another on?
What remains beyond that address?
What if that address, that aggressively impossible, refusable vulnerability,
that projective settlement is sovereignty?
And what if the taking of or on of whiteness is as it were a step within that step,
that is continually reactivated when property imposes and supervises the giving
and taking of properties and names?
Meanwhile riot, mutiny, the general strike, the remorseless working,
the under common tragicomedy, its antinomian [inaudible].
Living is dissolute, spread, it's dispersive [inaudible].
Its transubstantial faith seems always already
to have been a black thing you wouldn't understand because it passeth understanding.
Can we speak then in appositionally
to some insubstantial pageantry of the frantically [inaudible].
Our substance and sovereignty so bound up with one another,
substance being the real physical matter that which has mass,
occupies space, is on times line.
Did we have to imagine something like an unreal or more properly as surreal physical matter
so we can get the body, which is to say the men of our back.
Hortense Spillers and Toni Morrison teach us that flesh is surreal physical matter,
that it neither has nor occupies, so that what's at stake is necessity
of a more emphatic inhabitation of flesh, as something other than withdrawn or withheld
or reduced body, is that which is therefore opposed to body to the aesthetics or poetics
of self, that is the body's assumption in vampiric animation for poetics
of flesh, for poetics of selflessness.
One wants to speak of through as flesh in its own terms,
but flesh has no terms and one can't speak.
Having no mass, flesh is the critical celebration of the mass.
Flesh is displacement, a transformational gravitational warp.
Flesh is the nonsense of the irreducibly consensual, the cenobitic gem.
Flesh is recess.
Four, another sacrament is at hand,
on a hand other than the political ecclesiastical performativity of ingestion.
What did Anselm mean by death?
Here's where moratorium comes into play, a recess, a postponement,
a refusal to settle accounts, instantiates an already given sociality of blurring.
Nathaniel Mackey might say creaking of the word, given in it as the disavowal of ends,
when the unpayable, the unsettleable is announced as a radical disruption
of the very idea of accounting, of accountability of the account.
Debt and death ring out like a horn's inhabitants.
One bare silence come back and breathe the thicknesses, to tell us that assuming a body is
like exhuming a body or ingesting a body, only bloodier.
You can't take this.
This is not my body, ain't nobody here,
not here in this displacement we flesh, love that, claim this miracle.
Five, for an analytic of radical dissatisfaction of the generally and radically unsatisfactory,
I know why we're justified in claiming home self-body,
but the justification doesn't make it right.
And what we claim ain't good just because we claim it.
The state's existence isn't a function of right or rights.
Its existence is a function of might, which then appeals to a logic of rights,
of justification embedded in the brutalization it extends in attempting to negate it.
But that state's justification doesn't translate into his right to exist.
If there are right to exist, wouldn't it be predicated on what you've done rather
than any possible argument regarding why you are?
And yet what can any sovereign entity ever do to justify its existence?
This is not a philosophical question about what might happen.
This is an underphilosophical question about what has happened.
How do we come to accept what we already know
about the already existing in about what we need?
How do we consent to what we are and what we need?
Six, I love black people to be around them-- I love black people too much to be around them
at school, but I want to be around them everywhere.
I love black people in an absolutely and in biological way,
but I don't care about the black community which is an artifact of exclusion
for which I have neither nostalgia nor desire.
If I say this to you as only because they won't let me say it
to them while they chant social justice in public by themselves,
I'm only talking to you right now if you think I am or if you think you are.
Who all here will ever allow for that?
To consent to the gravitational pull of a specific analysis that comes out of a series
of interlocking exclusions but is irreducible to those exclusions.
And is rather given in instantiated in a set of erratic practices would mean not only
to acknowledge an already given and constantly regenerated in regenerative blackness,
but also to take up an open set of specific designs on engaging in those erratic practices.
This complex modality of consent is the very opposite, the very destruction of inclusion,
and of whatever entity or polity or community that would have the vile,
brutal murderous expansionist colonial intention to include or be included,
where a community attenuates rather than attends.
We're talking about a mutual gravitational field or influence or deeper still,
entanglement that admits of no prior separation but insists
on what Denise Ferreira da Silva calls difference without separation.
Meanwhile, the sovereign body is the incarceration of difference.
It plays and replays itself as individuated mourning
for lost community like a ham bone made of plastic.
There's a deep commitment to the settlers vicious longing for welcome,
and poets can make you sound good.
Seven, can difference without separation survive realness?
Only perhaps if realness is productively misunderstood as passing through rather
than passing as the real, which is to say as its impossibility.
What if on the one hand, there really is nothing like the real thing
and on the other hand there really is nothing like the real thing?
Real thing is as practically redundant as sweet thing.
The real race, the race, race, it's a race thing.
This real thingliness is suitable in its repetition for persuasion.
The question of what it is to be real is bound up with the question
of what it is to be a thing among things.
But this problematic of passing through the real,
which is movement through the general problematic of the law of John Ray in order
to think its recomposition, its improvisation but in a richly redoubled realist way
such that every invocation of the real is, as in [inaudible] which gives premature birth
as it were to Marvin's and Tommy's original, the surreal, unreal covering and uncovering
and recovering in discovering of it.
Their end would be a declaration that there is no such thing as that static status conception,
that there ain't nothing like that.
That in passing through the real thing which is nothing like the real thing, we become no things
or what de Silva calls nobody is against the state.
Eight, what if entanglement is a consequence of the idea of wave-particle duality
and quantum mechanics that actually undermines that duality and then those mechanics?
If space-time and its laws break down at the subatomic level,
then how do we judge the realness of space-time?
Maybe we just past through the slits in it, the conflict between the classical
and the quantum having required us to suspend judgment in a general sense or at least
to fastidiously qualify every judgment of JS Bell's acronym for all practical purposes
which are FAPP, he uses it in his papers he writes.
And that's the same JS Bell that June Jordan was talking about in that poem, OK.
Anyway, JS Bell's acronym FAPP, for all practical purposes,
which is just a Scottish version of the Ohio player's FAPP.
And even then, what if there is a more general and practical social and aesthetic purpose
to which this ritual caveat is inadequate?
What if entanglement not only problematizes the idea of wave-particle duality understood
as a system, as a composite mental apparatus
but of their prior separation and discretion as well?
Here, I know that I am either radically misunderstanding or radically disturbing
or simply obsessively applying even Bell's deconstruction of the opposition of system
and apparatus is dissatisfaction ultimately with the constitutive, decisive power that is given
to measurement and the concomitant reduction of thinking to measurement if one desires
to consider that the confluence of quantum mechanics and entanglement
or non-locality revives far many of this formulation
that it is the same thing to think and to be.
What if then we are allowed and required to think the concepts of wave or particle
or wave-particle systemic duality as apparatuses, whether been as systems in
or of physical reality, so that the very conceptualization of that which is
to be measured is itself an apparatus, that it is constitutive
of the very activity of measurement?
What if the richness and complexity that appeal to duality is meant to preserve,
can only be preserved by way of a movement through that duality,
so thorough going that it destabilizes the very idea of measurement
through which the duality is instantiated?
What if there's an anomic animist that throws of my ambits dry,
the disruption of a normative dispensation, or allotment, or apportionment or measure,
immeasurable uncountable number, a wronging or ringing of the word, an essential
and constitutive criminality in the word?
The immeasurable from which measure flows, various fugitive both form itself
and freedom thereby disregarding every prosaic and presidential precedent.
The metaphysics of fascism is this, absence of choice given in the proliferation
and imposition of irrelevant choices.
Let's take time out from all that.
Recess, to escape discretion either as a determination of the observer
or as the self-determination of the observed, structured in whatever opposition of wave
and particle, the break, the hollow, the holler, the ditch,
the dongle, the good food, the [inaudible].
Nine, poetics is the difference between whatever it is that you think you have to say,
and whatever it is that language does.
Or poetics is the relation and the difference between content and form.
Or poetics thinks and enacts the differences
that constitute the relation between content and form.
For example, Claudia Rankine has an auditory signature, a sound, the microtonal isolation
between defeat and self-congratulations that accompanies the visual track.
Just as say Steve McQueen, the filmmaker, not the movie star,
has a visual signature, a look similarly microtonal.
The nervous back and forth between horror and decoration,
but to either of them have a poetics.
Citizen is an exhausting-- exhaustive proof that the citizen is exhausted.
It follows from don't let me be lonely, which proves the impossibility
and radical undesirability and irreducible loneliness of sovereignty
and underprivileged of self-possession.
But is it a proof or restatement of a proof, an iteration of the already proven that doesn't
so much make it more elegant or succinct but rather signs it, or in another sense,
takes up the assignment of signing for it or close signing for it,
sharing a kind of investment in the subjects/citizens constant
and irreducible melancholic attachment to itself has lost.
Rankine has something else to say about a seemingly general and unavoidable cathexis
to the impossible and the undesirable.
Perhaps what's at stake is that evidentiary pulls conceptual forensic thing.
Let me write you a song about all that shits you did.
I'll put it in blue notes and broken English and when I cross you up, I can be crossing over.
We both at the airport, why would you like that shit as much as me?
I don't mean to be mean.
I know you mean well.
But what if eating the Wall Street Journal commits to a kind of initiatory ingestion
in order to prove a point that ain't worth proving?
Another evidentiary gesture towards what we already know.
When will knowing what they have done is how we feel reach the point
where no longer needs to be proved?
Why don't we continually submit ourselves to this trial,
an endlessness for which we volunteer as an application for admission?
When will we break free of the annular advancement and critique
of this restrictive notion of the evidentiary?
Sometimes it feels like we're tired of feeling like that.
But can we imagine imagining what exist?
Can we get to the imaginary evidence of our existence?
Why can't we see or hear that we'll never see or hear our inanimate and objectified bodies
within the aesthetical juridical frame?
To address this question by way of another rendering of it, that it would be precise enough
to unask it requires escape from the critique of judgment.
There's still something left to give up, the desire to be seen in order to see,
the desire to ingest in order to expel, the desire to indite.
On the other hand, the jurist generative mobilizes imaginative evidence outside the
aesthetic juridical frame.
So we have to sing this song that Rankine has all
but surreptitiously written called, "On Nothing in Citizen."
Ten, because there's a recess in citizen that's missing in 12 years of slave,
an invitation Rankine extends that McQueen is caught
between watching and grudgingly accepting.
Recess is where the music, the music poetry, the musique comes from.
Poetry finds-- Poetry founds-- Out of air nothing, poetry finds and founds nothing at all.
Is there a logic of poetic discovery, an analyrics of entanglement that is not
in memoriam of identity, a poetics of the unparticular?
It's not that there's nothing more or nothing new to be said about antisociality, i.e.,
the crowded but solitary anti and antevestibular [phonetic] stall wherein Brown himself--
Brown studies themselves between mutually assured destruction
and mutually destructive realization.
It's that nothing more and new need be said.
Poetry is not for something else to be said about things.
Poetics is not the bridge between whatever someone has to say
and the fact that something else is said.
Nothing more and new need be said.
Poetry is recess.
It says nothing and phrase of nothing constantly, serially, fugally.
If you think this is all nonsense, you flatter me to the point of my disappearance.
Eleven, nonsense is erratic trajectory, erratic in its refusal of narrow representations
of representation, and with the complex interplay between nothingness and thingliness,
the paraontological field within which the distinction between nothing
and everything is constantly improvised.
Blackness is situated in the sensuality of the nonsensical rather
than in the already given super sensuality of the epidermal.
However, much the critique of authenticity is intended to assert a right of difference.
The critique of authenticity is often nothing more than a disavowal of assensual,
consensual nonsense, which is not just one difference among others
but is precisely the field within which the general right
to difference is both theorized and enacted.
The surreal thing, the difference or relation between color
and sense is often treated as a sociological mater.
That's how we study for instance the ways that epidermal differences,
which are manifest not only in the color but in the volume of one's skin,
have been so often inline with having or not having sins.
The analytic of the epidermal lights what it also illuminates, and there's a difference
and there's also a relation between sharing the social cause that attend epidermalization
and distributing the benefits of the crew to senses irreducible supplementarity.
Both can be spoken of in terms of privilege, but often the color and line between privilege
and precarity is drawn with imprecision.
When privilege is understood simply to accrue to whiteness, it is not only privilege
but also whiteness which has been situated at the intersection of good sense
and brutality which is misunderstood.
The operation within which I am held and to and by which I am given a particular impersonation
from which the sounds you hear right now derive which I would associate with illicit seeing,
with multiple sensing, with black theory, which is to say theory, with black history which is
to say history is the nonsensical.
Nonsense is sometimes manifest as a kind of happiness.
And this capacity to be happy, to celebrate, is the condition of possibility
of criticisms necessary unhappiness.
What we have insofar as we give it away lets us know what
and under what conditions we should have.
So I'm just going to-- I'm not going to read too much but a couple of things.
So--
This is a bunch of stuff that I've been working on and it's really been kind
of in collaboration with other people.
And sometimes a collaboration is really conscious and that there's a presence in terms
of the relationship, and in other times it feels like collaboration even
if the folks are not even here, alive anymore.
So it's been each-- each of those kinds of things.
So I just read four or five things.
This is called sun and shade and it's a-- there's this-- I wasn't really prepared.
I should've brought my computer but there's a beautiful photograph by Roy DeCarava,
it's great, a black photographer, is based in New York--
that was based in New York and was kind of famous for his brilliant photographs
of jazz musicians, but he also did this really great collaboration with Langston Hughes called
"The Sweet Flypaper of Life" that you can find.
But it's a really amazing picture of these two little boys, little black boys playing in Harlem
and there's a direct kind of line that separates the sun and the shade within their play.
And it's just a beautiful photograph, just in terms of just the formal composition of it.
And so, you see what happened is this guy asked me to write something about it for some kind
of a-- like a journal or exhibition or something, but I think he pretty much didn't
like what I wrote, but that's OK, so, "Sun and Shade."
Blackness is the ceaselessly miraculous demonstration
that there is no black and white, just sun and shade.
All throughout his long and glorious career, Roy DeCarava serializes this insight
as an irreducible element of our consciousness.
Consciousness is remedial education, as he registers the condition it is without remedy.
He photographs people continually getting over the fact that they can't get over,
revealing their terribly beautiful inability to get over the fact that they do which is given
in looking back in mournful wonder, ahead in mourn anticipation.
Insofar as the photograph looks back and forth like that in general,
its existential condition is given when blackness in play
as the play of sun and shade is regarded.
The capaciousness of blacks color field is actualized out from the outside all in all,
all this insight forming outside in us.
Efforts to achieve black's purity misunderstand its depth of study.
In the documentation that plays concrete abstraction, where abstraction folds
in documentation, given understandings of abstraction therein being unfolded, unraveled,
taken away, but put in play, black is in all but gray-blue university.
The [inaudible] eclipse of portrait sharing its substructural metaphysics,
its socially convenes.
It's like a detail embroiled, embroiled left out, or something left out,
embroiled and recovered from in its immersion
in a terrible projective illuminative solution of silver and gelatin.
Particulate dispersion is applied in the interest of monstrous ecstatic showing.
Faces are held between torn up and hiding, grotesquery and umbrage.
That's our non-particulate dispersal.
To development of excluded essence is a tragedy that DeCarava renders miraculous.
What it is to look at black as black, all up in all of it so emphatically that in its absence,
color is everywhere, where DeCarava carefully, playfully, unsettlingly resides.
What it is to reside without settling?
Is that is or is that ain't like being stuck in sweetness, held in life?
Black life is like [inaudible] in hell, or on the ill, which is the sound of joy, sun says,
sun who-- sun house I think on how someday in Harlem's bright Mississippi,
two little boys drawing out that string in strange strung-out dispersal,
see their play is fraud, insistent movement, nervous muscularity, mobility that stays,
that's all but still but for the shift in overtone.
Captured motions, constant flight, turns out always to sound like something.
But shit is eerie enough for the difference between loud and quiet not to signify.
Silence and blackness are more plus, less than one in this regard,
which is a kind of regardlessness as the train falls through the trees,
skyscrapers and everything and nothing.
The sound DeCarava sees is movement, a resonance of back and forth and falling from partition
to partiality, a preference for our social incompleteness, individuation played out,
relation exhausted and obscured, tensile revelation held right here.
What's happening?
I know something is a happening because everything is moving, now it's gone.
Every photograph is a photograph of that,
which an actual photograph of that makes deafeningly clear.
It's not that it's not a sun and a shame that Sun and Shade is so beautiful.
It's just that black in being so beautiful is forgiveness.
OK. All right.
What do I got?
What do I got?
What do I got?
This is called the general bond.
It's a John Dunn phrase.
I think I must have started right in this like, when I was teaching-- Was it that class?
Yeah. So this is-- something came out of there, I can actually use it.
And this was written kind of in conjunction with this great artist and filmmaker,
videographer named Sune Woods and this musician, great musician named James Gordon Williams
who did a kind of performance together, OK, the general bond.
But not for me twice, staggered looking, it's cool too, because the density is light,
fun and sparkle, flesh ropes the body waits for, with three threads out and fans in brushes
in duress of implotment, in possession, immersion ruptures solitudes no matter what.
We can't breathe forever.
We look for air pockets, an informal market on the corner,
the club, a chapel made of bottle trees.
Every last breath we want to breath somebody, so beautiful and refusing,
graphic and portering ourselves, and solid in embrace.
When nobody with some chords in various antistates and jingles,
blackness is our pagination and displacement.
Blackness is swimming, can't quite let the water go or be, we harp on the water.
The blackness of the whole thing is that our flesh lights up the world, the ringing,
the bubbles, the particles appear to fade in suspense.
What else might happen to us folds us in, not but amniotic whale.
We're whales.
We hate the world.
We love the word for our whirlpool pianism, our practice, our saturated name.
OK. This is actually something, you know-- so the 10th anniversary of Octavia Butler's death,
they had-- her papers were sold I guess to the Huntington Library in Pasadena and they had kind
of series of events commemorating the 10th anniversary of her passing and they let a bunch
of people go into her-- see the papers, you know?
So, I had to write something.
It was kind of interesting but horrible I think
because I never-- I don't mess around in archives.
I'm too-- There's too much stuff on TV for this [laughter].
But I was really fascinated by being able to look at her sort of commonplace books,
these little notebooks that she had and where, you know, she's--
you can see the beginning of she's working out in idea for novels and stuffs.
So, this is called a commonplace flaw, and there's an epigraph by-- from a--
this great scholar named Ruth Wilson Gilmore, and she writes the black radical tradition is
after capitalism as well as before and during in multiple modalities always.
Octavia Butler's "Xenogenesis Trilogy" is all about this I think,
using the scariest life substance,
cancer to reflect on expansive constantly changing sociality.
What's the commonplace book?
One of yours is blue, a blue spiral with a little yellow,
a little yellow with a sign and a 79.
The flaw that would have made me scrape the price tag off is something you don't have,
because your openness to flaw is perfect.
You can stay with impurity.
We come a long way to love the human taste.
You never settle, walking away from freedom to find a ceremony, gathering passages
that hasn't happened yet in dreaming through what has,
always making the book of the commonplace.
It's a theme of general application, a salad of mini herbs whose scheme is burning
in an essay concerning human understanding.
The novel is an essay concerning human understanding when you hear the commonplace,
fume ripped and folded in the open house.
Home is impossible when you grow some church in broken fume.
It's already open so I can't open it.
If I pretend interior to access, why look for secrets
when all we need is a margin we can build stuff in and out of.
Even if the chromosome is arbitrary, there might be true devotion in the fingerprint.
Can I caress a thought up in your notebook, touch or whisper in your collective head?
Let me make it chroma, you teach me how to want to taste,
got me trading for a gene of the general strike.
Your research in seizure is a recessive scene.
If we stop, can we grow?
I'm still a child who loves fun and play, an adolescent, idealistic and unrealistic,
and adult pragmatic, bitter and frightened.
Some ash flung, spent and critical, some laving, permanent and gone.
I'm still a feel who loves fun and play, something quite intense,
utterly real, even when and where it's weird.
Her F's all curved like ease, a human wondering, a terraformed Mars, terror formed,
wishing not to be forgotten, photocopy all postcards, radio all photography,
intelligence in compassion all phonography.
Perhaps there is a mission school wherein natives are kept
from doing what comes naturally.
We naturally make some in some broken skin.
We came to read a suit made out in there.
A spider mother submits to being eaten by her young.
My kids and your kids, this generation, I eat you, next generation you eat me.
Fitness determined by who consumes who.
Mating is a true struggle with two beings striving to consume one another.
They are biologically the same, that when one kills and consumes the other,
the consumed one acts as male and fertilizes the reproductive cells of the consumer.
We need to grow some flowers through their hearts.
They await the ecstasy of being eaten.
Flow on flaw is stereo and I yearn for sisters because brotherly love is existential stuff,
an ethics of agriculture when it's way passed that, like a truck full of cousins and cushions,
or a bath house on the run, or a ship in dry run.
But you still hold out a platform for massage and tune.
There's so much life and death and all of its generative gone.
Did you just left the table full of planets, a lot of them blue
with stations and yellow changes?
Antiquity claims unintelligibility by resisting the imposition of unintelligibility.
Lilith Broods her brood, her flaw and unhygienic relay.
If you could ever be alone, it would be like every time I say everybody,
when I sound the same in assuming everybody but you sound different.
And what it is to veer by way of choir and band and liquefy the angles rectitude to tweak
or twerk, or terk or tork, like making dupe to make [inaudible] stop and grow like [inaudible].
Your substance is substitution, and there's a messed up warmth beneath stance
and infinitely purple twirl of brown.
The enemy within and around that nestle, but it's just some precedence and, you know,
your thing is unprecedented, raised, urged, ingestion effect, revolutionary gestation,
evolutionary indigestion, some blush or bruise or brush or blur, some blue,
a little yellow rhythm like to say to never turn, it turns the dial.
Oh, when I wake up in the morning, the very first thing that I do,
I turn on my radio and I listen to Y-O-U.
So I read a couple more.
This is called "The Showing."
And it was kind of a response to this dance performance that I saw that's choreographed
by Cynthia Oliver, "The Showing."
Remote quiet crossing, losing force like movement, limit shade
and blur grid, touching without looking.
Frictive footing making music like the people on a horn.
Young men don't drop your sound, the need of grunt and breath of the making of the music.
Airy ham bone, osteoporotic hock, heirloom lattice in an open corner,
this mutual enlargement, this collective amnesty,
a riot of rights for giving bodies away, some Miller high life in this funky joint.
Walking hard irregular runway in slanted circling,
urging refusal of joining she mad [inaudible] and it feel like it ought to feel
like that all the time, like the old man's inverted saxes,
an impersonality of impersonation.
The sections have proper names, Curtis, active Curtis in non-local rooms,
which is why they kill every last one of us so they can't kill all of us.
Ship ahoy, ship of fools in shambles, like we carrying something.
Helen's beauty is the brow of Egypt, the studious informality of no thing,
face faded in the water it troubles.
The way we carry ourselves is that we carry ourselves
down to the waves and wave, or down to cross it.
Young man don't be shy with sound, not give blue lights, look too modern, too high lift.
Give dance hall a rupture, handle the various proximities, interview improvisation like Andre,
like a sustainable harvest of apposition, and after you come home
from locking, make a salad for Olivia.
And spell M in Black Lamb cerebral puff, shaka laka boom y'all,
which amounts to all these mothering really,
inaudible footprint a constant signal to the music.
Curtis builds and they walk out of murmurs and everybody know.
And preservation is the versed [inaudible] of the word, running out of manhood long ago.
That's the showing.
That's the residue of carrying something more than something.
OK, let's see.
Yes, so one more.
This is actually for this really good friend of mine-- I shouldn't say it.
I mean, I feel like I should say it, I said it [laughter].
I guess that's how I feel.
Can you have a really good friend that you maybe only saw like 20 times?
>> [Simultaneously] Yes.
>> OK. He was this guy named Bob Coleman.
He was a grad student at Berkeley when I started there, but he had kind of left I think
in the late '70s or early '80s, like a whole lot of black graduate students at that time
when the university departments were finally making a so-called effort
to hire black professors and they would kind of scoop up black graduate students just
as they we're finishing their exams before they finish their dissertation and kind of hire them
to these impossible jobs, you know, where you would have to teach, you know,
two to three classes a semester or whatever but also be everyone's advisor,
do all these administrative work.
And it was just a way of-- you know, I mean, I think it kind of was useful in the sense
that it helped to instantiate a lot of black studies programs in universities
but it also really deprived all of us of the scholarship that those folks would have produced
because they've hired them and waited, didn't allow them to produce anything, so.
And Bob never finished his degree but he would come around Wheeler Hall
where the English department was at Berkeley.
And I don't know, it was almost like he just was coming just to make sure we were OK, you know?
So I-- And he always had-- he had a smile that was like a genuinely beautiful smile that seemed
to exude genuine happiness but he was sad at the same time,
you know, and you know, so and so, anyway.
This is called "Bob Coleman on the Steps of Wheeler."
I would hear I'm so full, I'm so tired.
Now this was carried as a brilliant smile.
Fullness is the river of my friend's smile.
The river is overflowing and their can be no portrait.
I'm so full.
I'm so tired of this version of the stairway in a hollow building.
There can be no portrait, but there is a porch, an easement, an ease of reception and extremity
of welcome and having never been welcomed.
What I would hear in the side of my friend was this undertone turned
into something we could share.
He was there as what had always been, having found a way to give himself away
through that half solitude they try to make you try to ask for.
What was always there was that holding of our hands out when the night gets thick.
He would tell us lightly all about that just in passing, smiling, hear, here.
I'm so full, I'm so tired, I'm your patient ancestor.
Thank you.
[ Applause ]
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