Keeanga Taylor


unfolding the yellow record twice & memorization infused with circuitous
direction—once upon another.  it is this colossal failure against daybreak
strained toward twilight in the full metal blossom of winter’s destruction.
a fresh break in the skin of the clementine means the summer has left.

these are our relations & the sand that brings us back to time.  back to
wasted river runs.  back to the long evolved drum roll of night.  back to the
tanks of plastic heavens heaving towards the collection of heart & song.  &
through this long process, this recollection of family & land & preserved
motion.  it is a movement towards the inside, the song—the long drowned
sketch called situation, stable, & relational & with no word as voice, only
time releases the tourniquet of language—save the sound, the syllabic
persistence, the pursuit unfolded into wheat glasses filled with tequila and

missed is this chance for red emotion & love’s sake.  will you, can you,
remember all of this five years from now, when today pushes inside the slit
of lost time & no where to go save that place reserved for the east side of
west?  the news offers no explanation, no story & no means of ever
understanding.  ronald takes the paper from the table to sample
interpretations on the world.

this is the opposite of what you have been.  what we are.  we are what we
are.  what are we?  unfolding are the insides.  they hatch through heat and
secrets and regret and a combination of fools.  i am making a conclusion,
commanding a coda, the sweet transportation into evaporation and quiet.
these are inquiries that are difficult to communicate, let alone talk about.

is this the way to find my way back anywhere in Oklahoma if that’s where
my blood is and if that is where my blood is in the end.  if that’s where my
blood is then forgive the accumulation, until there is nothing left.  there is
music & didactic singing principles being applied to life here, a refreshing
sign of life inside the lines.  and red Buddha beholds the secrets to the rest
of this life—only if you pay attention and withstand the perpetual moments
of rubble heaped upon us.  this world—that again—damaged upon us.

return to SHAMPOO 10