in the zone’s imaginary war found the image
of war was surprise surrender, an over-stimulus
package of floating flower. framed
corner grenade in fire in time. who knew
black paint was orange like that when
you improvise a match. riot came and taught
taggers to color with fire, hiss for pain not to
be a weapon, roar for weapons that don’t mean
pain. fluid at once and masked protection –
he was that muffled retaliation, icons up for mutilation,
that conversation which failed to note
how the failure to create music is nothing
less than its own music was the only failure. sung
writing and strung writing wrong differently and sand
different edges of the zone’s militarized jaw. brick
machine’s offense is your pleasure in the sweetedged grind
between what they hear and how it would sound if
they could hear and how raw it is to say what you said
so not to be heard.
only music can enact its own
mutiny, motherfucker, the world when the one turns
on the microphone but wears a mute.