I close my eyes and see figures
assuming the form of my naked body:
It looks like Miles with sweaty
black skin purging self and society of the traditions held dear - the grand and
fruitful experimentation of life itself.
It looks like Ziggy Stardust flamboyantly
plucking on a twelve string guitar and pondering the pansexual urges he
couldn't quite understand as a boy in Brixton.
It looks like El Boracho; with
all of his wit and reason, he stares North at a gleaming future filled with
preposterous proclamations regarding the psyches of people.
It looks like the mystical
Seafairy - red heals clenching the dank hair of man; while spinning a Kenny
Burrell vinyl, he realized he was an African American.
It looks like Jay Tea clad in
spectral paisley patterns proclaiming the ideal that existence precedes essence
and that meaning is derivative of humans experiencing their existence.
It looks like Hank, hipster Jazz
man manically improvising and hearing pitch, hearing rhythm and unaware - so
unaware of the phrases to come.
It looks like Tyler
It looks like my father - oh
well intentioned hospitable spirit of manhood! cock and balls and pubic hair
and facial hair cloaked and veiled in the ideals and perceptions of a contrived
masculinity.
It looks like my mother; breast
and bosom birthing the communist altruism and silly idiosyncrasies and vast
love of all things - oh ravenous woman of God! Mother to man, child of God!
It looks like
experience manifested - man made flesh; the flesh made anew as I absorb and
imprint upon the external and internal reality ripe in fertility.
I close my eyes and see figures
assuming the form of my naked body.
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