Infamy's notebooks

A postscript to my ongoing meditation on the Infamous

Accompanists and undertones to my thoughts on infamy, a casual tone poem

In a circumstance where flesh becomes the medium of exchange, it is hard to understand what intimacy is, or what the career of touch is. — Hortense Spillers¹

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No Relation

Handler, handler, did they not love your hands? And if Saturn’s rings are a collision of fallen moons held in the helium center of a balloon-release done by children who have lost our fathers and Saturn is the father-sky (father-time, detante’s detangled findings) and prisoner of moonshine petting my skull with a comb in the morning— he drinks like a dandy and sings like inmating on Angola sands, distant suns branded in Sugg’s sermon, a ceremony uncertain of its objective becomes an industry in times of war or factory band of regents and regime change— It’s hungry in the place where hunger is not an intrusion upon tranquility but a synaptic bite or gnawing between enlightened states of amnesia that lets us behave in opposition to the shadow family and its show body (I’m not here, this isn’t happening) lunaticking camera files us like ushers, data, shorthand for ourselves stop and dance in Vegas lose the cartel don’t stop dancing but now take on a purer more eternal feeling that can only be experienced alone before television intervenes: there’s no such thing as a lone gunman clemency is a form of suspicion grandparents read Tom Clancy and have addict family members arrested and tried like strangers If I had my way I’d still be a killer What are the limits of loving them anyways? Whose possession and who are the possessed, anyway? Who dis? Who goes there? Father wounds in a speaking role. Where did they hide my audition tape?

Rapstar, rapstar, under attack

His eyes hold his journey and my own

A drug made of human bones and night blooming jasmine

Sullen whimsy has-been turned infamy into comeback

Can’t call it off now

1. A re-upload because the video was glitching on first take