He's a Runner
For some, the anxiety becomes charisma. You know you’ve been spotted like a dalmatian/hysteria/numb, nigga playing god or artman/atman/fugitive/furtive/figurative/urge to give or even gather the tiny eternity of a chasm where fame and anonymity shadow this black american life like a missing language/myth or karmic backlash or the tangle from django to shango, Griot, growl, row of owls but one treehouse on the perch to signal purchase or that those roving eyes are to scale or for sale and forever. My map to the new world is through the foot which was the drum in the field which trusts the run/don’t kneel/ to mean, to me, to medium—romance, which these days is about disappearing and in the film I’m making it’s a black entertainer’s main thing, remember backwards, lack words, excess words, words that are drums, words that beat me, words that beat me to it, words I beat you with or for or forefather words or for example, just 8 lantered minutes of montage of black men and women running, from the cops, from their mothers, from their wives, from their husbands, from their mistresses, from their masters, and re-masters, from their children, from the confessions, from their triumphs, from the sun gods, from the humming neon of progress and slow change, from the gold chain, from the gold medal, from the training, from the narcissism of differences small and large, in the rain, from the rain, to the rain, tainted love, from the urge to run, from themselves—And the final shot, where it all converges, a spotlight with no one in it and do you get too poignant or make a subtle shift in pitch to reach the place that’s neither ironic nor overly earnest which is where the imagination makes us real to ourselves on either side of time and space/intangible and certain and chimes jingling in the race toward nirvana     calm as invisible camels    calm as a blues echo in the footsteps of an iambic soldier, picturing the swift jab of our survival as he runs from out of no where—