The first thing you notice about Mykia Jovan is her voice. It’s sultry, exciting, and transportive, building its own little world that isolates you from distractions. Jovan’s voice immediately sucks you into its own reality, a place entirely consumed by music.

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I’m hungry enough
          to listen
though all I hear
          growls
                    clicks
                              hums

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my side of the paradigm is built for comfort not for speed. willie dixon & werner heisenberg put me wise to this ride. an observation deck where i can kick or scrutinize questions that are supposed to be asked but aren't necessary, no matter how you spill the ink or beans.

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All right, Catherine of the wooden raft with wheels and, all right,
Cleo of the heavy carpet and its intrigue in court. Darkness is not
night falling over us mid day clouds roiling in, electricity,
unease. All right, the misuse of power, blood lusts and scars,

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    What can she mean, divested
of  her nudity, why does she suggest
   sleep 
          over 
                shadow?

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ringo meets a girl-silhouette in a short black dress   her legs are long, as alluring as throwing oneself into the thames to get over a bad life   maybe the dress is what erases her    having been called "tone-deaf" by george    or web-handed by the south 5's drummer    he suspects everything is distorted

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my poems
suck
the nausea the adage
that comes from being
sober

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The great Django Reinhardt wrote a song called "Nuage" - clouds - today there are no clouds - a pellucid sky, slight gold inscribed on the mountains and pure azure - a raven floats, the sun broad as in the poems of Whitman's "Song Of Myself"

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Now cannot be the time for passivity; love is kind, but it is also fierce. As we go forward we can’t get lost in the weeds arguing with people about the very basics of human decency. People know right from wrong, and if they want so badly to hurt other people we know exactly where they stand.

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The Stone Age in this age, the Flint, Michigan age.
Stone tools, cutting tools, edged blades
for removing flesh from a carcass. Smacked
against steel, spark, excite, to ignite
​the old factories long smothered with vines,

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If you're not any more interesting polluted
than you are pristine
then what's the point?

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Into the silence of hunger and the roar of
automobiles, a single tiny drop of
gratitude falls unknown, unheard,
merging in the dust of the wry pavement.

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There’s this fucking game I used to play with my shit-head brother and my punk-ass cousin, I don’t remember its name. It’s got a Get Out of Jail Free card you can get. Can you fucking imagine? Get Out of Jail Free? Shit.

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