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      August 7, 2016The Search for Frank Ocean or A Brief History of DisappearingJulian Randall

      Fucking pig get shot, 300 men will search for me
      —Frank Ocean

      A drought does not name itself
      in anything but the splintering
      of skin into a series of wanting
      rivers and the cities that gave
      all that water a name as if it
      were kin         as if July were not
      slow piano and crimson
      all over the street         and I guess
      you could call this a war
      in the way only who can be seen
      is alive and maybe not even that
      August prepares its heavy gown
      for our shoulders and I have
      nothing to sing         but the heat
      on the screen         two trends
      #BatonRougePolice
      #WheresTheAlbumFrank
      Happy June 222nd
      Happy anniversary Frank
      Maybe Frank was never even there
      This album definitely not done
      Frank need to come home
      This gay ass nigga gonna break our hearts again
      All I want is a song
      This nigga a lie
      He fix his mouth                 and nothing spills out
      Frank might be dead y’all
      Frank might be dead y’all
      Another nigga gone missing
      Happy June 225th
      I swear he never coming back
      I swear I saw him
      I swear it’s been Summer for 3 years
      A name is something you surrender
      in parts         if you are lucky
      I am not
      much more beyond that
      which traces the borders of me
      into a bed in mid-July
      I am not
      much more than my secrets
      Boy say Bi____________
      and his tongue splits
      Boy say Bi____________
      and his mouth is public property
      Boy say Bi____________
      and belongs nowhere
      Boy say Bi____________
      and now none of his gods
      return his calls
      A body gets silent
      and it is either haunted
      or will be
      A body gets silent
      and everyone can sing it dead
      A body gets silent
      and we name it after the silence
      to forget it was ever a boy
      Silence inundates my throat
      there is more than one way
      to have a boy in your mouth
      The body is a glass home
      I am somewhere        I used to live
      fragile and nearly translucent
      opaque only where smoke tongues
      me into the illusion of shelter
      I shatter/into more/me

      from Poets Respond

      Julian Randall

      “In the aftermath of several police shootings recently I have found that the rhetoric surrounding discussions of the murder and by extension the disappearance of Black people to be clouded by discussions as to whether ‘Blue Lives Matter.’ Coupled with that for all of July has been speculation about whether prominent Bisexual singer Frank Ocean will release his much anticipated second album. As a result I have been thinking a lot about the visibility of Queerness and Blackness in our grand national conversation as both major political parties seek to curry favor by proving themselves worthy to oversee the continued disappearance and genocide of Black folk. In Frank Ocean’s virtual absence there has been rampant speculation that Frank may be dead in an almost Schrödinger’s cat like level of speculation. I wonder what happens to a Black Bisexual body like my own if no one can see it. It is these themes that are on my mind as another July passes covered in smoke and broken promises.”

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