Black People Does Not Exist

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Captain's Log

Black People does not exist. Black People is not an organization. Black People has no leader. Black People has no agenda. Black People has no logo. Black People is not looking to increase its membership. Black People has no bank account. Black People has no buildings.

Black People does not hate White People. Black People does not believe in looting. Black People does not encourage lawlessness. Black People does not teach its young members to ignore policemen. Black People does not fear for its life.

Black People does not align itself with views held by Al Sharpton, Eric Holder, Barack Obama, or Bill Cosby. Black People does not have a dress code. Black People does not believe the dream is deferred.

Black People is not responsible for Ferguson. Black People does not support Michael Brown’s family. Black People is not angry at Darren Wilson. Black People is not angry, period. That’s because there is no…

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Kiting Checks

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In the spirit of a knife fight

That leaves one dead

I dropped a pebble

From my shoe

 

Into a well

Working with emptiness

While waiting

On the plumbed

 

Sound sung

In the ruffled

Throat of a singed

Songbird and saw

 

My teeth in the mirror

Fallen out at your feet

Wishing you

A moneyed future

 

Retreating like a cowering

Unloveable double-agent

To the shade

Of an unspoken elm tree

 

While waiting for the sun

To drop below the branch-line.

So with lights out the film rolled

Sprockets clicking clacking

 

Like a roller coaster ascending

And looking down

I saw you

Standing by the car

 

In the parking lot

Eating the last of the cotton candy

Searching for your keys

And waved an unanswerable wave.

It’s probably better to have him inside the tent pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in.―Lyndon B. Johnson

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Cast you hopes wide

And aspersions wider,

Hold back the hems of your gowns, boys

And have a natural ball

 

For they say one must traverse heaven

To knock on hell’s wrought-iron gate

But I know the combination:

It’s you, me and life, not necessarily in that order

 

But you get the paradigm.

Anyway knocking won’t do,

The devil is old, blind in one eye

And can’t hear out the other

 

As meanwhile angels lurk in the hills,

Learning the names of indigenous flora and fauna,

Twining their hair and breath into lassoes,

Another day, just another battle for souls.

Curriculum Vitae Parts I-IV

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I /

After we buried the trendsetters alive (just to hedge our bets) we wandered about aimlessly alike the great unwashed. By the time we had realized our error they didn’t rouse from their dirt-naps and instead fell like meat off the bone. We were “between the shit and the stink” as Monroe has so eloquently and presciently forecast. Ruggles said, “It’s all over but for the crying” and we seized him immediately consigning him to the same earthen slumber given such other leading lights. It was getting late by then and the food was running low. We had seen many long dark nights and this one seem to bear the brunt of oncoming darkness with a mischievous grin.

II /

Of course by then we had been installed and Reitkopp persuaded us to merely torture arrogance rather than extinguish it. I felt this was a form of arrogance in and of itself but kept my hungry mouth closed. We allowed him to set the pace and just over the ridgeline as the hungry night yawned into the diluted day we were suddenly, each of us, accompanied by our own respective magpie flying right alongside us flapping its wings subtlety sounding like a heavyweight contender bitch-slapping a tuft of cotton. It was another day thankfully. Another one, goddamnit.

III /

It made me recall the time I had nothing to do and kept thinking about things, everything, all the time. 3:12 am and I would wake up from a nightmare the kind that can only be stilled by rising and walking it off: I was lying in the back of 1965 Chevy El Camino hurtling through time and space like most others until we entered a green, protean valley moist with the tears of a thousand mea culpa and every fifty feet or so a black-hooded harpy would materialize out of the verdant ether to scrape her white calcified nails along my right shin. I was rescued by Consciousness only to be subjected to the peregrinations of a world beyond my control flickering dimly at 3:25 am, my throat dry, nose congested and the eyelashes of my right eye sealed shut by a desiccated torpor that danced sanguinely in my peripheral vision. We were tracking towards the ocean or what was left of it fashioning knives from abandoned railroad lines and suburban clotheslines to pry what saline we could from what was it once, the Pacific?

IV /

We were on our way to raze a capitol.

“No,” said Sokolov, “To praise a catapult.”

“But I’ve already written it in ink,” I retorted.

“So it’s a fait accompli?” The Russian conjectured.

“No,” I said raising my index finger to balance heaven on a chewed nail, “No, it’s a raison d’être!” I declaimed.

“It’s a trompe l’oeil!” shouted McCormick from way, way in the back.

“Shut up”, I admonished him and the entire phalanx reminding them it is sheer pleasure to annihilate capital. To find, raze, clear, sculpt and hone the last of the last frontiers like some idiot-savant in medical school while a coterie of disinterested slaves falls fast and hard by your wayside, roses clenched in their teeth, who now must forget the crack of the whip just as they learned to love it. But we always meant to engage the zombies and pulled no punches when conscripting them so shed no tears when they stand aside idly. Lost amongst them like a contagion may be someone you once loved or muttered something to about cigarettes or washing the car or inexorable love over falafels but they’re dimming, the photographer manipulating their presence with a technology not yet named. This is exactly how you feel, exactly what you are doing, here, one step away from the edge of the world.

approximate music

headlight

It’ll pass

Today’s tomorrow already

The gun of morning is steady

Drops a dime into the chamber

Pass the basket

Pay the price

Twice

Once then again

It only seems like it happened before

A small undiscernible variance

Well within range

We call age

And trample the vintage

And cast the play

Against the chorus

Fuck dancing

Today I’m going to sing

With my shoes on my hands

I walk thru the world

Upside-down

And hang on to gravity

For dear life