What is this . . thing . you have for black people?
Thing a thing for black people
You seem to take what happens to
them personally.
Whahappens to them Im not
followin ya
I heard Black Lives Matter out of
your mouth before I’d heard it publicized on cable or in print.
Yahwell thats
because yare maudlinterribly slow on the uptake I didnt coin it
But you knew it!
Yaknow it
Except ya dont take it to heart which excuse me all to hell for saying so isnt a surprise Yare pretty full
of yourself buddy Fullup to yare
eyeballs fullup with your entitlement Ya
think white male entitlement doesnt apply to you its meant for some other
divine smuck born with a silver spoon stuck
in his mouth
Im saying yacould choose to
be more tolerant yacould spend your considerable disposal income otherwise annot
just on yourself your family
I dont come from disposable
income
I come from coupons from shredding bars of Ivory soap to wash
clothes because it was less expensive than boxed detergent hung clothes on clotheslines
to dry because it was less expensive than a machine and the electricity to run
it
We ate organmeat because it was
less expensive
We grew a garden because our vegetables
cost less than buying them from the grocer
I hustled the neighbourhood for
yardwork shoveled snow was a paperboy got educated by two of the best newspapers in the country for free
An . . Ill admit my blackness my
empathy for blacks was informed by my mother who because my Dad didnt like going
to the movies took me as a little boy to see Sidney Poitier see Raisin in the
Sun Lilies of the Field In the Heat of the Night
My Maw took me to
films no kids my age where seeing
She got me an adult library card
for the Public Library and I read books no kids my age were reading
he laughed
the laughter veered towards hysterical
then wound down to a pathetic chuckle an a Fuck
Fuck me
I suppose I was entitled too
I read Hughes and Toomer and
Baldwin as I read London Orwell and Hemingway I particularly suffered Richard Wrights poem Between the World and Me Have you read it
I don’t read poetry.
Yadon read poetry
No. There’s nothing in it for me.
he couldnt say the things that
were ricocheting around in his skull they were vile just in his thinking without uttering themgivin them oxygenheard
his mother If you can’t say something
nice, don’t say anything at all.
he rarely took her advice
he wore scars for not
he didnt minded owning them
Ill tell ya wha Im gonna email it to youyaread it It aint singsongy it don rhyme Ya read it
Next time I see ya later this week were talkin bout it
An since the vast majority lynched were
black lynched by white mobs trophies
taken by white men Own yer race
Me and mine never lynched a black
man.
You and yours white
Yahave
Four hundred years man Four hundred years
An Ill also lay at your feet the white mans extermination of First
People Because they wanted what what the
First People lived on and their White race was affirmed by God to be
superior Indians are subhuman Negroes black and brown and yellow are subhuman
Whashit If that don grab ya by the balls
nothing will
Read the poem Own yer race When yadon speak outwhen yadon act yare as guilty as those who did and who still
want to do the deeds
Theyre sick muthafuckers
1018, Sunday,
14 3. 21
1333, Monday – Ides of March, 15 3.
21
Richard
Wright Between the World and Me
And
one morning while in the woods I stumbled
suddenly upon the
thing,
Stumbled upon it in a grassy clearing
guarded by scaly
oaks and elms
And the sooty details of the scene
rose, thrusting
themselves between
the world and me....
There
was a design of white bones slumbering forgottenly
upon a cushion of
ashes.
There was a charred stump of a sapling
pointing a blunt
finger accusingly at
the sky.
There were torn tree limbs, tiny veins
of burnt leaves, and
a scorched coil of
greasy hemp;
A vacant shoe, an empty tie, a ripped
shirt, a lonely hat,
and a pair of
trousers stiff with black blood.
And upon the trampled grass were
buttons, dead matches,
butt-ends of cigars
and cigarettes, peanut shells, a
drained gin-flask,
and a whore's lipstick;
Scattered traces of tar, restless
arrays of feathers, and the
lingering smell of
gasoline.
And through the morning air the sun
poured yellow
surprise into the
eye sockets of the stony skull....
And
while I stood my mind was frozen within cold pity
for the life that
was gone.
The ground gripped my feet and my heart
was circled by
icy walls of fear--
The sun died in the sky; a night wind
muttered in the
grass and fumbled
the leaves in the trees; the woods
poured forth the
hungry yelping of hounds; the
darkness screamed
with thirsty voices; and the witnesses rose and lived:
The dry bones stirred, rattled, lifted,
melting themselves
into my bones.
The grey ashes formed flesh firm and
black, entering into
my flesh.
The
gin-flask passed from mouth to mouth, cigars and
cigarettes glowed,
the whore smeared lipstick red
upon her lips,
And a thousand faces swirled around me,
clamoring that
my life be
burned....
And
then they had me, stripped me, battering my teeth
into my throat till
I swallowed my own blood.
My voice was drowned in the roar of
their voices, and my
black wet body
slipped and rolled in their hands as
they bound me to the
sapling.
And my skin clung to the bubbling hot
tar, falling from
me in limp patches.
And the down and quills of the white
feathers sank into
my raw flesh, and I
moaned in my agony.
Then my blood was cooled mercifully,
cooled by a
baptism of gasoline.
And in a blaze of red I leaped to the
sky as pain rose like water, boiling my limbs
Panting, begging I clutched childlike,
clutched to the hot
sides of death.
Now
I am dry bones and my face a stony skull staring in
yellow surprise at
the sun....
also
the Hollywood Roundtable https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1u27coFlGXg
