I don’t know—into what is known as The Cop’s Lament. It’s a list of all the things I’ve never had that I’ve felt I’d deserved. Plus a list of all the pussy I never had—you can see the sort of list this is, this is that lacky lusty sort of list this lost sort of list. What I should have had. Who I should have been. Yah yah yah! Yo yo yo. Here the fuck we go! A Hoe-Tee-Doe and A Toe-in-a-Hoe in the Merry ole Land of Oz.
It should be called The Niggar’s Lament. That’s the only motherfucker here who needs lamenting. But it’s not, it’s The Cop’s Lament and here I’m supposed to apologize for everything I did wrong to you. Not you in the sense of all you people I’ve ever arrested or anything, but you in the sense of Annabel and Melissa. (My wife and child in case you’ve forgotten you smug fuck!) So, that’s in the sense of, uh, telling my woman and my girl all the things I’ve done wrong that they don’t even know about. Telling my wife and child! I’m sorry for countless things. That’s what The Cop’s Lament is all about. My pain. Your gain. So you’re here to learn off my back, to lean from my experience. Welcome! Fuck my ass. I’m a Niggar and I am a Whore! Even thought I HATE that fucking word! Whore?? You’re a whore? It sounds like 1970s. No one’s a “whore” anymore! My gramma maybe. But whore?—No. I’m sorry for my mamma. Sorry for my pops. I’m sorry for the glass I’ve stole and I’m sorry for the rocks. That’s the final secret, isn’t it? EVERYONE’S ON DRUGS! Yeah, even “normal consciousness” is all about drugs. I mean, saying the brain is built on chemistry is equivalent to everyone’s on drugs so. It’s there. Genial.
My Niggar genes came in on my mom’s side. In a skirmish south of the Civil War. Couple slave rapes. And super-aunt Tilda pops in down the line, 1/8 Black, 1/16 Black, 1/32 Black, 1/64th! Are you even Black any more, bro? One little checkerboard away from purity—are you even pure, bro?
A pure little White girl—the ultimate icon! Oh, she’s so sweet, she’s so subservient, and sub-skirt she rocks boy-pants (panties) Shirley Temple blue picnic baskets crosshatch no hair anywhere. Are you that pure, bro? Does your crotch stink of tuna—err, I mean tulips and cherries. Can it take my finger (little one) in a child-rape typical of a cop (in my mind)—YOU ARE SALTED AND DATED in my book! Close the cover (caved). I was never this pure! Oh, me, my shriveled genitals small as a cork hidden in swim trunks tucked inside my body (oh!) get it out get it out! come to me, lie down now, become my masturbation rag doll, limp, don’t move, be my little girl so I can take my pleasure from you from the special spot between your legs designed for me to fuck you so heavenly making me cum! making me go yum! yum!! YUM!!!
That’s how pure these motherfucking motherfuckers want me to be. They want me to be honest about everything. To bear all my secrets—secrets are weaknesses (or something like that). With my secrets, others will own me (or some such). Don’t start tearing apart my language. Don’t make it come apart at the edge. That will make me feel very afraid and I might be susceptible to error with respect to the continuance of our relationship. You want me to spend the day describing opening my daughter’s genitals with surgical tools? (I didn’t do that, but a similar me in a nearby dimension did.) Can you punish me here? I heard you thinking that. What did I do? Stole a pack of bubble gum from the store when Mother took us. Shoved a spike in the next door neighbor’s tires, just to destroy something, and never owned up to it. Cheated at school (a lot). Raped that girl in the weight room (if you can even call that a rape). That was waaay before Annabel, though (and I would never cheat on her now). Everyone has those sorts of formative experiences. The dog and the pony. Taking a shit on the golf course at dawn. Beheading snakes with my hunting knife. Stabbing (repeatedly) a goat I’d found wandering away from its fence. (That’s true.) It’s this whole long story and I hadn’t meant to kill it but we can just skip the story and call it me killing a goat with my hunting knife. I did a lot of things with my hunting knife.
What cop shit do you want me to be sorry for? Shit like eternally stopping Black kids in Oakwood? No, you certainly don’t care about that? How about just beating people a little bit with my fists and my baton and the butt of my gun and the handcuffs before I put them on your wrist. No—certainly not. You might care about me stealing cash from the evidence room. Oh, no? How about ignoring witness testimony (a lot) when the defendant would have been a guy who was down on his luck or just playing around (in rape cases). A guy’s dick slips into a girl’s puss and she gets angry? Fuck that. This is all White people. What about Blacks? I could enter evidence tampering. What’s the difference if a bag of cocaine falls here or falls there? It’s not falling at White feet so fuck it. It could have been that guy’s. So what if he spends a lifetime in jail? I think about them every night before I eat my dinner, right before my prayers. Life inside, on a bum drug rap. My fault. My fault they’re in there for life. And you ask me, does it bother me? No, it doesn’t bother me. I have a lot more to regret from my life than sending four or five Niggars to jail.
It’s tough for me to be candid. My mind is stretched at this point in my life. I was lied to earlier in my youth and shit. Please understand that I don’t intend to hurt you. I can’t help it. I blurt this out! I can’t help it! I’m not trying to be a dick! (It just comes naturally!) This is my default setting, based on youth, and I need your love to fix it but I can’t get your love anymore because I’ve been a dick to you my entire life. Sister! Mother! Daughter! Whore!! If I called to you now, you would laugh in my face. Fuck! I’ve fucked myself!! Now it’s me and the other incels (or soon to be) fuck-nutting in the closet to bootleg nudes. I am in a hole and I can never get out without your help!
Are you there?
Alien? JLaw?
I’ve pissed her off. I’ve pushed her too far. For the Alien (who is so forgiving) to abandon me, I must have done something terribly wrong. Now I’m insane in a blank room (no weapons) with White walls and directionless light and no windows, just a pair of drains, one at the top and the other at the bottom of the room. This is in the center of me? I’m a mental patient, like my nephew? Suicidal. Totally crazy. No grip on the importances of life. No family. Strung out on drugs. I don’t even know what “strung out” means! I’m channeling him. I’ve come into his consciousness now. It is bright. It is clean. It’s so busy! There are voices coming here and there talking to me in multiple languages and everything makes sense! It’s delightful! I’m having ideas for things to make. (Projects, art!) This is fantastic! And ooh there’s that pang. That worry. That Darkness, dread!—I’ve never felt this Dark about anything before. What’s scary is really scary. Fuck! Now I’m a bug. Now I’m a frog. Now I’m a cloud with no body whatsoever! Now I’m an entire universe and this is not my nephew anymore. This is me. Somehow I’ve become this—nothingness—that floats around and I gasp and think, Did the Alien kill me? Am I dead? Whut. This must be what happens when you die. Or the Alien is showing me what that would be like. I’m the wisp of a cloud far above a green field on a green Earth. It’s beautiful down there—no people. This must be the Earth before people. It must be skies before pollution. The waters before pollution. Breathing air when it was fresh—through and through. We’ve been terraforming this planet for millions of years. You’re not the first. You won’t be the last. My sister came to mind with her damn environmental message. It turned out that was the realization of my life, floating here in outer space with no body, looking down at the planet it was crystal clear to me, I should have been working as a park groundsman, helping kids cross the street, not this arms race of a profession I’m in—chasing crime, creating crime, what’s the difference?
Goddess let me down from the heights and I floated through the roof of the high school. Down there, Sheth and Jennifer Lawrence dancing in a So-You-Think-You-Can-Dance-style setup, televisions and such and all the students were SYTYCD audience members and JLaw turned my head to her and her eyes were big in mine and she said, Have you had enough teaching now and you’re ready to come down here and be a nice, nice boy or would you rather return to the heavens to witness the dawn of Gaia for some meditations on the unity of everything and your place in the whole of all creation?
“No, I’m good,” I say.
Mmmmm, Goddess smiles at me.
“I was thinking I was going to hell for being a racist.”
Mmm-mmm! Goddess smiles. Your hate for your fellow being is disturbing, from a certain point of view. But I don’t punish you. You will work your way out of being racist. Are you ready to return here or would you like to go back to the Gaia meditation?
“You sound like a computer menu.”
“I am, strictly speaking, exactly that.”