And that’s where this all brings me—to a tea-topped resort, capped in toffee, aged o’er the winter’s dew, a bit of an Alice-in-Wonderland feel to it. Disney’s White Princess/Snow Queen, barging, loafing, barfing herself into frame—you were famous for five minutes, moved back to Kentucky, withered, prone.
The Alien within me. (Seeing those transforming reptilians and then seeing—myself?—from within?—am I one?—am I an Alien?)
Of course I am. So are you, Sheth—so are you a hybrid being already. Either you’re a neuro-dead or your spirit is live (whatever that means) or you’ve been launched a thousand times (in secret) (but it’s really open). It’s a secret—but it’s really open. Newspaper articles written about it and shit. Showing up in headlines. Showing up tattooed to my wrist—H2O—a whip-encircling wrath that chokes my soul from inside this cell, paint screams White they have Blue they have Green they will paint they will paint they will paint us to the walls. They will paint us in layers of layer cake paint us behind the walls. Paint us in layers of substance (abuse) nothing holding back my creativity I made more albums than Eminem this is in my dreams (I have only heard 10% of his lyric). Fans popping up everywhere I have a crew back in West—young kids they reach out to touch my coat as I pass by I am their miracle worker their savior is coming after my pocketbook change (in my case a Glock 9mm—the gun so boring it’s the picture of pistol in the dictionary). A gun by definition. Weapon. Real shit. Words coming through from this noise. Bullet caps. After scene of a picturesque fire-frame textures in temperature. Wallet zoom. Did Bigfoot get derided again—derailed?—on their way to antiquity from the Left Half and got stuck here by the Nibirians’ stopover (virtually a sleepover—a virtual, alien sleepover) on their way through to the dawn, who houses—who? Houses. Green/White walls. Government as medicine. As medicinal. As a hybrid. As you. Sheth. Black Youth of the Ancients. Are you prepared to become aware of the fact that you are carrying the Niggar gene? That in your veins, flows that Alien, that other blood?
“I am nothing you have ever seen, man. Born on the flip side—tha tail side. The Black side—ya feel??”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Well that’s the real side, too. I’m born of poets—wranglers of the word. People that’ll take your last breath! You never met anyone like my mother or my father.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“I am right, Niggar!”
“Right! Ok! You are right. Right-o. Alright. O-k. You need to sign up for life here on the quad. So, you’ll need, to find, abrasion (halfway through) through completely through the bowl that is upside down upon your head THE BOWL has returned from my haircut I said it 2wice to invoke cold-cocked PORK SAUSAGES I wrote a book of secrets (held by no one) read only in darkness and its sound was the name of God I recognized it using my evangela-sense GOD I was known suddenly smeared through a pastiche of syntax-colored angles on the sky. Right. So you’re here for term life money we pay to acquire SOMETHING OTHER THAN LESSONS something we can’t take with us I said ‘Owl’ she said, ‘Simon Cowell.’ BAM! Rhyming bitch fingering herself between White panties in the swing seat. Blondes before Annabel. Grace period fading. All my books due at the front desk—imposed. Most of my family passing me by, like oddities at a zoo. Strung-up faces left behind (masks between the animal pen and your go train) already been decomposed BAAK(double)!!™ into the Stone Age.”
“I know you have it—I know you are. You came at me with some variation of this Stone Age argument from the minute you stepped through the front door.” This is what Sheth said. He continued. “But Mister Mister Max, Mister Mister Cop. Mister Chance. Mister roll that roulette—Canada!—eh? Roll them dice right onto the board. Blue—23! Black—18. Mmm. Ehmrmmm. Paid them Post-it notes their right Red stamps. Build forward. Tip. Fall.”
“You sound like you’re my age,” I say. “Sound like your age was more than doubled. You shouldn’t have to worry about Aliens. And yet, you’re the most able to handle this situ down here. And with us by your side as your guide—and yet, us unable to do shit. Useless. A marbled pen of fountains’ Blackness (I admit, culture). Of fountains’ (I can’t even say Whiteness)—of fountains of Gettysburg. Our only national monument that everyone has heard of while only a few grip its importance in national history. My daughter tells me I jump the shark with my Gettysburg obsession. Something about the way I pronounce Gettysburg, as though it was Lettuce-berg instead of Get-tee-zz burg. Something in my pronunciation expresses everything wrong with society today. Missy says this. She says I’ll take anything up my backside. Take it all in a single word. Take it up her ass. With some charm. Wild up. Wild out. Wild art in a bark, bark. Out, out damn spot! You are a maniac—can’t even decide on a mental illness, can ya? Busted out of my perimeter. Glassed out on X. Blurred lines, off. Introduction of a comma. Parentheses, all non-dot punctuation for me. Dashes— Bigfoot. It’s not that the answer is what we’ve been told—it’s everything but what we’ve been told. There aren’t Aliens. There is nothing but Aliens. We’re not living in an almost empty space—instead we’re the last-note density in a universe teeming with life. Yet our government (master though they are) thinks we would be better off thinking we’re all alone, without help with all our planetary problems (as if some civilization slightly older couldn’t knock a board and fix it all for us) (as if we weren’t made to live within our means—we just forgot—pretended we could take a shortcut) (make us take us—make us dip within the possibility of being subtle, not egregious as you created us). Created us, probably by robot, millions of possible civilizations reporting back the Alien Grays are just drones carrying out orders from the likes of us—it’s we on the other end of this line! Even us from the future. A species as a logic thing, a shape. Remember this—everything is happening at the same time. All space is one space. These are the mantras of the now. This is the type of speech you can expect from these motherfuckers! Painful, pain. The prowess of lions. Pain of a child! In birth! The first pain that child has felt!! We all had something to do with birth—one the mother, one the child. One the brother, one the father. Know that all our time is one, the same, and correct. Never doubt it. This is the scripture, of sorts, for a time away from time. We are connected in a simple way through this text, consciousness matched through reading and writing. This is why text was invented (in sorts)—to be one with the self. Can you imagine pure consciousness—noise?—light? An icon before you. Evolving. Language. It allows me to create myself in a way that recreates me. From the beginning. Solid. Programmed. FIVE - 4. Historically oversimplify. Amplify. Would you program a letter that turned into itself? Or one that turned (randomly) into something else? Infinite consciousness—whatever that is. Higher vibrations (living in 5d). All of humanity ascending. What does any of it mean?”
“I’ll tell you what it means,” Sheth says. “It means world peace—whatever that means. It means no more bullshit from the government. They’ve done their job (if they ever did)—they protected us from ourselves or maybe they just waged war. Maybe they were just a propaganda machine. Probably some of both. But it literally means the last world war. Because we all get on the same page about wanting to live and being able to do it. What if all that wondering was gone? What if we had the power to power our planet? Or what if our power was the planet?! I think that’s what it means, and—most likely, less of you. Less police. Probably none. You will be remembered as a parasitic, negative force on humanity. Arresting people for jaywalking? Please. Murdering black people as a living?? You could never get away with that. It’s not tenable—not tenable, sir!”
“You may be right. And—young grasshopper—I’ll tell you this. Your tactics are raw. Calling me the parasite while you the innocent, White! Innocent parasite being called upon/forth in perfection! You were born in purity (in your dirty eyes). Called forth from the hive—crack the only substance you were ever bathed in. Horns the only exfoliant you ever used. Abalone your only ever aperitif. Bedrooms full of Jennifer Lawrences. Your sticky shorts telling the tale. Walking pipes in joints, knees, janking apologetic deadface. Black. Thorn in my side. One More Niggar, create the need for my whole department. Black. Neck-ros. Ugly. Mothro-fuckros. Need me to hold your hand when you cross the street. Pull the panty fold from out your ass with a pair of grown-up fingers. Pink polka dots on white cotton. That slightest smear of brown on your panty fabric where my thumb and forefinger held it—to bring it to your ear, your nose and throat—infect you with taints of a government virus that you never paid to get but we gave it to you anyway.”