“Hey Mister Mister Cop Mister Mister Mister Cop Mister Mister Mister Cop Cop Mister Mister Cop Cop.”
“Yo Mister Mister Jones. Yo Mister Mister Jones Yo. Yo Mister Mister Jones.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you want, Mister Mister Cop. Just. Tell me what you want.”
“I want to eat your fucking face, Black child. Eat your fucking face.”
“You want to eat my fucking face, Cop? Eat my fucking face?”
“I want to eat your fucking face, Child. Eat your fucking face.”
“Eat your fucking face. Face. Eat your fucking face,” says the Black child. “I want to eat your fucking face. Face I want to eat your fucking. Face. Face. I’d like to eat your fucking face, face. Eat your fucking face. Face. Eat your fucking face—“
“And I came to you in the village, Child—I came to you in the fields. I came to you in the river, Child. Came to you in the clouds. I’d let you eat my fucking face—eat, eat—eat my fucking face. I came with you to this land over green hills and greener dales over shopping cart with irregular bowel syndrome (a misnomer) act nuts with my at the symphony, tell me why I don’t deserve to be here, how my face does not fit in with the millions!”
“It is not that your face does not fit—That was never in question!—but simply that mine would not. Why my particular ethnicity is it that offends ye! Will ye yield and not say that is mine which keeps you up at night, awaiting the scare of my roar!”
“The roar of my scare, I should rather think,” I tell him.
“If, the Black boy says, “you mean the roar of a mechanism called scare, then I think that is right. If (on the other hand) you mean a literal scare, then I think you’re going to run into some problems.”
Why have you brought me here, O Lord, with your alphas and your omegas. Brought me here to this tabletop amongst our clouds where you have given us this forum for every corridor of our everlasting love. O God! Given me—Dipped me in!—thy holiness O Lord My God Our Wonderful Oh Counsellor Hallowed Be Thy Holy Name Oh Jeremiah’s bells Oh Sand Boy From Thy Dunes Thy Lord Thy God Thy Lightning Name!! This is a White man’s table, O God! Surely thy rules have not escapeth the nativeth of thy land of Africa! Pure and duly land of yore, hallowed land of thy Negra! Boundless is his name among the plains. Boundless is his foot among the fields of the Serengeti. And may those feet never grace my fields in Ohio, again, O Lord—fist bump!! Fist bump that shit, again, O Lord.
Never grace my fields again.
A white man’s dream.
Never grace my fields, never grave my streets—I don’t even know why anymore!! Can’t even remember why but I’m glad I never have to see your face again kyd never have to fight your punk-ass face again never have to see you coming around the corner at me full force—was how you were going?—full force was how we was going? Full Force Practicals™. For gym and office. Full force radicals. White single-occupant female. Whatever this shit means anymore. This lingo. Our jargon. It lurches forward leaving us (its inventors) keeping up like two-year-olds. Catching out of bounds commentary on its way to the sludge. Operating fields like keychain-repeat, keychain-replace. For elevensies. This is the reset register of my brain. Reset-repeat, reset-replace. It gets programmed down here. Things are a little sticky down here. We don’t usually come down here. It’s a bit of a mess down here.
Tricky tricky mess. Tricky tricky tricky mess. Just write down whatever you want to—that’s all you’re ever doing anyway. Adjusting the shape of your want so that it equates out to 1890s WigPressionIsm™ -gasm -ing. Galloping to the speed of my horse, man—it’s a simple fucking horse! Who rode me out in front of the line and took the lead—he’s a steed!—he’s the lead steed, man. The buck. The front. The chuck wagon. Chuck. With a Capital C. You know how the one way you look at things, it’s organized. And the other way you look at things, it’s disorganized? I guess what I’m saying is I’m saying to you is if you’re the kind of person to whom this happens, then that’s a serious problem—lol—a serious problem. Akin to—hush—some forms of mental illness. Shhh. Ahhh. Ihhh! Our professions overlap. They do. As in we house a number of their, ahh, patients as inmates in the prisons.
Sheth you do—and you do—need to take notice of this here, say, lesson. Sorry to be one to preach but I am as good as your uncle in this shipwreck we call life. But I must impress on you that it is important not to be both Black and wild. And by wild I mean crazy. Nuts. Sprung a sprocket. That weekend trip from which there is no turning back. This above all and all above else is the illness known as the Black trannsexual he/she/he/she! It excites my labels to think about it. But stop them, I will—stop them I might. First starry starry star I see tonight. Make me a parliamentarian—NO! Make me not that nor anything like it! Make me nothing, if you have it. Make me naught from the winds—that’s the voice of an early girlfriend of the King of Spain’s!
Believe it not how I am connected—to the King of Spain or wherever. Pretend you really think I cannot be be connected to the King of Spain via the headspace of a god. I mean what of you really thinks this is impossible? Which thinks it is impossible an audience of “Aliens” are not watching this play from within? Erupting with their version of laughter every time I pick my nose! Don’t you think their “Alien” minds so far superior to ours would find racism to be so passe? They probably roll their eyes when it comes on television. They don’t even roll their eyes. They probably can’t even roll their eyes! Snap Susan in a white dress, flush with the hips, and what is this—the decadence?—this Boulevard of Broken Dreams.
What is this? What is my Susan—Annabel?—Melissa. What is this dress flush with the hips, reality barely connected. At a cotillion ball (for what I’ve seen uv ‘um) connected to the matrix in Five-Alive LSD sounds, proclivities excluded, rules broken, extravaties muddled up from in between.
Sheth, this description of you as the punk Black kid is not working. I swore I would make you up in oddity and Negro-hating-ness and in this perfection something wonderful something grand something something something my something something-ness DO YOU GET ME do you see me here? Do you see me in sentences written by a simp—a vance!—inside a hologram made of a hologram tripped by someone who is a hallucination of a vaccination that’s the nature of everything—isn’t it? We’re one mega-colossal trip run on a brain so big its functions wouldn’t even be useful to us.
How does that all have consistency (and coherency) within the scope of me (as a racist) operating on this police force where our job clearly is to maintain peace on the streets of Dayton Ohio. At almost any cost. That means fleet weapons, fleet tactics. Privatized military bullshit. Love that shit. It’s decent. It’s decency flowing down from heaven onto the streets of Dayton. Onto the swimming pool of our lives. The swimming pool—see? It’s the nearest, most valuable escape property to you—for some people Disney, some people it’s the swimming pool. That’s what I’m protecting. That’s the home in home. That’s what you come home to! My daughter—is the here in here. She’s the hon in honey. The sweat in—she’s home. That’s the whole thing. That spot where when you put your dick, you say, “Home.”
That’s whose job it is for me to maintain. That home, that wall around it. That’s what a man was made to do! To keep that spot protected. To keep that spot hot.
Sheth Jones doesn’t know that kind of duty. Sheth Jones does not know that kind of cop. All he knows is the weak-ass community service cops his department employs. Those cops are good enough for a Black neighborhood—weak response to a gnarly problem. I know some cops from the West side. Seem to have squandered what they were given by a Presidential hand. Equipment from da fleet! Equipment straight turn Niggas into cooperative law-abiding motherfuckers! Turn them Niggas into God-fearing motherfuckers! Buncha guys sittin’ around suckin’ God’s dick!
These are my unrealistic expectations. My expectations that daughters will not turn up with niggars, that niggars will not turn up with friends and brothers and cousins to what’s supposed to be a quiet one-on-one with your girl on the swing in the back yard that’s the swing that I built for my wife I’m a talented motherfucker a talented boy. For under that swing on the board where her pale legs dangle there is a place so hot hotter than the hottest spot there is a place so tight, so mighty in its grip, that it can suck golf balls from a garden hose it can sip ice cubes from your Mona Lisa put me into overdrive turn my engine on make me cum bubbling from the hose between my legs you can turn it this way to cum on your face that way to extinguish a house fire.