I wandered through the house like a rogue, fixing crooked books on the bookshelf and masturbating to porn in the basement.
I was shiftless, thinking about the broken boy, tweaking my fronts with a so-good fantasy of riding him bareback like a camel, him wearing slaves’ clothes, a tunic woven from brush, his Black ass shining in the sun. The pyramids were in the background. I wasn’t sultan, but I was better, somehow—he took orders from me—and in my dreams we frolicked beside gazelle on the Serengeti plain, frustrated no more by our cop uniforms and ammunition. Vending machines and parking slots. Some girl throwing her ass up in that tight pair of jeans, taunting me, tempting me—tempting us all with that cooch which she will not give you—which she will not let you have despite your daily begging. Your begging like a dog who needs to stick it. It’s not even sexual anymore, just a dog and his bone needing to fuck, cum, and make it soft again. Not rape, exactly. Just a trip to happy land and then a nap underneath a tree. This is the sort of thing I imagined—do you imagine such things?
Cleaner days and more peaceful days. A dog in a motherfucking park—you hear what I’m saying? Crimson Tide. Roll tide—roll! My Ohio boys will beat your ‘Bama boys any day of the fucking week. ‘Bama may have a cool logo but ‘Hia has the best young men’s athletic program in this hemisphere. Bar none. ‘Bama boys.
Days with college quadrangles and hot dog stands. We went to see Ohio University last week with Melissa. Do you know what they had? A gyro buggy. Gyrhho. Guy-ro. I can’t even pronounce the damn thing! Some mid-eastern boy, ripe for ass-rape, perched in there with a mathematics textbook talking on the phone in Arab or whatever, sucking up our tax dollars, fucking our little girls—fuck! It makes me sweat to think about. Some thin A-Rab dick sliding into my daughter’s pussy on her first day there. He’d prob’ly still have his textbook with him when he did it—E equals MC squared probability matrix bullshit. They’re implementing some of that stuff at work. Ways to catch criminals using—not even using their fingerprints—they can track your personality, take a gesture and part of a photo and some Tweet you made ten years ago. Track your ass down to within an inch of where you’re standing. Except they use centimeters, ‘cause the software was developed in Asia. Believe that? Software we use in our computers, right here, was actually developed in Asia. Bully.
I run my hand over the maps. Circle my study. Everything is perfectly laid out—designed for looking. Like my grandmother’s living room. Never touch. Never lay a finger on her china lest you want your fingers broken. Blackies had living rooms like that. Couches covered in plastic. Fanatical grandmothers smacking your butt as soon as you sat down. Black living rooms didn’t have vintage maps, though—what income could a black person have that would rival mine? You might not think cops make enough to live in Oakwood, have a collection of maps. But we do. Some of us do very well.
I sit down on the floor. On my map/rug that shows the Mercator projection of the northern hemisphere. Everything in threads, fine yarn from wherever. I run my fingers through the carpeting, picturing that it’s my daughter’s hair. Your daughter is everything, if you’re a father. You’re her dad, her boyfriend, her protector, her BFF. She needs you more than she’ll ever know, incapable of getting through the world alone, forever lost and confused. She’s like her mother—waiting to be plucked by some guy who has the dual intention of loving her till the day he dies and also wearing down her reserves until she’s nothing more than a sex slave, ready and willing to submit to his cock, lay there, spread it, take it, want it, love it. That’s what some guy wants to do to my daughter. The peanut-headed Nikkas who want to give it to her—those are not the ones you have to worry about. It’s the smart ones, the prudent predators, the ones who want to wife her and do that shit the rest of they lives—those are the ones who keep you up at night.
Imagine her, on her front, ass in the air, getting drilled by Sheth Jones. That bitch taking what he wants from her. Sliding in that fat cock, making her hurt a little. Her feeling so smooth to him and him feeling so smooth to her. Imagine my daughter liking it—loving it—to the degree that she squirms in pleasure. Sheth Jones, that nappy-headed kid jerking off to Jennifer Lawrence on TV, coming to my police station sitting in my interrogation room lying to my ignorant face about what he was doing last night. Sheth Ignorant Jones, whose smug-ass face needed a slap!—him fucking my kid—can you imagine? I’d stand on that interrogation table and rub my dick in his face! Reach up and turn off the lights! Switch it with a disco ball! Decadent kid. Fucking Air Force Ones and you’re living on Harriet Street in West Dayton. Idiots. If Mrs Smith had spent $2600 on stock in Apple, Amazon, and Tesla just one year ago, it would be worth over $100,000. I almost bought that stock myself but I was paying into Melissa’s tuition fund.
I thought of Mrs Smith writing a check for $2600—something she would never do.
Thought of her grandson, when he was young. Still cute. Before developing those man Niggar genes. Having that Niggar fuck my daughter is something that can never happen. Their baby—would disgust me. Especially if it was a girl. Girl Niggars are the worst. Nappy-ass vagina hair, a big-ass cut for where their snatch should be. Black and horrendous. No form to it, no shape, no angle. If they had a son he could be my son—to a degree. Then after that I would have to send him to the other side of town, get him some chitlins.
I lie back. Take out my lighter. Flick it. Think of the effect it would have on my wall full of maps. From Asia to Africa, everything burning, and eventually North America. Then it would burn up the ice. I imagine my maps, turned carbon. Aces of WWI, WWII. WWIII if we can get it started. I’d like to blow this planet off its axes, nuke it to hell. I think the Hell’s Angels have it right: Use it up, wear it out. There ain’t nothing more in this whole world that I care about. I like that lyric, ‘cause it showcases my nihilism and intellectualism. Bitch, please. You ain’ never known me since you known me. You ain’t. Never. Known me. I can’t get the syllables right. Black language is so difficult. I meant to say it’s simple—too simple. It’s. Uh. Too simple for the White man to understand. We Whites have a refined sensibility when it comes to the tongueth of the White man. Our Native English. Mother tongue. Never known to the Black man or the Red man, our tongue was handed down by God to Moses on the mountain with the Ten Commandments and sliced bread—Sanskrit never had nuthin’ on this!
I tell you I can see visions of the future and the future is fire. Fire over the whole Earth, scorched sights, elementary particles, the dusk of man. In my world I set fire to this room maps-first and see them tumbling the supporting flames up and up and up. To the side of the building, rolling our house in flame. Boiling us, roiling the entire street, the neighborhood, Captain Planet Fucknugget, the cigarette at the end of the driveway. It’s as if I’m channeling someone, in this moment, someone far away who hardly thinks about race. Someone for whom in their society it’s become not an issue—? Someone smarter than me, a poet, someone with interests and desires not my own. It’s as if this someone channels me—as if they come to play me like a game, sitting down at the controllers to run me down, to run me into the ground. It’s like they don’t know how difficult it is down here. To be their avatar. Their game body. The them they like to think of, themselves. The them they see when they dream.
I gather this channel, fanning down the flames from my collection. How post to gather things and burn them. Stacks of books, next. Every one in my map room. The whole totality of knowledge, from A to Z, from alpha to omega, the whole internet. The big bang nuclearizes my books, my maps, my self as I meditate cross legged in this racist Dayton suburb. But it’s ok because it’s mostly what White people think anyway. It’s ok because we only do it when White people are around. It’s ok, it’s ok, but it’s not. The you I’m connected to now knows this, I think. From the vantage point from which I see you, I sense your location to be far enough in advance and not too far to the side, that your civilization has moved on to some far less basic problem. To trouble itself with. As I sit here. With the plains burning. With our corn fields burning. With Mississippi Burning. With human rights burning. With that Alpha and that Omega burning. With my whole goddamn collection burning!
You found me while I was sleeping. I was calm then. But now, as I proceed in telling you this story, I can no longer act as a sleeper, but must reveal to you that I am rising.