Imposter syndrome?? Imposter syndrome!! Tell me again about the ScriptoLighter™. From deep within. From deep. They access me from the other side of locked doors. Bars. The pen-keep, where I am kept. The beer-keep, where I am kept. I place thee in a finite hand (of marble), blink thee with a zadraff. Stick. One sticking up your ass. One braining peanut-butter shit ‘round the circles thine my asshole. Giving. Me. A headache. With your nuclear war. Giving my kind a royal pain in the arsehole. Butt-winked. Floor mongering. The capitals the heads of state they roll they wink, they die, they flatten. They wink out of existence. They solidify in May. They capitalize in April. One step backwards. One step. One. One. One is all there ever was. All the Everest™ there’s ever been. All the ever that there’s ever been.
This nextly labeled syndrome is a collection of random data labeled by the brain as some “Other” source—Other than ourself. It is our prejudice against our own confusing self. Our own arising self, our developing, growing self. And therefore our best selves, all punched down by this willful prejudice against data coming to us from within but that is labeled as extra or Other because of its confusing nature. Sheth. Sheth. Maximum negro. Maximum shaft. Could grow into—nothing? What could he grow into? Trash. Garbage. A proud-trunk of a man. Ready for hanging, loops, rope. I have seen it on TV and that’s all I need to know. Patriot with an AK in a map room with a gun and my Bible (that’s all I need). A couple crackers—Do you think it’s enough? Tori-guided tour the universe. Then we had Fiona. Female guides to tourists of our little spread. Beneath the stars. Here. Playing nightly. Pull up your universal chairs and learn a nightly lesson on the backs of our players. At the end, both sides cry and both sides smile and the positivity spin on the bad guys irks me so deep, so on the surface it gives me that instant-suicide reaction jizms from the leg to the toe zipping me, jerking me off in the blind in the cave in the hole in the womb in the grave jerk me to oblivion you silly god wonders me in a developing bath it starts off easy, does it easy, cum it easy, floss it do you think if I wrote a book like this that anyone would notice? (QUOTE AK 1995) Do you imagine that the words would flow so easily to a murderer? If all those people I had killed were the deaths of illogic—you know, if they were bullshit or not!—do you think, then, that my face would be the face of a poet? That I would be able to wax so eloquently about them, or us, or any of this?
What am I the god of? Whacking. He’s amazing at whacking. Rubbing finger-fulls of peanut butter shit on your jaw—just—wipe! Did he just wipe shit on my face? Maybe that’s what you get for endangering my family from the FBI, motherfucker! Keep them feds away from my house! Ok, well you stop posting video of yourself murdering a police man on the internet—don’t you know the minute you put that shit online they’ve got your metadata, your location—the second you put it up they’re coming to your house! Fuck! And you’re putting me in danger, and our daughter! Annabel’ shoulders on my chest. Waterworks. Cursory as usual. Willing to expand. Willing to penetrate my castle with her sensory angles. Caught in spring break—director’s cut! CinemaScope! The directorial language. Every drop of water that falls it through the water dropper counts the same as any other. Every, drop the same. Every, drop simulcasting. Every, drop descending. Every, drop fascinating. Every, drop whispering. Every, drop diminishing. Every, drop abating. Every, drop evanescent, vanishing.
To an am everyone in this cross-sectional I now address, I will have you know that the best I can work out is that someone’s playing a game and we’re the pieces. Each one of us, neurally connected as this particular player. Neurally connected as active. I would call it the matrix but that particular term was hijacked on the way to its own inception and it couldn’t make dinner as planned by a book that no one has ever read that contains the answers you are looking for. It was penned far in advance of the need of its answers. And what does that tell you about the need for dissertations? What does it tell you about the need for dissertations? What does it tell you about the need for dissociation? Dis-association? Dis-amplification? Discovery? Dismantling? Disparagement. Disreputation. Dishonesty. Discombobulation. Disarray. Disassembly. Discovered. Plucked. From your little cherry hole (butthole) of Sheth Jones my Niggard lover who sits beside me eternally watching high school girls play soccer eternalizing an image from my youth, part of how my sexuality was formed was walking up and down high school girls soccer fields watching hair turn at the knee pads nylon shorts (the cardio!)—the god damn cardio of those bitches.
Turn it to fucking—any of them! Me and Sheth going at it side-by-side. Me reaching around to pluck out his cherry hole. The motherfucking texture of these bitches the motherfucking tightness and oh my god the strength of their fucking cardio!
All along, a teenage boy lays with his head on his desk. He is sleeping. His brain is connected to a resonant frequency and the body is mine—it’s my body but I’m an Alien and I’m playing a game (this life). My friends have snuck into the room and are wanting to play—with me—they want to wake me up from this life I’ve been describing to you, with Sheth and Sheth’s asshole and my cherry-picking fingers and this cherry-picking book my notebook of mind for the day of Sheth’s Jennifer Lawrence arrest and (this) the day after. They want to unplug the bathtub, to unstop its stopper! And while nudging me waking me up from this interesting lifetime would not be called fair—would not be allowed in the rules of the world we really live in—jumping into the game and putting fentanyl in my weed would be. They would gladly kill me, wake me up—this world “in here” has no value to my buddies outside. And rightly so. Our entire universe is a trinket used for pre-dinner entertainment and in the dream outside the dream I’m not a cop (only a school crossing guard) and I don’t have all these annoying trappings like the map room and being racist—I’ve chosen to be racist (in the game) so that I can learn something about racism. And when I’m done (or when I accidentally die) I will wake up in my room where I live as an Alien and I will see my prankster friends and we will all go down to dinner.
The domestic disturbance arrest, Sheth, Sheth’s whole life, the entire world, is there as a mini-matrix just for me to learn not to hate Black people. So far it hasn’t worked, as just the thought of Black skin inspires in me images of the ovens of Auschwitz. My blood boils so! Blackies, Darkies shitting up the room with charcoal feces peanut butter shaped, peanut butter flavored oven candy wrap you in a Twinkie box of creamed filling, Darkies shown by Raisinets™, elephant people kabuki-wild bodies painted jungle people anacondas (anaconda dicks!) those black those bold those beautiful cocks so strong I take them in my mouth and suck suck suck the venom out!! Manaconda beauties—they’re in both hands! Manaconda beauties—between my butt cheeks! I cannot help my mind! Goes to orgies where I wake up with two Black men in my bed—seen from overhead—my wife naked between them. Goes to memories of seeing a Black cock for the first time. Back in El Paso. Two gangs (one four, one two strong) meet at the top of the wash. A curse instead of a name. The Black boy (who was poorer than us) shook his dick and then showed us, and my three friends didn’t speak for the rest of the day.
That night, in my bunk bed, looking at the ceiling and not being able to get it out of my head. It was sturdy, and strong—it was indestructible. I imagined it going in the pussies and asses of my friends. The carnage would be palpable. Rolling over. Getting uncomfortably hard against the pillow. I can’t remember if I jerked off (or the next time I jerked off)—did the image of it flash into my mind? How could I touch my own without thinking of it? And God loves Black people more, because he gave them rope-like cocks—how could He not? (I shall pray upon this this evening.) But my teenage self, taken aside by the cock of Blackness and slapped around by it—how can he be comforted?
Doesn’t he deserve to wake up at home, on the block, in his neighborhood, mind free of any entanglements—free of any disruption, even the disruption of Color and Race and Breed? Doesn’t he deserve at least that, this gimp-mental boy (a pure thing—a boy!)—deserve at least to enter the day (his world, his realm) without pure fucking disturbance?? The Aliens knew it—they were right we couldn’t handle this. When you put an Alien outside my window, I’ve got a shotgun placed up his ass!! When you put a Niggar out there, my gun is aimed at his guts. Shoot him there for a hardcore death that takes time. I approach the body, checking if he’s dead. Root around his guts with my gun barrel. Barrel lurches toward his dick!—His Black cock is possessing me from beyond the grave, I do say!