Sign Of A Local Nigger Unravelin’

Michelangelo was a sculptor. That’s all of who he was. The rich rat bastards, they kept paying him for paintings—he didn’t want to paint, but painting was where the money was. So, he painted.

A sculptor—what he really was—involved selecting and regarding a block of marble. Seeing what it was meant to be. Knowing the interior. The finished let the slaveglowing being. Then, having to go, through time and effort and time, the tiresome endless work, of bringing out what was already there. The already happened.

Chisel.

Chip.

Chip. Chip. Chip.

In the last decades of his life, Michelangelo approached marble, chipped away for a time, then stood back, saying he was finished.

No one, at the time, could see how he could possibly say that he was the least bit finished.

To this day, people do not understand what he meant. By “finished.”

His, here, is an avenue of art, that no one, over the past umpteen-hundred years, has pursued. Because it appears to be nothing but “unfinished.” Like, maybe, probably, he just gave up.

Bollocks. This is the man who had already used chisel and stone to depict the most precise and divine representations of human beings in the entire history of sculpture. Before, or since.

So, when he moved elsewhere, people should have paid attention.

But they didn’t. And they still don’t.

The “unfinished” Michelangelo pictured above is called “Awakening Slave.” From the title alone, it should be obvious, to anyone employing brain cells, that it is absolutely right, that the slave is unable to fully emerge from the marble. Michelangelo’s choice, here, was absolutely right.

He said that the marble spoke to him. And, when it said, stop carving, he stopped.

True artists don’t listen to the bullshit. They listen to the art.

Writing is like regarding a block of marble. The task is to chip away the bullshit, the effluvia, the waste, revealing, relating, only what is.

That is why, when I was 16, and first regarded the “unfinished” sculptures of Michelangelo, I knew exactly what they were about. He had gone beyond the mere perfection of form. To regarding, and representing, perfection attempting to emerge, yet held back, by the muck.

Now that I am older, I see a second reason why he went with the “unfinished.” Because, for decades, he’d put it all out there, in the way that they wanted to see it. Yet, they still didn’t get it. So: fuck ’em. Go with the quantum. The finished/unfinished. The way it really is.

So, uh, this piece, that follows, I had grand finished plans for the thing, some weeks ago, when I wanted to both Snowden, and Zimmerman. I was first concerned about those in my karass so hurt by the Zimmerman verdict. And, next, those, also in my karass, so wounded by the Snowden revelations. Unfortunately, I don’t think I ever got around to serving, in what I have here written, completely, either. Much less both. The piece is unfinished. But I’ve decided to put it out there anyway. In hopes people can regard what is there, and see also into the marble. To what was meant to be. To what is.

(for robin and denise and amazing and adept and time and sephius and conk and tree and trayvon and sooth and seeta and ms. turn-up-your-radio and my pooldar anacaona and she-be-hawaiian-feet and the far rambling planet and all whose skins and souls burn 24/7 with the lies of this nation . . . . ) 

The Snowden uproar has been driven mostly by white people.

In garment-rending frenzy, that maybe government folks, are ear-trumpeting their phone conversations, goggle-eyeing their email.

Like, checking them.

People of color have, generally, been less exercised. Because, from when they first become conscious in this country, in this culture, people of color naturally assume they are being allchecked. Watched. Listened to. Tracked. As a condition of their very lives. Because, everything about their lives, about their history, teaches them that they are.

(The exception was when the Bolivian president’s homeward-bound plane was forced to the ground: people of color, then, particularly south of the border, they for sure, then uproared, over that. Because it was, so humiliatingly, typical of their lives, their history. To wit: white people won’t believe them. Will naturally assume them of involvement in nefariousness. Will physically roust them. Whenever they feel like it. Even if the rousted is the president of a sovereign nation.

(So let it be written. So let it be done.

(Same as it ever was.)

What people of color in this country would like, it is something more basic than freedom from a government-snout snorting about in their email.

What they would like, is a guarantee of physical safety.

That, maybe, they can feel free, to, oh, say, walk to the store, and back again, without getting shot.

And what the Zimmerman verdict tells them is that, once again, this—this is a forlorn hope.

Because what the Zimmerman verdict tells people of color is: no, really, they can’t—still “not yet”—walk to the store and back, without fear of being shot.

And white people, they have no idea, what that means.

To live, day in, day out, every day, like that.

Knowing they might be killed. For just walking the streets.

As they continue to squeal. The white people. About a snout. Maybe in their email.

I received, in the wake of the Zimmerman verdict, an email from a person of color, who has succumbed to despair.

Says she:

A lot of what I came up believing, spouted ad nauseam by Jose Marti and Rev Dr. King? I am doubting any of it now. I don’t believe for a New York minute we shall overcome, or “not too long.” This seems like the weakest pabulum and fairy tale imaginable. It’s open season on people of color.

What can I say to her?

Nothing.

I can remember what Ta-Nehisi Coates wrote, presciently, back in 2009, in the days after a white racist cop (clue: all white cops, eventually, if they remain cops, long enough, ineluctably succumb to racism) rousted and arrested Harvard professor Henry Gates. Because, he, Gates, old crippled black man, there in his own home, had the effrontery, to be “uppity.”

Evidently Obama, Crowley and Gates are talking about getting a beer together. I hope they have a grand old time.

The rest of us are left with a country where, by all appearances, officers are well within their rights to arrest you for sassing them. Which is where we started. I can’t explain why, but this is the sort of thing that makes you reflect on your own precarious citizenship. I mean, the end of all of this scares the hell out of me.

I was thinking earlier this week about the connection between all of this and the Senate almost passing a bill which would make it legal to carry a concealed weapon in any state, as long as your home state approves. Maybe there is no line between the two, or maybe I just haven’t connected them yet.

In his book Crabgrass Frontier, Kenneth Jackson talks about citizens accepting the responsibility for democracy. He’s discussing red-lining, as I recall, and notes that it would be wrong to see government mypolicy toward black neighborhoods as a shadowy conspiracy to destroy black communities. It’s much darker than that. The government represents the people, and thus one must see red-lining, housing segregation, and housing covenants not as the machinations of bureaucrats, but as a manifestation of popular will.

When we think about the cops, it’s scary, on one level, to conclude that a cop can basically arrest you on a whim. It’s scarier still to think that this is what Americans want, that this country is as we’ve made it. And then finally it’s even scarier to understand that no president can change that. It’s not why he’s there. He is there to pass health-reform—not make us post-racist, or post-police power, or post-whatever. Only the people can do that. And they don’t seem particularly inclined. Here is what the election of Barack Obama says about race—white people, in general, are willing to hire a black guy for the ultimate job. That’s a big step. But it isn’t any more than what it says.

What Coates says about the Gates roust-and-arrest, about all of US history, is true in re George Zimmerman.

George Zimmerman tracked and stalked and shot to death a skittles-bearing black child. Who’d had the effrontery to walk to and from a store.

And Zimmerman was then, in the natural course of things, unburdened of all criminal liability. By a jury of his peers. Because that is what America wants.

What America wants is that black youth simply have no business in white gated communities.

That a community is even gated: that is a clear signal that black folk, and brown folk, need stay the fuck out.

And if they dare enter: well, then, they can expect to get shot.

Because that is what America wants.

If America did not want it like that, Zimmerman would never have embarked on his nightriding slave-control patrol in the first place. Much less been acquitted. After he shot and killed the black child.

It is absolutely necessary, whenever we regard the roots of this nation, as we must do here, that we reflect that white people never should have come here.

Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away. Until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his what it isbreath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder. And as I sat there, brooding on the old unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther . . . . And one fine morning—

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

We know it was over, even as it began, as an example, through Terrence Malick’s film The New World.

At the close of that film, the inconstant anglo adventurer John Smith encounters the Indian woman he used, abused, lied to, and abandoned. After she had merely provided him with everything he might ever want or need.

But no. That was not—anglo, male, he—enough.

He had given her the back of his hand, to go galloping off in search of more land, more plunder, more conquest, more glory—the paradise of “the Indies.”

Now, he has returned to chat her up.

Malick in his film never names this woman: she is meant to represent America. She is, now, tamed and tortured, spirit-stifled, what it isEnglish-corseted, and she is dying. And she has not a word to say to her one-time, would-be beau.

Until Smith asks:

“Did I make a mistake in coming here?”

To which she witheringly replies: “Did you find your Indies, John?”

“I may,” he admits, “have sailed past them.”

Absolutely goddam right.

White people, they are over, on the North American continent.

It is simply a matter of time.

And not much time, at that. Even the most conservative estimates forecast that brown people will overrun even a state as white-crazed embarrassing as Arizona, in but 20 years.

White people are over. In the long arc of time, they are just a blip. This was never their continent. Never will be.

The black people that white people brought here, forcibly, after they’d exhausted into non-existence the native red inhabitants, this is their land, more than it is any white person’s.

Because they’ve truly suffered and bled for it.

White people, who don’t get why, black people root in this land, where so much damage has been done to them here, just don’t get that.

They just don’t get much of anything. White people.

This is the land of brown people, and of red people, and of black people. And all of all of them will still be here. Long after all the white people have beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. Back to yesfrom where they came.

Or, remained here.

But subject to the Bulworth proviso.

Which is that, so long as humans adhere to Eros, and “keep fucking each other,” thereby crossing all “racial” boundaries, then, in the end, as is meant to be, alpha and omega, all the colors, will bleed into one.

And, thereby, all this race-based nonsense, it will be over.

Problem is, of course, we’re not yet to such a perfectable place.

And so the Trayvons, when confronted with white world, will still be a-runnin’.

And will then, like Trayvon, be shot and killed.

And then, like Trayvon’s, their killers will go free.

And then people of color, naturally, like my of-color emailing companera, will see in this world, no hope, no hope at all.

And then I can’t, just can’t, responsibly, reasonably, rationally, say a word to uplift her.

Because the truth, is in the words, of, first, Stevie:

there’s somethin’ happenin’ here
what it is ain’t exactly clear
there’s a man with a gun over there
tellin’ me i got to beware
it’s time we stopped, children
what’s that sound
everybody look what ‘s goin’ down

Then, next, the chorus:

stop
look
what’s that sound
everybody knows
what’s goin’ down

stop
look
what’s that sound

everybody knows
what’s goin’ down

And, finally, Chuck D.:

are you ready for the real revolution
which is the evolution of the mind

No. White people are not ready for the evolution of the mind.

They’re just ready to suspicion, stalk, and shoot.

And all of the apparatus of this country, enables and encourages—even rewards them—in their knuckledragging.

So sad.

Back in the day, back in the 2009 day, I put the Coates thing up, in a Diary I wrote over on StormKos.

A Diary I posted because I was so frustrated that the conversation there, on that site, was moving, in re the humiliation of Henry Gates, solely along white lines.

What white people thought. Of what the white cop had done.

The blazingly white. White-privileged site. It just would not hear black voices. Much less—jeebus forbid—venture into the scarifying ghetto of the weekly diary-series Black Kos. And there encounter the only voices worth hearing: what it was like to be Henry Gates.

Out of the ghetto of Black Kos, I endeavored, in my Diary, to bring forth, to the larger site, these voices, voicing these Realities:

All of America must understand how being Black in this country contorts your soul. My Son, myself & two small children under the age of 4 yrs. were hit by an 18 wheeler truck going 50 MPH in Evergreen, Alabama 10 yrs. ago. We were lucky we weren’t all killed that day, the car was completely totalled. When the troopers arrived on the scene they refused to address either my son or myself at all. We were completely ignored there in the median of the road. The trooper would only speak with the whites in other cars that were hit. I will be scarred with that experience forever. Being helpless, needing help & being ignored because we were Black.

No one wants to relive the moments of the great humiliations in their lives. But believe me, when this Skip Gates story broke, every minority in this country that has been humiliated in the same fashion what it isrelived it once again. It is a burden that haunts us all.

I do not know of one black person who has not been on the rough end of some kind of racial profiling. When we walk into stores, we are followed. We are stopped by policemen for no reason. One of my sons who married a white woman was stopped and she was asked if she was okay as if she were being kidnapped. I was stopped by a officer who informed me that a friend’s mother had the same kind of car I was driving. When I asked him if her car had been reported stolen, the situation was in escalation mode until my passenger, a white male, got out of the car and identified himself as my lawyer and asked the policeman for the exact reason he had stopped me. The officer made nice really fast, though not to me.

Your recounting of son’s story reminded me of my cousin, who was married to a woman who “looked white” (his wife was not but unless you were one of us, most folks wouldn’t know the diff)

They were dragged out of their car in LA, at gunpoint, his wife was thrown to the ground (pregnant).

His crime—driving while black (with a big fro), her’s being a “white woman” with said black man with fro.

I had a cop pull me over for crossing the freeway divider to go the opposite direction. Car after car was doing it because of a major traffic accident—but dumb me, why did I try it? So, I wasn’t awake yet so the Miss Ann crown wasn’t up in force, like Gates—and instead of the ‘what’s wrong officer’ tone, I said, hey, everyone else is doing it—WHY are you just pulling me over???’ And on cue—someone else did the same thing in front of me. To this guy’s credit, he apologised and let me go. And he said that he would do better next time.

That is how simple this issue could have been resolved with Gates—’Just checking out a report of burglary at your house. Sorry for the interruption—here is my name and badge number if you find out things were disturbed inside while you were gone. Have a good day!’

And we all know why professionalism did not win out. This cop wanted to make an example of Skip Gates. This is the consequence of being an uppity Negro. Who among us strong womandoes not know this drill. But I am the same age as Skip Gates & I know I am tired of the BS as well.

What people don’t realise is it’s not just cops, it’s the clerk at the store, it’s your boss—or your bosses’ boss. You constantly have to get though that bs everyday. We were taught to do this—how to observe the WM/WG so you don’t get in trouble—as it is handed down generation by generation. That’s why we know the drill, the speech, the body language that the WM is comfortable with so we can get on with our day.

But like Gates, sometimes I’m just tried of my Miss Ann crown and have to jump black for a moment. yes, I’m supposed to be here, this is my house. Yes, I own this car because I’m driving it. Yes, this is my AMEX card because I have perfect credit. Yes, I can afford this because I make six figures.

You just get weary. And in 2009 nothing has improved in regards to racial profiling. We are always suspected of committing a crime or being in a space we have no right to be in. As sad as it is, this incident opens the dialog to better understand what we go through on a daily basis. How we have to teach our young men how to live through an encounter with the police & how as a 58 yr. old Black Women still cringes when she sees a police car in her rear view.

I’ve been stewing on using this incident as a “racial profiling” case and I think we may need to get like the Innuit people and invent another term for snow. People think traffic stop and the police tactic of stopping people for being black on a sunny day and then rifling through their stuff looking for drugs, or like that Texas town that stopped every black person with out of state rental tags and shook them down for money. This one was different. It was I’m the man I don’t have to respect a single thing about you even in your own home. I am the man and you will answer my questions and I don’t have to answer to you.

To me it seemed like Gates’ Rosa Parks moment where he was just tired of being tired. He got home from an international trip, and had an infection and had to deal with a jammed door on a hot, muggy day. And then Officer Crowley shows up.

The overwhelming criticism of Gates by the media, and others who want to find fault with him, is all about his attitude. Because there is no doubt that he provided an ID while he was still in the house.

So, he was arrested for not being deferential enough to authority. That is stupid—like Obama said.

And without missing a beat our POTUS spoke as a yesBlack Man & of the experience of each & every one of us in the Black community. The media now has it’s “Being Black While President” moment.

I actually thank God the question was asked.

I held my breath while Obama answered it though. I thought is he gonna sell us out, and deny what is obvious to everyone with a non white skin tone? He didn’t he called the incident what it was STUPID and thus became truly the first President i’ve really ever had. If a portion of white America should become upset at this more than fine. We can talk about it. I’m not MLK like so if they want we can fight about it. However, for the first time in American history the story of the Black person was believed by the President. Take a look at how much of the media and even here on kos reads the police report as gospel, and not the testilying of an officer.

Thank God maybe now police will respect the fact that we are citizens of this country, and are free people with the absolute right to be secure in our homes and persons from police attacks.

I have to admit am not a Skip Gates fan, for a host of reasons that have nothing to do with this incident.

I think this was actually a wake-up call for those who think that illustrious titles, and academic ivory towers are no protection when you “be black” in America.

Barack Obama sans entourage and secret service, playin a game of pick-up ball in a park, would be a likely candidate for police harassment.

David Dinkins, when Mayor of New York couldn’t hail a cab

This is what Michelle was speaking about when she talked about her husband being a black man…and they tried to blow it all out of proportion during the primaries…but every minority who lives with it…we knew what she was talking about…the rest of them…blind, clueless and tried to paint my FLOTUS as an angry black woman.

Yeah well, because there are people out there who react first and think later…and hell yeah I’m angry!

We are all angry. But we have learned to live beyond the anger & pain.

Time to bring the ol’ “I’m tired… I’ve been Black all day” t-shirt back outta storage.

I don’t know why I wasn’t more ready for this I predicted from the moment Barack won. We were going to catch it from the reactionaries big time with both barrels. I had the same thought as your T-shirt, but then I thought of Moms. 5 foot tall (4 foot 11 Moms) 93 pounds being dragged out of soda fountains, and standing in front of real police officers, and I think: I’m not so tired.

And today, several years on, Barack Obama, President of the United States, adds today these words, to those words.

You know, when Trayvon Martin was first shot I said that this could have been my son. Another way of saying that is Trayvon Martin could have been me 35 years ago.

And when you think about why, in the African American community at least, he got gamethere’s a lot of pain around what happened here, I think it’s important to recognize that the African American community is looking at this issue through a set of experiences and a history that doesn’t go away.

There are very few African American men in this country who haven’t had the experience of being followed when they were shopping in a department store.

That includes me.

There are very few African American men who haven’t had the experience of walking across the street and hearing the locks click on the doors of cars. That happens to me—at least before I was a senator. There are very few African Americans who haven’t had the experience of getting on an elevator and a woman clutching her purse nervously and holding her breath until she had a chance to get off. That happens often.

What do these words say? That Barack Obama knows that, though he may be President of the United States, in the end, at root, he’s, in this country, these United States, just another nigger.

But: see this. Though, in these United States, he is regarded as just another nigger, outside these United States, President Barack Obama bombs and kills other niggers. In, for instance, and all over, Africa. With, as but one example, the drones, under his ultimate control.

As, he would, in, it is said, from his position of ultimate control, slap into prison, Mannings, and Assanges, and Snowdens, people who would only speak the truth.

It has always been said, and it is true, that Barack Obama must be a Jackie Robinson: never angry, never acting out; taking it, taking it, taking it.

But Jackie Robinson, though integrating a white-supremacist world, and thereby complicit in it, never actively and personally brought down death upon others.

Barack Obama does.

The wingers, they say that Obama’s heart is anti-colonial, anti-imperialist, anti-American-exceptionalism, that he has doggedly worked, from day one, to dissolve America as empire.

Would that it be true.

My Diary, the one referred to up above, it was a failure, because basically nobody read it, who hadn’t already read the comments over in Black Kos.

All of us, who over the many years, tried to bring things out of Black Kos, to the larger site, we all failed.

Because the white people: they just didn’t want to feel it.

And the site itself, we now know, because it has been laid naked before us, is indistinguishable from a place like Stormfront. Which nakedly agitates for the death of black people. For Daily Kos has serenely reinstated ArthurPoet, once banned, for bragging, to culminate his months-long ravenous stalking of the black/Puerto Rican Kossack Denise Oliver Velez, of his role in the killing of a black man, and his disfiguring of a Puerto Rican.

This would never have happened. The reinstatement of this killer. If the people who control Daily Kos could Feel.

I know, that I am nobody special. Anything I can do, anybody else can. Anything I can feel, anyone else can.

It is so peaceful, so complete, when you reach the place where you know that your life—the only one for sure you can be sure that on this planet you get—is sacred and sacrosanct . . . and so you know, feel, that, therefore, is so sacred, so sacrosanct, every other life.

Animal, mineral, vegetable. Virus, parasite, whingding from beyond the beyond.

And thus, their life, their light, you shall respect. As they shall respect your own.

So simple.

Anybody who ever gets even as far as this first basic understanding knows that the rest of it gets nowhere at all, until this first understanding is reached, and assimilated: that, as the wandering, ass-riding, pissed-in-the-temple, bewildered-wandered-in-from-India, retired-carpenter did put it: “love thy neighbor as yourself.”

Commandment surmounted only by “love the lord thy god.”

The lord, thy god, of course, being, but oneself.

I am so happy, that I am no longer required, by anyone, even myself, to make, whatsoever, any goddam fucking sense.

You have no idea . . . .

I know now why William Blake spent most all his “quality time” in his garden, talking to angels, that no one else could see.

Because those people are the people who most around here know what is really going on.

The people who feel this:

what is the price of experience
do men buy it for a song
or wisdom for a dance in the street
no it is bought with the price of all a man hath
his house his wife his children
wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy
and in the wither’d field where the farmer plows for bread in vain
it is an easy thing to triumph in the summer’s sun
and in the vintage and to sing on the waggon loaded with corn
it is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted
to speak the laws of prudence to the houseless wanderer
to listen to the hungry ravens cry in wintry season
when the red blood is fill’d with wine and with the marrow of lambs
it is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements
to hear the dog howl at the wintry door
the ox in the slaughterhouse moan
to see a god on every wind and a blessing on every blast
to hear sounds of love in the thunderstorm
that destroys our enemies house
to rejoice in the blight that covers his field
and the sickness that cuts off his children
while our olive and vine sing and laugh round our door
and our children bring fruits and flowers
then the groan and the dolor are quite forgotten
and the slave grinding at the mill
and the captive in chains and the poor in the prison
and the soldier in the field
when the shattered bone hath laid him groaning
among the happier dead
it is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity
thus could i sing and thus rejoice
but it is not so with me

I know now that all is infinite and right and eternal and into the great wide open. It is all already happened.

I can say—truthfully—that I have at least flown by pretty much all the planets in all the universes.

Not that the planets are the main attractions. No: they are not.

The sustaining core, for instance, of all the universes, is what it isdark matter, dark energy.

Which is desire.

Extremely sexy. Among other things.

You know those images of Shakti and Shiva, out of ur-Hindu mythology, the oldest known continuous theology on the planet, wherein Shakti and Shiva’s divine concentrated footloose free unfettered willful unwilled continuous copulation keeps all the balls of all the universes rolling; this, the same, the all and all, in the end, that all of Michelangelo’s art, was about?

That—feel it—is Real.

And I can tell you it’s all going to be all alright.

The suffering, here, on this earth, in the meantime: so senseless.

For all beings here are holy, all are eternal.

And nobody has the right to listen in on; as nobody has the right to cut down, from color, a being coming to and from a store.

It is of course easy for me to wax on, in this sort of nonsense.

Because I am white.

And so when, in the dark, earlier tonight, I walked to the store, I did not have to walk in the knowledge I might take a bullet in the heart, before I returned to my abode, simply because I was not-white.

Though, in truth, I am not white.

I am, in truth, not of a body at all.

Except when my body, can bring pleasure, to another body.

Which is why, mostly, we incarnate. Here in this distraveled boondocks backwater of a galaxy.

‘Cause it can be fun.

Body to body.

From fun, can the bodyless mind learn.

The salt/water composition of the earth’s oceans is identical to the salt/water composition of human tears.

Humans, through their tears, through the mobius strip of time, created the earth’s oceans . . . from which humans eventually sprang.

All the waters, in all the earth’s oceans, were deposited there, from our tears.

We were born, then, of our own tears.

all . . . our tears . . . like water flow.

The tears we cry for Trayvon. They made us; make us who we are.

Energy beings, embodied in matter. To take individual form. So we can touch. In love.

Advertisements

9 Responses to “Sign Of A Local Nigger Unravelin’”


  1. 1 princss6 August 12, 2013 at 5:48 am

    Hiya Blue,

    I’m still speechless over this verdict. Surprised and yet not surprised. Funny you should mention dkos as the entire time, I likened what they did to adept and Time as Zimmermaning.

    • 2 bluenred August 12, 2013 at 12:58 pm

      Hey princss. Good to see ya. ; )

      Yep. Deployed their Zimmermanesque Hispanic, Armando, to run ’em down and drive ’em out. There must be no hoodie Negroes, in the Daily Kos gated community.

  2. 3 Alexa August 12, 2013 at 11:57 am

    one of your very best, mi companero, mi honeybee. what an amazing read, unlike anything i have ever read or am likely to again. the conviction and truth in your words are incredibly powerful.

    this:
    I know, that I am nobody special.

    no, sir. nuh-UH. you are one of a kind. the fierce, unflinchingly honest beauty of what you just did up there is phenomenal.

    this is the way i hope to feel when church services are over, but never do.

    your empathy and wisdom are sweet, healing medicine.

    mi amorcito, mille gracias.

  3. 5 Alexa August 12, 2013 at 12:11 pm

    with immense respect for Marti and Dr. King, i needed a dose of Trill, and Gil Scott Heron is the Minister.

    A junkie walking through the twilight
    I’m on my way home
    I left three days ago, but no one seems to know I’m gone
    Home is where the hatred is
    Home is filled with pain and it
    Might not be such a bad idea if I never, never went home again

    Stand as far away from me as you can and ask me why
    Hang on to your rosary beads
    Close your eyes to watch me die
    You keep saying, kick it, quit it, kick it, quit it
    God, but did you ever try
    To turn your sick soul inside out
    So that the world, so that the world
    Can watch you die

    Home is where I live inside my white powder dreams
    Home was once an empty vacuum that’s filled now with my silent screams
    Home is where the needle marks
    Try to heal my broken heart
    And it might not be such a bad idea if I never, if I never went home again

  4. 6 Alexa August 12, 2013 at 12:46 pm

    of all the disconnected threads of fucked-up-from-the-floor-up about Zimmerman etc, why do some feel a compelling need to say or tweet or even wear the words I AM TRAYVON MARTIN . . . ? this is salt in the wound, claro. as insults go, this is a perfect image of white privilege and the hollow fake empathy of pity sluts. what could be more pathetic than folks wanting to be noticed and even appreciated for being totally inauthentic?

    i want a shirt that says YOU ARE NOT TRAYVON MARTIN.

    mi pooldar amor, it makes me smile to see this:

    Though, in truth, I am not white.

    i know you’re not. and white people who claim they are need to put down the remote controls and hit the books. there are no pure races. we are a blended people, some more than others.

  5. 7 Brecht August 25, 2013 at 1:29 am

    Crawling across the orange desert, no drop of water for succor, no blueness as far as eye can spy. Over the farthest dune, or in another country, there must be fresh music. And there was.

    I never knew he got game. If I heard it, I hadn’t listened. To the simple strong riff at the middle, anchoring it to eternal sands. Thanks for the oasis.

    I have four churches on my shelves, but not the church with feel. Sweet.

    Van is eternal and then some. Twenty of him, no, more, amongst my platters. So I’ve been to Coney Island. And the lions are in heaven already, St. Dominic is listening.

    I saw the world in your grains of sand. Back to the salt mines.

    • 8 bluenred August 25, 2013 at 2:25 am

      For you: what it is.

      • 9 Brecht August 25, 2013 at 3:17 am

        Hey now, if it isn’t Van all wrapped up in blueness and ecstasy.

        I’ll bet he sees angels in trees too, and feels them in the cobblestones of long ago, and hears them in the clicking, clacking of the high heeled shoe.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s




When I Worked

August 2013
M T W T F S S
« Jul   Sep »
 1234
567891011
12131415161718
19202122232425
262728293031  
Advertisements

%d bloggers like this: