for the lady & nancy & ala & robin & grace & denise & joan & conk & mally & adept & time & princess & sephius & radio & for sure certainly for joon, and everybody the least bit dusky, and thereby, in this nation, devalued, dismissed, discarded, doomed: potential targets, alpha and omega, of every white-ass de-evolved un-monolithed knuckledragger extant, unto forever, amen, and again, and amen, and again . . . .
So, I guess, black men, they should just get small.
Remain—at most—maybe two feet tall.
Like, you know, gnomes.
Maybe, maybe, they might then have a chance to survive.
First: the NYC cop chokes to death the black man. Because he was big and scary. Then: the Missouri cop shoots to death the black man. Because he was big and scary.
Black men: let’s face it: they are fundamentally big and scary.
Fuck it. Let’s just kill them.
People think Spike Lee directs films he just makes up. Films that are “fiction.”
Spike Lee, like all high filmic artists, presents but documentaries.
Lee’s highest work is fact.
“Ecstatic truth,” as Werner Herzog so precisely described it. Work more Real than “reality.”
And so, this July, on the streets of New York City, a knock-kneed pissed-pants yellow-livered never-seen-the-monolith retrovert knuckledragging white racist motherfucker of a cop chokes to death a black man.
Because he can.
Because he wants to.
Because that’s what cops—all cops—are all about.
Lying and thieving—sure, there’s that too.
But mostly killing. Killing and killing and killing and killing and killing.
For if they can’t kill the body, they kill the soul. By locking the body away in a cage.
Your job, if you’re a cop, is to strip people of their liberty, and lock them away in a cage.
What the fuck is wrong with you? That you would do that?
As Lee had seen. As Lee had seen. As Lee had seen. Years before. In Do The Right Thing. And, seeing this, seeing in “reality,” the white motherfucker cop, on the late July streets of New York, choking to death the black man, Lee, now, in real time, takes to the tubes, with a “mashup,” of what is “real,” and what had been his “film.”
Graner. On the street. Raheem. In his film.
They are the same.
Art imitates life imitates art imitates life imitates art imitates life.
There is no difference. In high; in high art: they are the same.
Spike needs now—and I know he knows this—to mash another. This time, his Do The Right Thing, with “life” in Ferguson, Missouri. Recent dead-black-man events there, they are tracking his Right Thing, even more closely, than the choking of the black man on the streets of New York. Unto black folk showing up the morning after, to clean up the debris, of the stores vandalized, by their people, the night before.
As far as I can determine, the entire state of Missouri needs to be deported.
First, extract all the brown and black and red people. And then get a big saw. And carve the place out of the United States. Drag the state bodily across Iowa and Wisconsin. Then set it afloat in the Great Lakes. It can there sink. Or, maybe, it can swim.
In the place where once was Missouri, can rise an eternal flame. Burning, eternally, in remembrance, of the millions and millions and millions of black people, killed maimed raped displaced mocked devalued dismissed locked away spindled folded mutilated, the strange fruit, rotted, to make this nation “great.”
There in Ferguson, Missouri is a white-ass loud-mouthed one-legged prosecutor who’s been vengefully and gleefully jailing people for decades in obvious overt explicity-stated revenge for his cop daddy getting killed on duty when the white-ass was but 13 years old. This same prosecutor the white-ass nimrod who orchestrated the Radio Raheem “robbery” press conference. This, the same prosecutor, the white-ass “official” “officially” in charge of the investigation of Raheem’s death.
And the banjos, over the strange fruit, they do play.
For a while, I thought maybe something would really happen. But I think that no longer. Now—I know—no one will care. Because, Radio Raheem—shot dead, unarmed, brains splashed onto the street—has been successfully smeared as a big black scary ooga-booga “strong arm robber.” Really well-played. All you liars. All you killers. I thought for a while maybe people would care. But no. Because they now can cling to an excuse not to. And, so relieved, are they, to do that. Not care. And they can, be so relieved, because, as always, has been deployed a “reason.” For the killer cop to kill. To pour the boy’s brains out on the pavement. To keep his shrieking heart-over momma away from his body, while they, the lying killing heart-cold cops, swagger back and forth, round the corpse, four hours, in their fat white boy impotent cop pants. Killers. Liars. Killers. Liars. KILLERS. LIARS. Now I know that no one cared in the 1990s when NYC cops stuck a broomstick up black Abner’s ass, and shot black Amadou 41 times because he reached for his wallet. But I figured that’s because everyone knows that NYC is a disgusting animal compound where it is an actual job requirement that a cop be both corrupt and a killer. Thieves. Liars. Killers. THIEVES. LIARS. KILLERS. But this Raheem killing, there in Missouri, was in the “heartland.” So I thought maybe people would care. But they won’t. The killers will continue to lie and kill and lie and kill and lie and kill and lie and kill and kill and kill and kill and kill and kill and kill. Local cops kill hundreds of unarmed people every year, and no one cares. Because there’s always a “reason.” Just like people don’t care when the serial killers go overseas and kill. Because there’s always a “reason” there too. Get yerself into a uniform, overseas or stateside, and you get to kill. Simple as that. Kill and kill and kill and kill. Lie. Kill. Lie. Kill. Lie. Kill. Lie and kill again. And you’ll be worshipped. This Christmas Americans will stream into the theaters and there Thanatos-orgasm continuously as they watch the worshipful biopic of Gomer Kyle, premier serial killer, so universally loved that even the “liberals” of Daily Kos deploy drones to hellfire off their site those who refuse to publicly fellate him. What a country. Every little detail of how Robin Williams took his life is slapped all over the news before his body’s even in the ground, but it basically takes an act of Congress to get the name of Raheem’s killer, and getting an actual police report on the killing is more difficult than landing a man on the moon. Because these killers are worshipped in this country. Lick that uniform, people. That’s what Americans love to do. “Thank you for your service.” Horseshit. Horseshit piled so high, it takes wings, to rise above it. No thanks from me. So sorry. The only thanks you’ll ever get from me, overseas or stateside, is when you put down your gun, forever, and go home.
Strange fruit. Here. There. Everywhere.
Liars. Killers. Thieves. Killers. Liars. Thieves. Thieves. Liars. Killers. Killers. Killers. Kill. Kill. Kill again. That’s what you’re there for. The only only only only reason you put on the uniform. So you can kill. And, in killing, come in your pants. And thereby be praised.
Curfew now, I hear announced, for tonight, by some other worthless white-ass, some governor with the atavist name of Nixon—a name that, thanks to Richard, will give off a foul stench for a thousand years. Just ’cause of the name, this white-ass should resign and go sit in the desert and scrape his flesh with pot-shards. But no. Instead, he gonna make the scary black ooga-booga animals stay indoors. So as to keep the streets safe for the knee-knocking belly-crawling yellow-livered po-lice.
A couple decades or so ago, when I ran across this from Schopenhauer:
Whoever lives two or three generations, feels like the spectator who, during the fair, sees the performances of all kinds of jugglers and, if he remains seated in the booth, sees them repeated two or three times. As the tricks were meant only for one performance, they no longer make any impression after the illusion and novelty have vanished.
I felt kinda smug and superior. Yeah, I see that. That makes me some kinda elect.
Oh, foolish youth.
Today, I feel as dark and dismal as Schopenhauer—clear to me now—obviously was when he wrote it.
I mean: why: why do I have to live to see this? My teeth are failing, my hair is greying, my rod don’t rise like he used to, the corporeal container is clearly nearing its pre-programmed end, but still I don’t die, still I have to wake to witness these fat oafish buzz-cut disgusting white slob cops “controlling” the black people with the snarling straining racist Bull Conner-style police dogs, there, today, in Missouri, just like they did back in Birmingham in 1963. At the dawn of this particular being’s incarnation’s age.
But it’s like nobody, in all that age, learned anything. Even though all you have to do, is squeeze through even a small portal of the brain, and you’ll be in the great wide open. Where all is possible, and all is Real. Where you’ll know we’re all supposed to go into the Opera House. And all and everything is working and flirting and yearning to take us there.
But no. You’re still with the dogs.
And the firehoses.
I suppose you’ll deploy them next.
‘Cause you gotta have. The strange fruit.
And it’s doubly all so mad because the white-ass motherfuckers are simply over.
As Gore Vidal noted in Virgin Islands, white people constitute but 13% of the human population in this, the 21st Century.
White people had a good 500-year run, but they’re done now. In another 500 years, they won’t even exist.
As was observed in the true-life documentary film Bulworth, when human beings, as they every day pleasurably overachingly are will be do, “just keep fucking each other” they will attain that state described by the unconscious anthropologists U2 as “all the colors/bleed into one.”
And that color, bled into one, is brown.
Brown is soft and creamy and strong and sexy.
White is hard and frigid and failed and frail.
White, it is simply over. Brown, it is all there is. The great wide open.
We are, today, in the last white throes.
With brown brains smeared on the pavement. And every a-feared retrovert white-ass in Christendom working like twelve bastards to make it seem like it is natural that this be so. Brown brains. Strange fruit. Spilled and spoiled. And righteously.
But it ain’t. Righteous. And every conscious being on the planet knows it ain’t. Won’t be long now. Long now. But still. Time required. To get to acknowledgement that it ain’t. In the meantime: brown brains smeared on the pavement. And nothing about that strange fruit done. And, nothing about that done, engendering pain, and ache, and rage. Howl. Howling. Howl.
And Robin. Lord sad God.
Somebody wise, who I can’t remember now, probably because of creeping dementia, observed that all laughter comes from a recognition of pain. So, then, it’s simply the way of it, that somebody like Robin Williams, who instantly found the laughter in any situation, would hurt more than any Eeyore.
As his sister-bipolar sufferer Carrie Fisher observed, “Robin had rampant empathy. Everything would end up on his grid. He’d walk in a room, and all the energy there would impact him. He was the opposite of selfish. Anything would hurt him.”
“It’s fun to be brilliant,” she said of him, “but who are your peers? Who was his peer? It’s incredibly lonely to be that. And he didn’t have a choice.”
He was just too sad. And in the end he didn’t want to be here anymore.
And so, he died, as frenetically as in his act he did live: “this knife’s not working, let’s try the belt.”
But we shouldn’t know these details. It is a violation, that we do. A violation of Williams, of ourselves, of that which is sacred and secret and holy.
What we can and should know, is what he did, in by far his finest public role—and he knew it—in Terry Gilliam’s The Fisher King.
Gilliam said this, of the scene displayed directly below:
“This scene wasn’t a challenge to shoot as far as effects are concerned, but it was very hard from an acting point of view, because Robin was tearing his guts out emotionally. Robin always wanted to do another take. He felt he had even more anguish and pain to spill out of the character. And I had to really stop him. I had to say, ‘Robin, you’ve reached a point here, way beyond what we expected. We’ve got what we needed. Now, you’re just hurting yourself.’
“The most worrisome moment for me was after he’s been chased by the Red Knight, when he’s running through the streets, and then he comes to the river, where the teenage punks arrive and knife him. We had to do other things on that night shoot, too, and things were going very slowly. Suddenly, we realized that we had like an hour until the dawn. The last shot we had to do was Robin running at the end of this scene, in this hysterical state. You can even see the light ever so slightly beginning to come on the river in the background. But Robin was so angry because it was such a crucial moment, and he felt he’d been cheated of his ability to really give this moment his all. So, I had to go up there and tell him, ‘Robin, what we have here is very good. And if we look at the rushes and it isn’t, I promise you I will reshoot it.’ That’s what was so extraordinary about him—how he would commit everything and more to what he had to do. That’s also why I think his character in The Fisher King is in many ways the closest one to Robin, just that range—the madness, the damage, the pain, the sweetness, the outrageousness.”
Williams’ mind was so fine and quick and bubbly and alive—in any situation, he could instantaneously, and precisely, ad lib enunciate that point of maximum humor and pain. (As when, asked in Germany, why that country was not known for comedy, he immediately replied, “well, you killed all your funny people.”)
But, to me, his finest ever ad lib, was not comedic, but instead sad and yearning and sweet.
It came in The Fisher King. In a scene unplanned and unscripted. Cast and crew threw the scene together on a day that it rained and the company couldn’t shoot outdoors. What transpired flowed from the people. Not from the play.
Williams’ character, in this film, is a broken, ruined man. Who, through the course of things, is drawn to a broken, ruined woman. Whose name is Lydia.
And, at what became scene’s end, Williams, unscripted, began, spontaneously, rashly, singing to this woman, Lydia, the goofy song “Lydia The Tattooed Lady.”
And, the more and the deeper that he sang, the softer and more vulnerable he became.
That’s what he really was.
A strange fruit.
As be we all.
Meanwhile. Back on jump street.