back to front.
the evil of whiteness is a conspiracy to deny the black self. i am immune. i do not take it seriously. its seductions are useless upon me like the rubbing of female cats against my leg. i kick them.
in my subconscious lay no white demons, no bottomless pits with gaping white holes, no disfigured or impaled black infants to arouse some vengeful beast in me. i am unpoisoned by the white disease and do not live in fear of its shadow. in that my liberation is complete. i cannot make it otherwise even in sympathy with those who battle righteously.
as for the kings of empty empires, i am not worshipping at their graves. i only know those appetites in me which are unsated. i only take moments from time to time to observe that which i would have to further my own ambition. it is not that desire which takes me to rome, nor is America so dominant. i might be just as happy in england or on the underside of the planet where english is spoken, or half awake in paris missing details for the years my french would remain partial.
in conservative dreams there are no fidelities but to the best ways already trod of men through the ages. there is no shining beacon that beckons. there is only the tried and the true and the hard won wisdom of age. fortunate are those who can get it handed to them, if only they can heed words as well as experience lived. i inherit but the struggle of those who claimed me from the petty tyrannies of this bull cop or that rock throwing mob.
i have, not like wong, a woman i knew whose name was soo, not lost my father's factory and marched miles on the orders of mao. i have not seen my blood shot dead in the street. i have not lost the grip of a loved one torn from me by wicked white wiles, and cried for kizzy carted many miles. i have not rent my clothes nor bandaged broken bones nor watched the embers of my homes burn deep into a bitter'd heart.
i've only clung to dreams and promises starting from a number high above zero and wished to be a hero carrying what flag i may. what colors are the red white and blue but symbols we of all imbue. and my devotion to mine is mine and so i drink no bitter wine for time is my own and all else tirades overblown.
i am not a son of revolution. there is nought i would destroy but that which bites my ankles as i pass no snakes to hunt in the tall grass and were i blazing black a trail too unique for men amassed i wouldn't dare to shout it out for who's a snake i cannot tell by color. what i may do is not so circumspect, a call around and am not shy to be found upon my way to higher ground. there is no shame in watching after my own feet upon so faint a trail as that which i call mine though many may have afore slithered. i will not burn the field to know and only study as i go. in circles some might say from high while never handing out a knotted rope. i'll have strong legs if not a perfect hope.
an institution that's the trick. o were it some application we could find on streets with memberships like petting zoos of princes all welcoming to orphans of our benighted plurality. if only there were ramps and arrows to the sacred hearts of kings and bringers of such precious things as frankincense and gold, but what i smell is frankly something other than a brother's hand. one gloved and welcoming. one line for a borrowed banquet. a functional function of little distinction the one oasis of tepid water we're free to drink and quench what little thirst arises when we care to think. and call it home away from wandering a trackless wasted world. the only gravity which draws any compass is but a shallow pond. i watch all creatures slurp their fill and wonder where's their greater will. and none would speak of god nor gill.
my scratching's done. there is no greater gift for me behind the mask of mighty men awaiting my arrival. no smile awaits to bless my aim or mock at my survival. there's only me and mine the love i made without permission. there's only god above and men below and nothing i can do will alter this position. all that is mine to seek divinity alone is grace to be my sole physician. man is no solution, nor is that which calls him master worthy. only are there virtues. only is there faith. only is there the path of travelers past, uncounted die rolls cast, and to the blinding battles are bound babes unto the mast, above the caller calls from watching waves by millions and only his word's rhythm gives us rest between the schism bewixt god and man.
man in himself is beast but beastly great in the eyes of creation. he holds himself low and thereby does his own worst damage. if he would but heed his only nature and in review stay true to all can know. if he would but walk and watch him walk and know his lope would he less often grope. god rest me i am but a natural man, and i would know myself and hold me high except for bumping other men distracts. from these who call me whites and those who call me blacks, i get no good but wise in their abstracts. it gets me nill at all but closer to their wailing wall and closer to their barren ball and to their empty alter call. gets me advance without regard to my own circumstance. gets me no wiser to the meaning of the dance.
so i will quit and no more heed such invitations. confess my sins to one and all who hear my lamentations can make it what they will and i will proceed as i will without regard to so much as a pissing spill of mankind's mercy and i still will clamber up my hill until at peak i find the wisdom that i seek and still without a shriek or moan to loan any ear a tone of calm or bone or balm but for my own. and i'll call that my home. and thus within do penance for my sin and humbly offer maps of where i've been.
thus is my writing done in retrospect. a path to view each step by stepping's aspect. and if that view's not worthy of your blessing at least in truth i've never kept you guessing.