i have seen you creeping and strutting down
the halls of Hell’s highschools
and I don’t like the looks of you,
Your father would not acknowledge my father on the street.
Your pa’s a judge, a state senator, an engorged butcher-flea
and a member of various Boards,
he is a prison camp pimp,
a nighttime reaper and swallower of fat.
He sells gristle to the poor
at great profit.
Your mother smiles weakly, placidly,
and disguises the rank patriarchal ooze
that brings you in and about this world
using her lotioned kleenex and lots of fruit-rollups and juice-boxes,
hiding from herself the obvious fact
that you’ve grown up to be
a slithering shithead and a boorish
punk with none of the manifest promise she hoped would make you different
from your father.
A bumptious swagger topped with a brutal leer,
i see you as a well-tailored ape,
a spiritual asthmatic worse than myself---
a scientific oddity whose tumid ego is fused
to his head like an unseemly goiter for all to see,
weeping and emitting the vile gas of mindless pride,
Confidence existing for no reason
other than the heinous pleasure
that dimwits enjoy, through being
entirely physical beings and
failing to perceive a universe
Crawling with honored horrors and a billion
unrecognized, unloved forms of beauty,
truth, goodness and the like,
failing to know even their own precious exalted bodies
which breathe in so much of life but
sweat mean futility and narrowness.
You take too much pleasure in the meat
that hangs from your corpse and your life,
Yours is the plain and vicious pleasure of an idiot stoning frogs
trapped in a great puddle, all day long,
while bloated mosquitoes
roar their approval,
or of the infant’s static delight in attention---believing it is
as charming when it creates a shitty mess
as when it glows and giggles:
that’s what your pleasure amounts to,
you marrow-sucking white wampum-dealer.
You should have been a potato.
I would buy you at a propped-up price and let you rot in the sun,
or slice you into slivers and boil you in oil,
then feed you to the poor.
Eventually your casual deadly vanity, your slavish self-worship and
your stance on race issues
and the redistribution of wealth
and such shit will rip you open.
At that point there will be more cheering than tears among the angels.
You have never cried over anything but the gimmicks of Hollywood,
your own fitful idea of self,
and the death of your fat dog.
But reason, temperance allow me to see that I can’t escape you…
you will hound me
until I learn to accept with grace
the loathesome lurch of muscle-bound dandies,
your shiny-toothed insolence and pack mentality,
the chattering stench all your gatherings provoke,
the smug slatternly sanctity of the women who willingly consider themselves yours---
until I accept the whole
Order of the Popular, Gastronomic and Sharply-dressed Philistine;
No i cannot escape you and so I will linger and ambush you,
lie in waiting
with key-weak fingers and a strong tongue,
ready to spread on you
a thick masterful revilement….
or to be your pal,
Churl, my friend, because you must have something I want
or i wouldn't dislike you so…
…which is foolish and just like
the remedial little toady in me,
but the point is that you are a gentrified milquetoast popinjay
and among the differences between you and I are
the fact that I have no wish to drive a nicer car than the next pottering mammonist
and never had a scintilla of respect for a president
except Reagan when I was eleven and Satan nearly had me in tow,
Singing in his beautiful jellybean voice,
…And there’s this: when I wish I was black
it is not for added virility or athleticism or rhythm,
but some extra, super-strength conviction
in what is currently, at best, only
a middling desire to mau-mau every
stupid and heartless white man i see.