In the Beginning, the White Master's Word
What do you do as you issue into language, into the wordiness of a world, that does not belong to you as it takes you as belonging to it as a sub-clause?
What do you do as you issue into language, into the wordiness of a world, that does not belong to you as it takes you as belonging to it as a sub-clause?
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You answer at the stroke of the bell as the word of command won't repeat.
"I am, I said, I am, I am. Lord. I am" What?
It speaks to your hair. It sticks to your fingers.
Breaks through the knots of the toughest coils.
It touches and outlines the thickness of your lips.
God! Are you black enough?
Your gods ain't residents among my pebbles and stones. Your half-white aspirations are void.
No looking into corners & sides, chewing your fingertips.
You can’t evade the official scribe.
Blood red. Fetch me the skin cutting, skin lining lash.
I'm gonna whip me some ass the old American way.