golgotha is no physical location

Golgotha is no physical location
. . . is no moral lesson to be posited to the willing and the listening.
Jesus was blood
and packeged for voyage
carried on slaveships along with 5 million hearts in holding

no blood- not one drop was spilled as they left the ivory coast
and we drank
believing half-hearted
that the unrest in our spirits
was thirst

At the dock
White men, observing our supposed stupor
demanded what remained of our bloated bellies move out of his vessels
and onto auction blocks no bigger than the spirits of beasts.

what can be found here ain’t salvation
or dignity.
what dignity can be had in enslavement?
what humanity in de-humanizing?
what song in the chorus of screaming?

chains. . .
made legacy songs.
formed dark notes
with sinister organs
and we sang gospel roused of this filth.

it can only be seen as the grace of energies . . .
that we held some part of our spirit indigenous
authentically African.

coming out

bein’ born a soft boy made things sometimes unpleasant
in secret ah held parties
“down there” gatherings of fellows lookin’ ta explore wat pleasure can be found
in giving throat
in public ah picked flowers
amid taunts an’ slaps
mah chest a target fo firing squads
mah speech in question
ah heard “man up” before it made any sense.

wat is man feelin’s
an wat about a world dat creates em’
an’ wat will it mean ta have dem seen an’ gone?
wat creature will ah shape den?

patriarchy is de though had eatin cuties while lookin at cuties
it is de thought urging conquest
an’ breedin’
he demands dat every man be mine
an’ says dat cause him is cute dem him is mine
lak slavery cattle
lak dere beauty is somethin’ dat ah have sole right ta affirm an define
lak all bodies are on auction blocks

when in truth, de fact dat all bodies is beautiful has little ta do wid me
de just are
till spirit makes em’ otherwise
an all bodies belong only to deyselves.

de taste of dis reminds me of how foul a poison it is.
it sits on mah tongue
an’ everytime ah remember
moodswings an’
spirit calls an’
maddness an’
sirens an’
men cryin’ at me cause a forced charm made dem believe love in me.

speaks fo’ itself
it don’t ask permission ta inhabit

ah wonder if mah mother’s tongue felt dis
ah wonder how other hands can hold me- if dey sense affection when it’s dere
. . . wonder if dey smell out de half truths.

sugar is a kind of meth
lak gossip
lak sex
lak money
an’ so is charity
for it distorts
Babylon, an’ mcdonalds,
an’ television
an’ suddenly ah wonder where an’ why ah felt sick

on de second day
ah use to forget de lies of yesterday
de pain of dissappointment breedin’ through self hate
an’ mah body is sucked into itself
clothes don’t fit right
ah scratch
food sucks an’ folk always appear sad

ah am sad
ah want death
perhaps grand,
flowers fot only for goodbye
an’ of course horns

“ah am not sad”- ah write
ah am here, movin’, fallin,
an ah repeatedly come back
ta center, less mahself, holdin succulents as reminders
so as ta never forget dat ah too am immortal- growth is a possibility an’ regeneration a gift.
dis life- all energy an’ imagination
all a glow from sun kisses
all torn histories an’ patched families chosen

ah shake at night
am scared ta sleep sometimes
scared ta reach out fo’ help cause ah hate not havin’ complete control
it feel lak de beggin’ mah granfather warned against.
so ah self soothe wid wat tools ah have
bathe in lavender,
envoke eldars past an’ whisper apologies ta mah body
mah feet bleed blocks till
half grins, violent sex, an’ various dicks is present

addiction holds a pattern of bein’ triggered, speakin’ triggers an’ bein’ triggered

last day.
mah side pains somethin’ slight
an’ ah wish ah could hold dis always
cause forgettin’ de process indicates dat things still yet ta be learned exist
mah days feel incomplete an’ ah day dream
write ferociously

ah can make mah magic material
ah can make mah magic material
ah can make mah magic material
ah can make mah magic material
ah can make mah magic material


There was barely a soul in the theatre come the end of Thursday. It was always a quiet day here and i liked that. I wanted to be with myself- away from the thousands of eyes that found me in the day light. I came here to sit undisturbed and touch myself. My day had been spent in public smiling and looking at visiting white folk. I worked the door downtown at one of the largest hotels in the city. I saw them come from all around to vacation somewhere out of the way of the bigger cities- a place that was not quite big but held some kind of adventure. And they stayed downtown cause that was a place that was not as close to Black folk as others. They felt safe. I would watch them, person by person, come into the hotel. Each one of them past me with a new disgust. Some stiffened in my presence- became like boards and moved by. Even in the light of day, and with me in servant drag, They were scared. There was a strange energy in the air. It is a curious thing to observe them- walking both in fear and superiority. I was after all in servitude to them, just as my ancestors had been, and there was part of them that sat in that moment with jubilee. At the same time, they were scared, in complete terror. Most days I wanted to abandon any questioning and reach out, grab them by the throat, and kill them. . .


That day, a young man jumped back when I approached him. I stood with my hand outstretched, ready to take his bags from him. Our eyes found each other. He looked back with a kind of need I wasn’t used to seeing in their eyes in the hotel- it had been other places. I saw that need in the baths and arcades- in movies and theatres. It was longing and a terror more than what I found in the eyes of White folk who were not sexually moved by me. I ignored what sensation was there and grabbed his bags. There was a thought, about how ridiculous they were, dancing about in my mind.


I reached for my sex in the theatre and thought about robbing them blind- being every bit the savage they feared and salivated over. No more smiles- only teeth for biting. My smile had been made numb long ago anyway. On the screen, the regular mix of porn played. There were some men here. They’d hidden themselves so as to avoid being seen or talked to. I never spoke, never gave them eye contact, never invited company. There was nothing in them that I needed. We were there in a collective of silence and wanting. The only sounds were those from the screen. The action mounted. Three men took turns penetrating a fourth. If there was anything happening at that moment, it was rendered irrelevant by the screams, sounds of flesh slapping, and moans on the screen.


I spit in my hand- inhaling the scents- found my dick and began to stroke it. There was violence. The bottom on the screen barely seemed to enjoy himself. He sounded in pain. It seemed to be all that he could do to stay on the bed- each top pounding more intensely than the former. Something moved in me and I came to arousal- growing more solid with each movement. In the dim lighting I could see others caught in the same moment I was- somewhere lusting and loathing the thought of being a player on the screen. And why was that? What brought us to this point of wanting to pour our misery into another man in this way? Many of us had partners- woman, man and otherwise? Were they fucked like this? Were they here too, enjoying the show as we were? If Brandon was here, i’d hoped he never find me, there was no love here. There was no softness. There was just thrust- just sex.

In school, there was a boy that I would fuck like the one in the movie. We’d take turns pounding away almost crying- pushing all hurt deep. Afterwards we’d barely speak. I’d throw a joke or two, he’d laugh and talk about some girl he thought looked nice and we’d leave it there. Always, we reminded one another to be cool- to keep our thing between us. The world couldn’t know of what we did. There was nothing in the universe or in us that could bare the hatred that would bring. So, we kept it in us. Nothing in our relations lent itself to any kind of friendship beyond these sessions. Nothing developed beyond what was had there.


In the dark, a white boy moved closer to me. I felt him before I saw him- his energy. My hand began stroking faster. I held myself still, moment by moment, attempting to ignore him. At the very last second I turned to see him. It was the boy from before. The same boy who thought I was coming for his bag. This time his eyes were all hunger. I looked at him- his own hand reaching to grab his sex through his jeans. “I oughta rob you for real, this time.” I thought.


Eyes danced. A moment and then a discovery. A chill and then. . .


“Suck my dick.” i commanded as effortlessly as pouring water.


Heat and hunger. The corners of his mouth widened into a kind of crazed smile and he sank to his knees. “You want this huh, boy? You want some of this big black dick?”


“Yes sir.”


I knew he did before there was speech. They all did. As scared as they were, they were also curious. In here they could get lost- roleplay. They could become submissive in ways that daylight would never condone and become what the society guarded against most- a white man in service. He gave me a slight glance. My dick waved in front of him- measuring his face in the small light.


“Go on boy.”


He began. I grew in his mouth. There was wetness streaming, pulling, gagging, and choking. He threw looks my way. Part of me wanted to see him moving up and down on me. Part of me wanted to see what his eyes held now. Was it still hunger? Was he scared? Did he care what happened to him here at the mercy of the nigger doorman? Did he want some kind of intimacy? That curiosity never won out. My eyes averted his everytime and found dissonance in the screen. He felt nice. I dug deeper with each breath- began to push his head down on me. Seeing someone requires heart. That sight requires movement and understanding- requires the emotions that bring folks to conclusions involving marriage and moving in and such. You ain’t seeing anyone in this dark. Here, there was only moisture, moans and half thoughts. Men came here to release- use and be used.


Again Brandon came to my mind. For a moment the White boy became him and we locked sight. He cried, bit down and let out the same sigh I heard when his favorite Aunt passed. No longer smiling, no longer wanting me. He cursed me- for using this boy, for white men, for our ancestors, and for my dishonesty. He cursed me.


The boy at my crotch was loosening up. He may have been losing steam. I grabbed his head again, more forcefully. He had to know that he wasn’t done yet. Seas moved in me. There’d be waves crashing soon. He choked- letting up for some air. My sex was covered in spit and lust. His sight travelled from it to my face- lusting for an expression that would tell him where this journey was going next. I could never use Brandon like this. It wouldn’t even look right, His body felt too pure to me. It didn’t trigger the same rage nor did it beg to be degraded. We were both Black men, stepped on daily. His voice just as quiet as mine- just as smothered by poverty. We knew the same notes. There was no justice for our hard work- nothing more than what we celebrated in one another. Our labor was produced jubilee for others who sat in privilege. Others, who ruled over our material lives and looked at us like beast in a zoo.


I grabbed the man, before me, and forced him down on my dick. I was close to exploding and only wanted to hear the sounds coming off of the porn. My eyes closed and I began the final round of thrusts. Tension mounted. The boy could barely hold on. Images of his expression, when I reached for the bag, came back more vivid. I became harder. I saw him scared- saw every pale face, every milk toned look of terror. He braced himself on the arm rests. I opened my eyes as I came. He couldn’t avoid any of it. We both were wet.


My core shook. The boy removed his mouth. My sex jumped in the cool air.


“shit!” I exclaimed.


I sank into my seat. He looked at me. Somewhere in him wanted to speak. I got up before he could. I wiped as I walked and placed myself back in my pants. I left before he could speak. There was nothing to say. When I got home, Brandon hugged me- probably ignoring the smell coming off of me. When he asked me how my day had been I responded with a sigh and a small mumble that was meant to sound beat but not defeated. I came into the bedroom with him after showering and we laid together- him spooning me.


“I love you, Eugene.” he whispered.


“I love you too, pa.”


“You off tomorrow? What do you want to do?”


“Lay here. Be with you. I think that I’m tired of being outside. Maybe we can go for a walk.”


He squeezed me and laid his head on my shoulder, giving me a small kiss.


“I love you.” another squeeze. Sometime later I pretended to fall asleep. I listened to Brandon float off to sleep. I let out a few tears, then turned to see him. I searched his face- leaned in kissed him and watched him sleep. There were no sounds other than his light breathing.



dere is another Black man dead. dere is always another Black man dead. always another Brown stained trauma to be swallowed. always fire and destruction and always rape. always bullets flyin at targets marked for death before spirit gave them melanin an mother gave them life.

in an attempt to not seem completely obvious there is a turn- a narrative of charity. somethin wid children. and fund raisin.

and always ah find it necessary to find time to remind mahself dat dey news is lies- dangerous ones

an babylon is castin spells ‘gainst us constantly an dats mighty tough

but we ain’t all ugly, water dry, and without patterns.

we love patterns

an royal colors

an sewing

an sowing

an Black is de color of folk who have moved galaxies wid our mind and hold anecdotes for stress in de smiles we so lovingly exchange

Africa is our sacred womb. she calls and inspires. waters our minds and she is de only thing close to a God we has.

our higher mother- ah wish ta find mahself enamored over an over

she chants us out of babylon an reminds us dat all things queer, Black, natural an otherwise was born of her

lies, convincing as they can be, cannot cast any shade on what creation is- on wat we is


mule bone,

rivers tellin horses


emancipation an jubilee.

an so Black is also de color of power and endurance. it is de color of those unmoved by the supposedly impressive. it is a love song an war cry. it is community tone an spirit an it can never be painted wicked by a few capitalist seeking profit from sensation. 

morning thoughts on being a “have not” and what power is.

we are dealing with evil.

the society in which we live is a wicked one- let there be no doubt. in a socety built on the creation of classes of “have nots”being exploited, drained, and killed by a wealthy 1% of the population, there can only be suffering. in capitalism there is only room for this kind of order- because monopoly means that there is a singular power controlling industries and profitting. there can never be a comprimise between the rulers of this world and the workers. there can only be a total shift, in which the workers and those neglected and shut out of formal “wage slavery” (aka a 9 to 5) take back their power and run the society for themselves. the oppressed must use their power to destory hierarchy and the ideas that it necessitates.

but what is “power”? and where is it? how do they have it and we dont?

the capitalist/ 1%/ rulers of this world have material power. money means power and is protected by force. the systems of government seek to care only for the wealthy while holding up the illusion of working for us all. but anyone looking closely enough will see the true nature of our “representatives”. their true faces- mostly white, owners of industry. police protect these representatives and the laws that they create. and most of the oppressed population believes these laws because we belive in “fairness”, “democracy” and the like- even though it is never in play. Where is there democracy when millions of Africans were stolen for labor, killed, raped, and tortured in the creation of this land? Where is there democracy when the native population of the Americas was wiped out to make space for the colonial European power and forced onto small pockets of the lands their ancestors thrived and dreamt on for generations? Where is there democracy when this imperial land starves other nations and forces them into slave-like labor for capitalist gain? Where is there democracy when the prison system of this country houses a majority black and brown population while bodies of armed men, given the “right” to protect us, murder us for sport? Where is there democracy when the majority of this country is dying unnecessary because of lack of access to basic health care, healthy food, and work?

there is none. there is only a dreamed illusion that supports this “democracy” and guns that defend it. “democracy” in this reality is a dangerous lie.

in creating a class system- it is important to destroy the self confidence and self fullfillment of those who will make up the lower classes. it happens all the time in this world. folks are starved, told their bodies are ugly and unworthy, given food that is dangerous to eat and wears down the body (simultaneiously destorying the spirit)- folks are given scraps of jobs (and told to be greatful because everyone else is unemployed or jailed), and given guilt- the oppressed are blamed for their condition. “you are poor/ unsuccessful, because you aren’t working hard enough, because you aren’t playing the game, because you are . . . “

all the while, the media dictates what the picture of success is- shifting every so often to include a smaller amount of tokens. (faces of oppressed populations that will help maintain the illusion of fairness- that everyone can succeed) the oppressed are being sold a pipe dream, because now to fill the void of what they/ we ,suppossedly, don’t have (“beauty”, “wealth”, “health”, etc. . .), the oppressed are told to buy their healing (get surgery, buy more clothes, purchase the shiny/ updated versions of that indigenous healing that the colonizers demeaned and destroyed) or to numb it through addiction- to food, to drugs (“legal” and “illegal”), to violence, to escapism via television or videogames, to sleep, to sex, to domination (esp in the case of working men and men of color, the society teaches you to take your power back through controlling what you can- your interactions , your children and partners, your friends)

all of this creating unhealthy dependancies and ideas of these things.

the aim/ goal in all of this is still the takng of power.

the oppressed are having their power stripped by being told that it doesn’t lie inside themselves. 

the oppressed are starved. but not powerless.

chanting down this Babylon means looking inside ourselves for what can be healing- and leaning on one another when we feel low or destructive (self and otherwise). the methods of healing and growing our own gardens are being pronounced as “new”, “trendy”, or otherwise “a thing of privilege” are ancient and ours. we, the oppressed, created them. we knew how to hold earth and breathe life before it was called “organic”. we knew the multiple beauties in our bodies before we were called fat and we had ways of harvesting food that would produce health and longevity. we created- in free time and healed through that.

part of the “power” that has been stripped from us ain’t really gone. its just been hid behind distraction.

  “i believe i have inside of me everything that i need to live a bountiful life. with all the love inside of me i will stand as tall as the tallest tree.” – celie, “the color purple”

part of that power is in self love and “actualization” and community. and it is hard to cultivate because we are surrounded by conditions that are of opposite intentions but we must seek it. we must use our lives to build community strong enough to sustain us and we must talk about the lies being fed and how to undo them through truth and establishing centers of power for ourselves where everyone is growing and knowledge isn’t specialized and held by a “boss”. we must all be workers that build together and share in the bounty of our work together. and we have to tell one another that we are beautiful- especially when we feel low because that is how we gain power. we gain it by living for ourselves and our community. we gain it by healing and living for our healing. we gain it by questioning our thoughts and our actions. we gain it by seeking life outside of these parameters given. 

seeing space. understanding culture. and why we must fight, even as we are gagging on the Charisma Uniqueness Nerve and Talent.

This morning was trying for many reasons. but i felt good. i rode about ten miles and had some important and fierce debate.

i ove for Rupaul’s Drag Race. I am so glad that i get to escape into show- regardless of all its fuckery- because i believe that Drag and the Queers are important. We in many ways are the life blood of the culture. We are often hated because we represent a freedom that is desired and not held by so many because we are crushed under the endless boxes and ideologies of Babylon.

Are Drag queens and Queers perfect- hell no. We is just as flawed. We is just as riddled with contradictions, and evils. Just as everyone else. I think though that our unique position aand lens is one that must be seen through because there are truths taught in alienation. The outsider sees things that the assimilated cannot always because of their proximity to the seat of power. It is because of their very privilege that the privilege are blinded because they do not have to experience the world in the same manner- with the same life movings as others.

Recently the “whiteness” (white supremacy and air time of white queens has dramatically increased in my opinion and i believe that it does reflect the need for capitalism to assimilate queer lives and identities in the same way that it has/ is doing so to others that have been outcasted – People of color womyn etc. . . The price that this system will pay for not creating this false (and slight sense of inclusion) is dangerous. James Baldwin so wisely stated many moons ago, as he reflected on the Black struggle in the county, that: “the most dangerous thing a nation can do is to create within itself a body of people who have no allegiance to it.”

Thats real. Capitalism must make us feel like we belong on some level to keep the majority of folk ,who is tired, confused, lost, etc, asleep.

Media and art are key to this. Because the two things are far reaching, both in soul and in space. They are also warriors tools of our liberation. Which is why discussions around the development and use of culture must be had, in conjunction with our movings and organizing.

In response to my anger at the increasing “whiteness” on the show i was met with some very provoking emails that id like to share. Below are the messages and my responses. Holla and let me know what ya’ll think =)

once again, its all peace and love and lets keep it that way.
Remember. We’re not here to be shady, just fierce.
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anonymous asked: girl only 1 out of the past 4 winners have been white wtf are about you talking about trying to make this some big race deal.

for me-

i think that it is important to remember that while this show brings a tremendous amount joy and pride. Rupaul is one of my idols and will forever be because of her contribution to the culture and to my life. I really do believe that she speaks some of the best thoughts/ politics on finding love and alienation.

i also love Rupaul because she is Black. And i am unapologetic about that because Black queers have had major contributions to the queer world and to the larger world that are often times ignored and brushed aside- or white washed. This is the same of alot of queer communities of color. And it is important to recognize that this show- while it may just be entertainment to some also in part represents that. Rupaul and the contestants herself stand on the shoulders of that history and come from that very history.

because of the way that the society works (it is structured around what makes profit and what is “marketable”. ) the network that sponsors the show is always going to be looking for ways to increase the rating /popularity and etc… through appealing to wider audiences (this is what folks call mainstream- which historically and still today often means portraying something that is easy to consume for audiences that are either majority white and straight or operating from that lens because “whiteness” and “straightness”, in my opinion, are also ideologies in addition to physical forms. And we’ve seen this happen with a lot of shows in different forms. Some shows aren’t as popular (because they don’t reach a “wide enough” audience which in many instances means it’s very specific to a particular people and don’t have enough interest to get the ratings.

Because of this and because of the very nature of all of this. Logo and Drag Race are in a position of having to “sell” queerness to larger audiences of straight folk and this show in particular, which is built off of alot of the Ballroom scene and Black drag and/or gay history, is in the position of selling “Black queer culture” not only to a larger straight audience BUT ALSO to an audience that is not that familiar with it. In fact, the audience- as are almost all socialized to devour this countries media- is socialized without even thinking it, to appreciate the white/ western world view.

Over the past two years (in which we do see a drastic increase in production value, funding, promotion, etc. . we have also seen a decrease in queens of color that are viable contenders for the title. we have also seen an dramatic increase in white queens receiving access, air time and fame to/ from the show. And i believe this is because this helps to make the show more acceptable- more consumable by the masses. Male bodies of color have increasingly become more objectified and de-humanized. The pit crew was never much but they really have been blatently reduced to dick shots and i do not think that this was a mistake that these are two men of color. I definitely don’t believe its a mistake or coincidence when i look at how my brother’s bodies are treated in the gay community and the larger community.

Does this mean that white queens have no talent or place? No. Not at all. White queens have also had great impact and left brilliant legacies in the world of drag (on and off the show) But we do need to talk about access and privilege. Who has access to the means to get exposure? Who has access to create their own spaces? Who makes/ enforces the rules in this space? These questions are real to me. Because beyond the realm of this show- these queens are real people and lead real lives to have roots in all of our communities and socializations. Black and Brown folk and queens of color in general are on the shit end of these questions and that must be recognized. If we were to ignore that it is easier to receive attention and notability for white queens than it is for others… if we were to ignore that white queens in most cases do hold access to greater wealth and have the power to define these spaces- ones that dehumanize, objectify, and ultimately alienate a lot of queer bodies of color- there we would be affirming racism by ignoring material realities.

It is also a sore spot for me because this show was not built exclusively by queens of color but they overwhelmingly (and i will say by far were responsible for the popularity and success before the immense funding came. the first two seasons the ones that set the stage for it become bigger and bigger in later ones) This contribution is also due in fact to the legacies and ways that drag has been shaped in particular communities of color: the Black and Brown Ballroom, Puerto Rico, Laos, The Philippines. It would be a mistake to just look at my post in the context of who has won the show. Im reacting the the body and entire spirit of this beautiful show.

And as i see gentrification, genocide, and the like threaten the lives, cultures and livelihoods of folks of color- i cannot look at this show and not see it as apart of that process of stripping access and reinforcing the lines of privilege- who has it and who doesn’t. This process is not new and in fact a very historical process by which new ways to see/bring cultures to the larger view ultimately become exploitation for profit, disrespect and appropriation. And in this process important space,which was fought for and validated through the expressions and lives of people of color, is taken and altered. Afterwards those who were instrumental in making these spaces are often left – unable to make a living off of their inventions and even denied the praise and respect they so rightfully deserved.

And this is because this show and all media/ art are reflections of the culture and it’s intentions. I don’t want to blindly watch a show. My reactions, i feel are very rational and i would also like for you (if you message me again to do so with respect and not immediate assume anything about what i think.) And lets not use the discomfort to create harm.

im so down to share- talk discuss and disagree but lets do so kindly.

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Anonymous asked: You sound jealous and poor.

And you would appear to be a punk because there isn’t a name behind this comment.

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thegentlemanjigger (me):

“words can never hurt you. only your perception of those words.” – Jynx. Spoken like a white person


Apparently, as a white person, I am immune to the negative effects that some words have.

Please forgive me for never checking this privilege. Never again…

Oh god. Comma splices, sentences ending in prepositions… That was a mess, dude. Reading it almost hurt my eyes. Perhaps you’re right about me [the honky] needing glasses. Why don’t you check your “eyesight privilege”?

I’ll have you know that I don’t just identify as being white. I’m actually transethnic, bicurious, postindustrial, transpermic, bifocal… and don’t even get me started on my headmates.

I also find the words “white” and “folks” racially charged [TRIGGER WARNING]. They remind me of my ancestors, who were often called names and made fun of by people of color. Did I mention that I’m transgenerational?

Clearly you don’t realize the hypocrisy of “struggling” to break from the “oppression” of words while simultaneously labeling someone as “this white person”. So explaining it to you would be an exercise in futility.

I’d say that not everything in this world is black and white, but looking at your post history, you seem to think it is. I blame people like you for ongoing racism.


#1. last time i checked when ever folk started going on and on about a correct way to write they usually were feeding into some kind of white supremacy. because there is no one way to express of speak a tongue- especially one like english in the United States (because it isn’t even in the original form.)

#2. weak comeback. if your going to come for me then i suggest you actually come. I don’t believe in half stepping- not even in dialogue so don’t start off with some weak, racist argument.

#3 if you would stop and not consider your history to be the only one that is relevant or in existence (which is something that privileged folk are always doing having a hard time doing because the privilege of not having to think about others oppression in relation to your own blinds then from actually seeing any kind of intersections and movement) then you would also learn that the word “folk” isn’t always a slur. As a Black person from South Carolina, who moved to Washington DC, and now stays in Oakland i can say that when i use the word “folk” i am not speaking from a place of hatred or prejudice. the word for the “folk” ,for the folk i grew up with and for the folk i continue to be around, is one covered in love and not meant to be an insult. once again the privilege blinds. makes you appear to be ignorant in public when ignorant statements come from you keyboard.

#4. You’re absolutely right that #3 have a long ass break for parenthesis and more commas. you know why, because if you look up the rules that you want to reference when you attack my writing, you will see that they are being used more than proficiently. Want some examples you can take look at at home? Look into a James Baldwin book and notice the commas. Look into a Walker book and clock the structure and flow. Then come back to me. hell, even look at some damn Hemingway or Steinbeck.

#5. no where did i say everything is White or Black. My usage of those labels is very important though because I am talking about a particular socialization of privilege that white folk have that creates statements like the one that Jinx made. And privilege isn’t just exclusive to White folk- just to clear that one. If I were trying to make a specific point about patriarchy and male privilege then i would very deliberately identify how men (or folk who are male bodied) are relevant in the matter. Calling out the fact the “whiteness” is not the problem. The “whiteness” and the lack of any kind of accountability is the problem.

Also, i don’t really care if you were White in terms of the skin color because the “whiteness” im referring to is in the spirit, socialization, language, and mentality

#6. Don’t come out like a lion and go back in like a lamb. Its misleadingh to act like im attacking some “civil comment” you made. I have no time for folk victimizing themselves to dodge a point. Your response to my post (which had nothing to do with you, was not on your page, and was not sent to you by me) was sarcastic. If I have never spoken to you in my life then i take sarcasm as shade and so im gong to respond with it. If you can’t take then don’t dish.



Leeroy likes the 1R

cause its the shitty bus movin’ fast through town

and he’s a movin’ man.

hustling a dime sack and a smile

from 82nd to the Bottoms.

Today he’s in a suit

fine as a Sunday

hoping to get hired.

And folks laugh at the nigga

who rides on exposed dreams,

a worn vest and used charm.

several say sad things

bout his needs and addictions:

women, glass dicks, some tightness, fightin’ and such

encouraged by malt.

say he’s marked

to suffer the fate of most Black men

to inch silently into pain.

stepped on.

but Leeroy smiles through

and on

and helps old ladies with their bags

and drinks water from jars

and on

and sings spells he hopes might bend fate

so that worn vests lead to something with good pay.