NEW YORK TIMES

There are pauper graves here, you just can’t much see them. A couple of chicken scratched brown sand donkey plots, almost red, but put away, and no one comes here, that will be seeded soon. The War Between the States, the Civil War to you, just goes about its business in the day to day. Just like the Confederacy did until all the young men had evaporated. Our biggest crop is tobacco. No one got rich from tobacco. This is the American South. Graveyards often tell a story that does not have any allegiances to contemporary racism, as if we can dig it up, bury it again, and then dig it up, enshrining it in a dystopian museum. Do not touch. And if you believe that, if you believe we can have any effect on Climate Change, something that fundamental, duh, we are not all going to go to enclaves in outer space. Do I appear to be someone who writes fiction to you. Then, you will believe I am Marie of Romania. The reality is that slavery has deep roots that have wrapped around the human soul — and neck — some chicken, some neck, as if a vicious demon could jump out of the body that has hosted the alien species with large teeth developed in an egg. For at least a billion years. This original (and morally vacant but profitable) story of sin is the kind of cultural graveyard that keeps original history confined to mainly a landscape of boxes for the white people of White People Town. Kinda like those white IPhones that come in the expensive box and ain’t that nice. Not really. White People Town is not all white.

We start the babies out as early as possible. By modeling who we know and what we know. And who we do not know mainly because they all lived in the special part of town called Shack Town. This is, too, Appalachia. Don’t even go there with me. Gather up the white women and contain them. Surround them with guns and tell them to shoot right-here-right-now. We know that caretakers’ jobs are predicated on the onslaught of elderly known as the le boomers. We’re coming. Many are snowflake le boomers who are sincerely afraid that death will hurt.

It will. You will not know you existed on a small insignificant planet in an ordinary, garden-variety solar system powered by a star that will in time consume us all. Quick, hide your wealth.

Our species will have become extinct. They finally did it. I believe we should have statues of the poor. I want one. Of me. I could be getting fucked in the ass. Solid marble. From Palermo. I refuse to read any of the maliciousness called American publishing. If it looks like gossip, if it stinks like gossip, if it taste like a shit sandwich, it’s a shit sandwich. After I supposedly blew up publishing, I had to go somewhere. Somewhere cheap. I am not allowed in entire states. Churches. A few bars. Hotels. Stadiums. Cabs. Nightclubs. Jim’s Coffee shop in Peoria. Don’t put sugar in my coffee. I don’t read on the Internet much. To my chagrin, I like books. That is very different from approaching the business of book publishing with kissy kissy. I wanted in. Then, I wanted out. Now, I want back in again.

I deplore the act of writing. But for its faults, and publishing itself is rife with them, what you and I get is the grave without a gravestone. No one knows who is buried under that small patch of brown sand. He’s black. He was president. I can’t believe it happened in my lifetime. That is why there is a MAGA. That is why he was controlled by Senate Southerners so they could pound their chests: We Stood Up To Him. MAGA is not heroic. Or alone. Moscow Mitch remains intransigent. It wasn’t that anyone articulated how they could hold Obama down on the ground. The racists have won. But how did they render Obama impotent. The basic premise is a broken constitution, and the rich own that, too. 2008 was a long time ago, but it will take centuries for even one Obama hater to change their minds about change itself unless the change is the kind of change that shovels money to the open mouths of the rich.

The rich get richer. Question that. I advocate and strongly encourage ANTIFA to leverage not just issues, but fascist economic paradigms like a ruthless capitalism birthed and sustained by slavery, serfdom, humiliation, endemic poverty, and an upper class ideology foisted on indigent, diminished, emotionally exhausted, day-to-day destitutes, ruin, suicide, death rates, medical indifference, and none of these are racial unless we make it racial, and we did. We still do. We do it in our sleep. We employ rituals designed to keep you in your caste. An economic whipping of my naked back. Watch the kidneys, but no, they just whip away. If Obama is still afraid to step outside (this scares me, too) his privileged bubble, where he still seems kinda stunned as he kinda almost dismisses and then deftly reminds us who he is, it’s about race but it’s race that has been the boogey man who is a white, fat, antique capitalist and lives in the Hamptons. Say it.