exercise in humility
i was trying to be less !. this manifested in: excising ! from my textual declarations. lowering my voice in speech. being constantly conscious of volume in speech. excising squealing from my vocabulary. adopting a white sonic aesthetic. look at me, i can use words like barthe, pinot grigio, shibboleth, zizek, etc. too bright, off-white.
do you know why i failed? damned ! in perpetuity, to the glee of men like jim lambast. a word weaver, he fancies himself. sits in the arm of sinecurism, spends time refuting charges of racism. ardent defender of neoliberal anti-identity politics. we are all the same but cannot sing kumbaya. the book of aron is dead. he never had a song.
jim lambast and his (ex-student-cum-)wife karina discovered me at a dinner with a pulitzer prize–blah, blah, blah. who had slicked back hair, form fitting suit. a trim kind of masculine, with a seamless vocabulary to match. proclaimed leftyish, though unarticulated. silent during the white man’s war of anti-identity proclamation, made me want to curl up in a closet, to escape his calculating…torso (racialized, indeed).
jim lambast discovered me in the slicked back lobby of his founder’s groin. karina had drilled stubbornly after the drops “revolution,” “teleological obscurity,” and “coloniality of power” flowed from my lips. big, fat droplets. dewey from exertion. a dewiness potato jim and sprout-wannabe karina open their mouths toward; pine for, unknowing.
i wish i’d spit on him. you still want to cackle, jim. ?. stammered away in your crumpled trench coat. does it please you to know, we will never exist as possessives to you? !. we are not: derivatives of an already dying twig. when you lie awake at night, bothered by an unscratchable itch just beyond the horizon of your scrotum, know the prickling sensation for what it is. a curse on your !