MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 1)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about cats, the symbiosis of white guilt and black "power," diversity bureaucrats, slave auctions, passed-out rape, the slaughter of our plant relatives, demons
hive Being suicide as a way out of our pact with fortune intrusive nostalgia since before double digits yoga pants under love handles a linted needle on the record shut-ins ever at the peephole trans toddler the oldest cathedrals hollow enough now to be rented out for corporate events students hyper-blinkered by universities deeming “viewpoint diversity” demon code Lolita does not get written if artists self-censor sometimes the wall restricting you is protecting you how canhebe mansplaining whenheidentifies as a woman? because of your squeamish (but burger-eating) hangups, you block her—already beyond teetering on depression, stuck indoors—from the joys of eviscerating a mouse chartered buses to the holy land, the ones advertised on daytime TV, release old couples in their visors eager to genuflect before the altars of commerce awaiting them the body next to you in bed will soon only be a body, cold although it has always been good for heat while the whole family on his desk stares him down, he orders the strike that will mean civilian casualties black victimhood mentality, the (lucrative) mindset of little hope that individual initiative could rise above the barriers of white supremacy, so sabotages black excellence it seems the very design of white supremacy the day is at hand when diversity-token bureaucrats, yesterday’s secretaries (fake hair, fake nails, online Bachelor’s, trifling critical-thinking skills) will have authority to tell philosophy PhDs, professors of critical thinking, what is safe to teach and how to teach it going against the grain of evolutionary programming, a practice seen beyond human creatures, is perfectly aligned with carrying out the aboriginal programing prior to any of us—prior even to the sun that slave on the auction block contradicting seller exaggerations as to how hardy he is—“What Ah’s agwyne do wit dis here leg (lame, Ah reck’n, foteen year)?”—voices a worth higher than muscle lack of consent, future trauma—these have us say that passed-out rape is bad even as we say that procreation is not owning who you are—a social phobic, say—can change who you are—shift you, say, from being so twitchy and awkward forced anal exams in Cairo to identify gays sometimes turn out false positives: straight men who pass Shaq logs, or engage in a little finger play, are beaten close to death performance anxiety among those who cannot help but perform in every interaction results in dreading visits from a sure lay as if they were visits from a boss to say that X people are primitive (that old pretense for civilizing them out of the bush with gun and gospels) is racist—but, so goes our double bind, to expect X people to be civilized is racist too: it is to expect them to give up their ethnic identity and assimilate the daily lotto once redirected working-class rage into hope— until even that became too expensive when the cancel mob took his job, he said “I’m a nail that rises when hit,” not seeming to see the corollary that defiance would drive him from his plank and so be his fall (or maybe he knew martyrdom was the only hope to stop this juggernaut of antidiversity) in subconscious fear that hearing it would undercut his purpose, the romantic rebel blocks his college ears to data about how good things are even though that data brings into relief what ear blocking lets flourish: namely, what remains to stand up against conscience defected—the cold order from a distant office of weather talk at the cooler panic triggered by infrasound yet another predictor of end times disappointed that it did not come sanitized vocabulary masks the blood on technocrat hands assuming a free-range life and a painless slaughter, it appears pure equal-treatment violating selfishness—the same that has us protect only cute endangered species—to respect animal but not plant life what matter is climate change or retirement when Jesus, slated to return in a few years, will take care of it all with his sword of love? becoming great at your art from early on out of fear of being sent away otherwise to get us to sacrifice our privilege to the disadvantaged group an effective strategy is to rear us in that group’s culture, such that at our core we aim for acceptance by that group parents whose grieving was loud enough to force the state to mandate screening of future infants become mothers to all the children saved in turn the social-media algorithms have made us all junkies of their feed, a feed soon to be automatically mainlined once we get that convenient implant said to complete our harvest-readiness for the super-AI looming on the horizon like sheltered immune systems assailing the body for sport (their cry for change clear), “sheltered” students assail whatever unsettles their “easily-unsettled” selves, turning academia—now that the suits have been “woke” to the cancel ethos—myocarditic
This is a portion of an ongoing mosaic poem called Made for You and Me. This portion is from the first installment: hive Being (Stanzas 2016-2020). More specifically, it is from the 2017 portion of that five-part work.
