I'm mildly drunk and mildly writing
an essay on Bell Hooks
Talking Back
speaking as an equal to an
authority figure.

The recursive nature of
oppression, how it finds expression
within the box in the box in the box
how writing becomes an act
of defiance rather than
entertainment.

I wonder if that's where
literature begins and ends.

I have my own stories
my own parents, my own
precocious childhood.
I have my own rebellion,
Bell Hooks, I have my own
resentment of authority unjust.

Do you think, disregarding my age,
that we would have played back then?

Mom and Dad would have never allowed it
you're black, of course, though not as dark
skinned as some. But they would have resented
your skin, your sex, your gender
even the class we actually would share
just as much as they resented my own
Talking Back.

And you know, I know, that they're your age
and would be nice to you on the subway but
talk about lynching behind your back; they'd
make jokes about the despair of your people and
blame it on you instead of themselves.

You should have killed the nice
white man who stole your friend's seat.
Ignorance kills us, all of us, in every other
unfortunate situation. The hands
of the murderer are mere hands
like the rest of them.

I love you, Bell Hooks, and wish
things could have been different for us all.

A strange and pleasant stroll that one.

Kewl, I liked it.

Embalming fluid, imo

Embalming fluid, imo

Go on...

Go on...

Rotting stuff, visual imagery
Gnawing decay
Emotional discomfort
Calm predisposition
failend