| SPINBUSTERS |
| Tails of the Patriarchy |
| "The Last Nigger" |
| Unrevised history contradicts the lesson plan. This bubble is closed, no ricochets lost to space. The shotgun approach to shaming congeals shotgun feedback, karma plotting spiral trajectories of mutually assured equality. Duh: once in a red moon some little male�s gonna turn the barrel around. We've got Oedipus with dry-eye syndrome. Hey, kid, throw me that ball, willya? Lessee: streets snotted with Kleenex Men. Lessee: children owned, ten-tenths of the law. Lessee: profitprisons locking us down, always down, "crimes against the public conscience." �Public conscience,� Miss Gulch? Isn't that an oxymoron? Here's your ball back, kid. I've seen enough. Elementary boys, elementary kultural prey. The monster trucks of old ma justice wheel over our deepest natures like bloated buzzards. Our collective death is man- dated. Who are we to refuse? I got your prophecy right here. Lean back into this Paleolithic recapitulation and grab a fistful: Ms. Macbeth conspiring with the Cancered King. Now we've broadened the goatscape, backlash within beast within backlash. Out of slavestock we're running rightquick. America gets real nervous without whip on hand or back. Call it a learning experience. Every empire loves a nigger, especially a fresh one. |
| Last cheek turned, Ruthie, last piggyback ride over. Walk beside if you will: this mule elevates you no more, my body not weapon against me. Adam's apple cursed; fingers trace Braille atop my brothers' scars. Scrotum ascended, cock disfigured, disembodied, just plain dissed. Along my thigh the nightmare Colt screams but we cannot fire we cannot unload we cannot even beg so the boys who hid it have returned to claim their own nocturnal discharge, to level the playing field before recess. Schoolboys these days! What are you gonna do? Speak now or forever hold your piece. They're all prophets, on their knees in the stained dirt circle, throwing runes and knives instead of cat-eyes. Down they peer until the lay clears: the Hanged Man. Season of the Witch. War, then, Mother of them all. The Colt nags and kicks down my fences. The stellar wind cuts the girls' hopscotch lines into silhouettes, steeple bells toll out the Age of Reason. Character lies in State. Ancient urge to love and protect fully commodified, perverted, betrayed. The Canary Islands rise from brine, dripping oil and blood, flap away into dark matter. Ruthie wherever you are I hope you're happy. |
| Part three |
| Part four |
| The SPINBUSTER Motto: Semper Foozle |
| The SPINBUSTER Pledge: Beholden to None |
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