By Fayia Sellu, California, USA.
America longs for the days, when her
Conscience was tardy; but in attendance
Begrudgingly, belatedly. Belatedly, not
Flee to the nether crannies, of Camatosia.
When Four Little Girls, bombed in a church, in
Birmingham. The images
of Emmett Till
Shamed America into rafting its “City on
From Three-fifths of a man, to target practice
For Cops, we have come a long way, in Craze-
Relations. So much so, we need a game reserve
For Black lives to matter. To crown Michael Vick
The Paul, or the patron-saint, of canine.
I want these apparitions, trapped in TV, Nintendos
(what now? X-boxes?) cartoons…Screens, prosthetic
Unfeelings, in our Jeddaic pods. Where Retrogressives
Try to unknow the untruths of America’s stinking little
Paradoxes. As Slacktivists, Passivists, IN Facebook likes
And Twitter-speak, 140-characters worth.
I fail trying to essay my way thru apotheosis, litotes
Of aqueductal meaning. In awful taste: replay hitherto
Ba.a.a.d jazz records—broken. O…About post-modern
lynchings! Giddying the Witches of Salem. Conversate!
Spectate! In the public sphere, full glare, of digitality.
Minting not-quite-fresh images Un-Ubermensching
a la Nietzsche, in lithograph?
Wake up Martin Luther King Jr. Tell him. To stop dreaming.
To un-dream his America. Baroqued by human depravity
Cachophonied by the angst-drenched babels, from Syria
To Iraq. And back. To a church massacre, in Charleston. SC.
The loops, of slayings of monstrous, ATHLETIC, someone else’
Son. From Trayvvon Martin, via Michael Brown to Tamir Rice
Awake or asleep, I dream not. No. Can’t have what James Joyce
Would have called “Epiphanies.” Not when my lot—The
Black Man’s Burden— is to interpolate myself; Illuminate the glare or dimness
Of all HUMANITY, or lack thereof!