Fresh Out of Camouflage and War-Paint, I Purpled My Hair Before Tackling This Monster

I posted a poem earlier called "Off White," and this is the magic and importance of sharing our work, that objective readers catch things the writer cannot. Here are some of my new insights.

     

     I've never been a verbally articulate dude. 

     No matter how much practice-time, booze, or caffeine is swimming in my system, no matter how much bribery cash I've crammed into my wallet, which, rounding up, amounts to a glamorous $0.00. So often when I begin to speak, my thoughts, my brain, my lips and tongue, and the message itself, no matter the urgency, synchronize into something that sounds a little more tone-deaf than a dozen off-key choirs of woodland creatures, dying farm animals, and a whoopie cushion quality control bunker. 

     Now that I've explained my speech issues, I'd like to clarify my own interpretation of a poem I published here a couple of days ago called Off White.           

     If any reader misinterpreted my words and clutched their pearls, they had every right to go all "WTF??!" It was my responsibility to express my ideas with unmistakable clarity, and I didn't do a stellar job. 

     I am unable at this time to compensate those of you who impulsively destroyed your necklaces of strung oyster barf; besides, you should have had them insured or, like any half-decent humanoid, exchanged them for a giant bag of Reece's Pieces (they have trading kiosks now at participating Costcos.)

     Two or three years ago, the first time I witnessed an actual human being, a frail, elderly, and livid man scream "White Genocide" into the camera with a fervency that nearly made my heart stop, I understood, eventually, that for him and many others with similar tenacity toward their southern heritage and history, everything was a zero-sum game. When the courts rule in favor of improving the lives of social and racial minorities, there's a significant block of the population who reason that their rights are eroding to accommodate everyone with whom they disagree.

     In other words, I tried to keep my distance with this poem, much, much more than usual, so roughly two feet. I wanted to let this elderly gentleman dig his own grave in a sense, an easy enough passive task for at this time, in the midst of statues coming down, protester and Verified American Badass Bree Newsome climbed the flagpole outside the South Carolina Statehouse and tore down its Confederate rag!  

     So this was a poem about a man whose identity, belief system, and resistance to change, (and I get to imagine this for the story to work; he could have been a garden variety lunatic zonked out on oyster vomit for all I know) hinged solely on the color of his skin, a superiority that had afforded him and almost everyone he knew several decades worth of cruelty perks over every persuasion of non-white.  And the concept of equality directly jeopardizes his white identity, because he has nothing more to offer this world.       

     He and his companions and scream ALL LIVES MATTER until they've fully disintegrated in their graves. At the end of the poem, I try to explain that nothing will change him. He's taken as his mantra the old Southern Strategy/ John Birch/ Jim Crow lie, which convinces white men, mostly in poverty, usually uneducated, that the lowest among them is still better than the best of all the black men (AKA Ben from Night of the Living Dead.) 

     Alrighty then. I just wanted to clear that up. Of course, later I'll have to hammer out another critical piece to elaborate this one, because I always forget something. Like changing this nonsense title, true as it is, to something that makes absolutely no sense.

      Thanks for bearing with me, and I extend imaginary hugs to those friends I've made here. Except you, Matt. That little man on your shoulder looks like he can bite my ear off. Quick fistbump.

Seth Cason

June 21, 2021                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

Reviews

[lightsong]

honestly, I don't need to read more of You to know that first, You are a neat caring writer, and second You are a respectful and humble human being, I can sense that from your attitude till now. that You accepted my note about your photo with open heart and looked to the goodness I meant was enough, though I am/was unfamiliar with what was going on there on your South Carolina but I do know that You did nothing wrong in your previous poem, You were speaking in a human language, and right now I shall read it once more after reading You here.

all the best my new friend, You will meet many people with bright minds and good hearts here.

[Coyote Poetry]

Hello Seth. It is a mad, mad world. Ran by the media. How many people die daily from drugs? No-one is seeking to stop the drug dealers. I believe we need to find common ground. In the end. We want the same things. Shelter, food and opportunity. I look forward to reading more of your work.
Coyote

[mattavelli]

Hello, Seth! :)
This was a fun read. I especially liked the ending, but a bit saddened by it, as hugs are high on my list of favorite things. You write satire well. My guess is you're a lot of fun in small doses. Haha