The origin of the name Niggerati here:
“Hurston’s warmth and charm along with her vibrant personality made her one of the best-liked members of the 1920s Harlem literary elite, a group which included Langston Hughes, Countee Cullen, Dorothy West, and Nella Larsen. That Hurston gave this set the sobriquet “niggerati” is evidence of her considerable wit.”
http://brbl-archive.library.yale.edu/exhibitions/cvvpw/gallery/hurston2.html
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How Niggerati Manor and Black Queer Artistry Live On Today
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The Niggerati: Publishers of The Journal “Fire” During the Harlem Renaissance
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proclomation
we are the storm unfurling
whirlwinds dispersed to edges
coalesced in a river of memory
that leads to the ocean …
we remember
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black
made imaginary
conjured from nothing
no thing like this before
white proclaimed itself
everything above all things
interpreting god
before abandoning
to become
ruler of all
creator of division
fences
race
illusions of supremacy
made opposite
polar
stripped of lineage
plucked
commodified into the
end of worlds
unmade
savaged
not human
less than
no god
no land
no thing
spooked
black
dark
unclean
ungodly
animal
mule
dog
out side humanity
boggy men
spit from the coffers
of she dogs
used torn beat hung
written out
other
up jump boogie
upside ya head
you et what you shouldn’t have
we survived in the rumble
of the drum
became the wind
run river deep
cross oceans still
sitting in the fullness of
centuries tied round
your neck like
nooses you made
invisible
humming like storms do
potent
yes outside
in another world
where you are small
in the real scheme of things
nothing in the ocean
no thing made up imaginary
selfish child with the world
by the neck as you shake
the dice
wagering everything
on nothing
against
blood laced memories
tasting of soil
from many rivers
resting never concoqured
waking like a return
you fear
sounds like laughter
over petty matters
before the sounds of guns
no sirens after
aftermaths
new chapters
appocolyptically
remembering
undoing you
reimagining you into
the no thing
end of your worlds
by undigested indigernious
autochthonous
reclamation
restored
righted
released
unveiled
reckoning
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oculist
chapter 1: bug out bag
verbals
i keep some verbs
in a bag
cornered with care
closeted
in a cranny
in a dark space
with no lock
packed for days when
there are no more words
only empty slate tinted skies
dull colored birds
properly pecking
wobbling woefully without
sound or dreams of flight
grounded in nonreality
the wrong conversations
picked at without pluck
undigested reposted
scraps of paper hope
glued to tomorrow lightly
made giddy in discovering
its never tomorrow
i keep the door closed
on the cloistered verbs
hermetic no dust light or
clearly defined exit
evaporated verbiage can turn
vaporous occasionally
imploding passersby
unmindfully
used to soothe a bruise
Ak’s where flyswatters will do
most of us are mostly bruise
or some alternate
rarely transcendent shade of
blues
these verbs are banked
either
under or for my protection
i won’t let them kill me but
they been asking about you
licking their vowels like sore gums
slugs waiting to be
triggered to & beyond tongues
sidelined verbs don’t respect borders
dislike being ordered by others
draw their own boundaries
carry razors & double-sided axes
cut to the heart of a fact
ticky ticky boom like that
pray they don’t run away
carrying your brothers’ eyes howling
at nights that keep forgetting stars
or fall from your sister’s mouth
crying a new world slowly
so as not to startle the
old one refusing to die quickly
or jump unexpected dancing
from an old ladies’ lips
loading & cocking a sawed off
“is it evil when they kill us”
why is civility sitting here
with a closed mouth
hands cramped from
twisting rope
syllables rumble
with one another in
closed craniums
asking quietly why
we don’t march further
than the simple words
confined & aligning
with conferred constraint
gathered on plazas with permits
allowed to engage in
euphemistic explanations
about tomorrow
while offering
fogged frames
for what didn’t
happen yesterday
in logic composed in constantans
impossible to make sense
unless you think like
a stopped sink
contemplating
the inevitability of spilling over
scalding like hot grease on
a raw soul like the sound
a load makes sliding into the revolver
at your temple held by the
assailant hollering
no guns allowed
before he blows your brains out
something like that could leave you
with no words
unable to speak
you could hurl these at your
attacker or use them for an epithet
if you get caught like that
between freedom & the
bullshit bullies say while
whipping your ass or
if you into cutting off
noses if you about boxing
blind or agree to rules
of engagement
that confine you
to fighting with
words
in a fallout chamber
where
nukes & nuts
snuggle
if you ever wake up
& be woke
need to bug out
grab them verbs
9.21.20/ an
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oculist
sitting criss cross applesauce
at the freeway on ramp
visions exchanged for
spare change
a concrete triangle
pointed to the yellow line
dividing alsphalt
into direction
north south
east west
a blind mage
a basket of eyeballs
a cup with no change
visions exchanged for
spare change
sing song singing
no takers fast cars
driving off cliffs
on either
side of the triangle
divide pointing
towards
the yellow line
sun set in smoky sky
obscuring horizons
no mind
no time
no change to spare
none made
save the mage
gathering the
cup & basket
walking
turned dancing
then floating
above the
yellow line
an 10/09/20
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