Still I Rise: A Graphic History of African Americans
By Roland Laird, Taneshia Nash Laird, Elihu Bey, Charles Johnson
The Mark of Cain: A Novel
__________________
“I think the novel
is on the way out.”
—Norman Mailer
The National Book
Award Ceremony
I think the novel—is the way “in” not the way out—Satyagrapha has a way with words—and words
have a way of marking those who are finding the way back in—the way back in from the cold
I had the Mark bad—
The Mark of Cain was my curse
I fell for Abel
It wasn’t a tattoo on my forehead—or the color of my skin—it was INVISIBLE to everybody else—yet everybody knew I’d been had bad—it wasn’t just a little swish or limp wrist—it wasn’t the lisp of a fairy tale fag—or craining my neck back to get a good look at some goodlooking guy—although that was the real giveaway I suppose—to be stoned & turned into a pillar of salt—looking back like Lot’s wife at the Apocalypse—transfixed by the Sodom and Gomorrah grace and stunning male beauty that has no name—but is cursed as the Pearl of Great Price—invisible to most down there deep in the Oyster of Time—but knowingly known to those who have eyes to see and ears to hear—the Mardi Gras Mark of Cain in the ancient Vieux Carré—the French Quarter finesse of a guy in drag—the Creole caress of time gone by—the Delta Muse of my Long Goodbye
My East of Eden—
Forbidden Knowledge comes thru
Eve into (gay) me
I fell in love with my young kid brother Abel—that’s the Sin that str8ts don’t want to talk about—how could they when it’s the ultimate Don’t Ask Don’t Tell thing?—and if it’s truly the Love that dares not Utter its own Name—then how can Judeo-Christian creeps call it what it really is?—my love for Abel wasn’t just your simple run-of-the-mill Jealousy trip that’s for sure—Abel was the beloved Favorite Son, the handsome Love Child of Adam and Eve—Abel was the joy of their Diaspora Existence—blessed with an Angelic Dispostion reminescent of The Garden of Eve—he wasn’t a better farmer or fisherman or tiller of the ratty soil than me—he just a cute law-abiding, respectful and dutiful bashful young Baptist Boy—innocent as Adam and Even before the infamous Fall from Grace—and I simply couldn’t stand it—the way he gazed at me so naively adolescent, so virgin-looking with that muscular Venus torso of his—my beautiful young kid brother’s heavenly physique and & well-endowed butchy sensuous male Angelic body…
My brother Abel—
He died every night in my
East of Eden arms
The Mark of Cain was the look on my face—when I saw how hard it was for Cain to cum—to shoot his brains out & lose it completely—my kid brother Cain was only sixteen—but he left the Mark of Cain on my twisted face every day & night I could get him—I became incestuously consumed with Brotherly Desire and the unutterably shameless Love that Moans & Groans its Name—I became addicted to the Bad Seed running thru Abel’s throbbing, writhing veins—and I turned green with Penis Envy for the way the Serpent lured and skulked down there between Abel’s thick legs—we were both Bad Seed Offspring of the Garden of Eden—from Adam’s loins we were spawned and thrown into this Evil World—haunted by Paradise Lost and hurting bad for our Return to Home—but Abel was more like his father Adam—kinda dumb and cute but empty-headed—while I was more like Eve my mother—things that were repellant, forbidden & taboo appealed to me—like Abel’s long lanky Adamic male beauty—and the way his slinky 10” Serpent went Spaz when the kid lost it
Doing the down-low—
But don’t let Toni Morrison
Know it, girl
From his lewd Sula loins and smirky serpentine Lips—Abel lost it bad, really bad—possessed by the Hoodoo Voodoo Loas of the Past—coiling and uncoiling with the Beauty of the Beast—all the way back to Gilgamish & all that Reptilian white-trash—the Krypton Dynasty and the Asteroid Belt—the Sumerian DNA Snakes and Babylonian Retro-Engineering—long before guttered translations of Garden of Eden pulp fiction novels—Modern day Anglosphere hetero-humanity queered by the homo-godz—Ziggurats and cigarettes of the Akkadian Alien Overlords—all the way down to the Baseball Stadium Preaching Billy Graham rednecks and No Tell Motel Jimmy Swaggart Baptist white-trash—wallowing in the sumps and mudholes of some backcountry hurting rigid New Testament parable—all the way down to Atlanta itself—with Reverend Eddie Long doing his down-low holy roller routine with all those handsome troubled Afro-American youth—buying them clothes, jewelry, cars & taking them on jet-trips around the world—to say nothing of the football and basketball coaches of Penn State and Syracuse—oh Lordy, Lordy—the Mark of Cain be busy dontchaknow—it’s after all the good stuff out there
Miss Faulkner wasn’t—
Hoity-toity about it
Go Down Moses Inc
The novel was “postage stamp” apocryphal for Faulkner—the man and the artist inexticably one in the written word—the decadent Deep South a living Yoknapathawpha County thing—philoprogentively morphed into a cotton-patch history all around him—doing it like Colonel Sutpen with his Mississippi Delta slaves—going back in genelogical time and doing it apocryphally with his own Family Tree—as well as with Lucius Quintus Carrouthers McCaslin and the Mississippi myth he lived out of Rowan Oaks—but there was also an economic slant to this cotton-patch history—and that was the way both the Colonial North and the Antebellum South used African-Americans to do all the work and build America into what it is today—using indentured labor up North since Colonial times—then sealing the doors of freedom and creating the slave narrative novel down South—making sure there was no escape by enslaving young African labor with miscegenal inbreeding like LQC McCaslin—mixing the races so tightly that indentured bondage was complete & enescapable—making the miscegenal Southern Family Tree—as sacred and sacrosanct as The Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden—with Freedom as the Forbidden Fruit & slave labor as the ongoing Fall from Eden down into the cotton & cane fields—the Delta Aristocracy rewriting the Slave Narrative just like the Colonial Businessmen and Masters up North—like the down & dirty in-breeding of LQC McCaslin—the Moses of Yoknapathawpa County Mississippi—begetting Tomey’s Turl (Beauchamp) by his half-brother Thucydus’ slave’s wife—the slave girl who’s his daughter—waiting for the son of Thucydus to come of age—down he line to Isaac cursed by the Ledgers with the Mark of Cain—as well as the whole goddamned “postage stamp” apocryphal family & fictional history—told by the Novelist of Rowan Oaks
__________________
“I think the novel
is on the way out.”
—Norman Mailer
The National Book
Award Ceremony
I think the novel—is the way “in” not the way out—Satyagrapha has a way with words—and words
have a way of marking those who are finding the way back in—the way back in from the cold
I had the Mark bad—
The Mark of Cain was my curse
I fell for Abel
It wasn’t a tattoo on my forehead—or the color of my skin—it was INVISIBLE to everybody else—yet everybody knew I’d been had bad—it wasn’t just a little swish or limp wrist—it wasn’t the lisp of a fairy tale fag—or craining my neck back to get a good look at some goodlooking guy—although that was the real giveaway I suppose—to be stoned & turned into a pillar of salt—looking back like Lot’s wife at the Apocalypse—transfixed by the Sodom and Gomorrah grace and stunning male beauty that has no name—but is cursed as the Pearl of Great Price—invisible to most down there deep in the Oyster of Time—but knowingly known to those who have eyes to see and ears to hear—the Mardi Gras Mark of Cain in the ancient Vieux Carré—the French Quarter finesse of a guy in drag—the Creole caress of time gone by—the Delta Muse of my Long Goodbye
My East of Eden—
Forbidden Knowledge comes thru
Eve into (gay) me
I fell in love with my young kid brother Abel—that’s the Sin that str8ts don’t want to talk about—how could they when it’s the ultimate Don’t Ask Don’t Tell thing?—and if it’s truly the Love that dares not Utter its own Name—then how can Judeo-Christian creeps call it what it really is?—my love for Abel wasn’t just your simple run-of-the-mill Jealousy trip that’s for sure—Abel was the beloved Favorite Son, the handsome Love Child of Adam and Eve—Abel was the joy of their Diaspora Existence—blessed with an Angelic Dispostion reminescent of The Garden of Eve—he wasn’t a better farmer or fisherman or tiller of the ratty soil than me—he just a cute law-abiding, respectful and dutiful bashful young Baptist Boy—innocent as Adam and Even before the infamous Fall from Grace—and I simply couldn’t stand it—the way he gazed at me so naively adolescent, so virgin-looking with that muscular Venus torso of his—my beautiful young kid brother’s heavenly physique and & well-endowed butchy sensuous male Angelic body…
My brother Abel—
He died every night in my
East of Eden arms
The Mark of Cain was the look on my face—when I saw how hard it was for Cain to cum—to shoot his brains out & lose it completely—my kid brother Cain was only sixteen—but he left the Mark of Cain on my twisted face every day & night I could get him—I became incestuously consumed with Brotherly Desire and the unutterably shameless Love that Moans & Groans its Name—I became addicted to the Bad Seed running thru Abel’s throbbing, writhing veins—and I turned green with Penis Envy for the way the Serpent lured and skulked down there between Abel’s thick legs—we were both Bad Seed Offspring of the Garden of Eden—from Adam’s loins we were spawned and thrown into this Evil World—haunted by Paradise Lost and hurting bad for our Return to Home—but Abel was more like his father Adam—kinda dumb and cute but empty-headed—while I was more like Eve my mother—things that were repellant, forbidden & taboo appealed to me—like Abel’s long lanky Adamic male beauty—and the way his slinky 10” Serpent went Spaz when the kid lost it
Doing the down-low—
But don’t let Toni Morrison
Know it, girl
From his lewd Sula loins and smirky serpentine Lips—Abel lost it bad, really bad—possessed by the Hoodoo Voodoo Loas of the Past—coiling and uncoiling with the Beauty of the Beast—all the way back to Gilgamish & all that Reptilian white-trash—the Krypton Dynasty and the Asteroid Belt—the Sumerian DNA Snakes and Babylonian Retro-Engineering—long before guttered translations of Garden of Eden pulp fiction novels—Modern day Anglosphere hetero-humanity queered by the homo-godz—Ziggurats and cigarettes of the Akkadian Alien Overlords—all the way down to the Baseball Stadium Preaching Billy Graham rednecks and No Tell Motel Jimmy Swaggart Baptist white-trash—wallowing in the sumps and mudholes of some backcountry hurting rigid New Testament parable—all the way down to Atlanta itself—with Reverend Eddie Long doing his down-low holy roller routine with all those handsome troubled Afro-American youth—buying them clothes, jewelry, cars & taking them on jet-trips around the world—to say nothing of the football and basketball coaches of Penn State and Syracuse—oh Lordy, Lordy—the Mark of Cain be busy dontchaknow—it’s after all the good stuff out there
Miss Faulkner wasn’t—
Hoity-toity about it
Go Down Moses Inc
The novel was “postage stamp” apocryphal for Faulkner—the man and the artist inexticably one in the written word—the decadent Deep South a living Yoknapathawpha County thing—philoprogentively morphed into a cotton-patch history all around him—doing it like Colonel Sutpen with his Mississippi Delta slaves—going back in genelogical time and doing it apocryphally with his own Family Tree—as well as with Lucius Quintus Carrouthers McCaslin and the Mississippi myth he lived out of Rowan Oaks—but there was also an economic slant to this cotton-patch history—and that was the way both the Colonial North and the Antebellum South used African-Americans to do all the work and build America into what it is today—using indentured labor up North since Colonial times—then sealing the doors of freedom and creating the slave narrative novel down South—making sure there was no escape by enslaving young African labor with miscegenal inbreeding like LQC McCaslin—mixing the races so tightly that indentured bondage was complete & enescapable—making the miscegenal Southern Family Tree—as sacred and sacrosanct as The Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden—with Freedom as the Forbidden Fruit & slave labor as the ongoing Fall from Eden down into the cotton & cane fields—the Delta Aristocracy rewriting the Slave Narrative just like the Colonial Businessmen and Masters up North—like the down & dirty in-breeding of LQC McCaslin—the Moses of Yoknapathawpa County Mississippi—begetting Tomey’s Turl (Beauchamp) by his half-brother Thucydus’ slave’s wife—the slave girl who’s his daughter—waiting for the son of Thucydus to come of age—down he line to Isaac cursed by the Ledgers with the Mark of Cain—as well as the whole goddamned “postage stamp” apocryphal family & fictional history—told by the Novelist of Rowan Oaks
No comments:
Post a Comment