When Fools Talk to Me

From the book, Bleeding Fire! Tap the Eternal Spring of Regenerative Light

Considering the present climate, I find myself adjusting spectacles a great deal as I encounter the latest absurdity du jour in a wave of micro-aggressions. The idea of the word micro-aggression is actually a double upside down insult, as there is nothing, nothing minor or micro about these aggressive assaults! One never knows when or why the next eyeglasses adjustment will be necessary. Lunacy seems to be mounting by the minute.

When fools talk to me, adjusting my glasses affords me the extra two seconds necessary to assess, think, compartmentalize, remain silent or speak clearly, or be kind and compassionate, or breathe and breathe again, or run the entire U.S. history through my mind, flip cards bending and falling, falling, or offer tutorials in systemic oppression — on systemic everything, or make a date to do lunch in between broadcast murders of unarmed Black men, or laugh madly at the absurdity just uttered to my face, or cry fire through my eyes, or consider becoming a recluse, or stab a poem in its heart, or jump wildly in thick air, push off on the diving board of ignorance into another dimension. When fools talk to me, those two seconds of eyeglasses adjustment give me the stillness required to pray, call on ancestors, talk to them about sister Sandra Bland, remember my training, light candles, expose illusions of power, make an incision:

a topographical deconstructionist cross- section slit around the throat of fake democracy — you know, do a lobotomy on false scripture; carbon date the madness, know the lie, pardon the brainwashed messenger baring toxins for they know not what they say or do, disengage, rally the angels, take cover, kaboom false evidence appearing real because they know exactly what they do, liquefy in ultraviolet brilliance, transform into the Sun, a glowing cauldron winged woman floating on an electric carpet above it all! 

When fools talk to me, those two seconds are perspective in formation, certainty lining up on Mercury. Saturn satellites transmit Gamma Ray energy to my private electromagnetic field as I sit in the neon sky on an infrared chariot in my corner office. I walk down the street, pass a cave of buried choke-holding policies, and I sling shoot boomerang, shoot boomerang, shoot boomerang one million micro-aggressions from my orbit, repelled like projectile vomiting over the indigenous rainbow like a sports foul out of bounds that snags on edges of jagged clouds. And Ray Charles sings: “Hit the road Jack, and don’t cha come back no more no more no more no more; hit the road, and don’t cha, don’t cha, don’t cha, don’t cha….

The axis of our planet straightens. Untruths that pollute bow, bow, bow down and disintegrate into the debris of a sneeze. Ahchew! The atmosphere is activated. The moon, my ride and die, pulls water strings uuupppp, the sea high-fives in wave gesture as hate evaporates. Gravity genuflects. There is a hierarchical reset.

There is a hierarchical reset. There is a hierarchical reset. Nature is taking over. Me and swag dance around the shrinking fool, the fool sitting across from me, shrinking like reverse osmosis, shrinking like a wart in a TV advertisement. He is one foot tall now, the insulting non-relevant, inconsequential fool, fool of supposed unintended assaults. The micro-aggression maker to all things decent and good is the size of a dog biscuit—one-half inch, two millimeters.

I lower my eyeglasses and peer at this tiny, corrupted, ill-guided soul, who once wore the smirk of privilege. I watch it rewind its birth until it disappears—vanishes — gone! All I need, all I need: two seconds, two seconds to adjust these spectacles. You see, when fools talk to me, moi, magical things — like cosmic power things — happen; but I need at least two seconds, two seconds and some very large eyeglasses.