The fish’s tongue,
Its vessels severed,
Rots and falls away
And Cymothoa exigua
Grafts itself in place.
It wriggles one way
Taking note
It wobbles up and down
It makes a dance that seems like speech
And becomes its master’s sound
And when the school of fish consumes
Exigua-serving lies
They can see the world’s truth
With Cymothoa eyes
I hate the whiteness that surrounds me.
That feeds me
educates me
pays me
celebrates me
disciplines me
shapes me
abets me
trusts me
gratifies me
winks at me
suffocates me
I hate the whiteness that moves through me
I hate that there is no way to separate
the color of my skin
from ostensible beauty of limits and thefts
from a normativity beaten from difference
from an entitlement of birthright without blood
from a divinity that crowned my father clean
from an objectivity that erases inconvenience
from a destiny that steals futures
from a nation that murders to make me
I hate to be marked
I hate to be favored
I hate to carry a history of rape and murder and engineered famine—
crushing the bones of little children like apple snail eggs—
and unload it with a thud
while knowing it’s heavier than I can perceive,
and you must work around it or be broken
by the weight of our knowing
I hate that the only word I have to describe this feeling
is as saccharine as “hate.”
I got a mile more to walk, or so I’m told
The same thing I heard ten miles back up the road
Just another mile
Just another mile
For me to tote my weary load
Been toilin’ and troublin’ all my days
Got another mile to walk to find my grave
Just another mile
Just another mile
For me to tote my weary load
I’m adding to my load with every mile
And the load upon my back is miles high
Just another mile
Just another mile
For me to tote my weary load
I slow down with every step I take
My thoughts blow like dust across the plains
Just another mile
Just another mile
For me to tote my weary load
The boss man sold me miles when I was young
And I walked them with a smile and had my fun
Just another mile
Just another mile
With which they bought my young man’s soul
It’ll crush my bones as I grow old
They’ll find me broken down and all alone
With no more miles
With no more miles
And no more place for me to go
Sophistry and Solipsism in the New Millennium 