Black peoples names are no longer commodities for the privileged to solicit humor. They really never ever ever were…

“I dont have a sense of humor no more no more” said the tar baby that actually was just a young black boy to the briar rabbit that actually was a raggedy old no nose one button lopsided cycloptic eye toy. I wonder if the bone in a coons dick could be grafted on to my humorous bone. Surely then even Gone With The Wind would be redeemed from drama to farce. I remember the day my brother came home from the hospital. My friend Jonas, gosh I remember Jonas, and I were kicking about the soccer ball. We ran to greet my Mom and my Step Father. Jonas asked me what his name was and I said BJ; short for Brandon his first name and the J was the middle initial. Jonas said BJ and laughed. Not unaware of my homosexual attractions specifically in that moment post jocular ball of the soccer play with the all over fragrant glisten of sweats dew parting Jonas’s flouncy page boy cut, making the contrasting tessellated pattern of the Umbro shorts dance in the night lights like the yellow lines on an asphalt low country road rushing toward cars dodging deer and possum under moon light. The water ran all the way down over his shins pressing the hairs close like they was afraid fricative youth would take them far away from their home atop the skin over his bones. I know I felt like bees, birds, clams and doves do when possessed by the purpose to make more of themselves. The purpose undone and seasonal to some is an imperative almost akin to hydrophobia’s madness. It swells to a crescendo more overbearing than the stomachs full body sound in need for food water shelter or rest in the lay down. In that 4th state of matter my body was alive and liquid and solid with hot convection winds no jive like the plasma of Sun. I still found the innuendo a thoughtless maladroit jest no matter how much I desired from head to mouth to toe to make such as my brothers name a thing in congress so.


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