a theory of distraction

 

at the very first, you say to me charles, i went to jail. age 18 to thirty-four. you know why? because i murdered. it was the era of the civil rights, the critical wars and the motion for paramount literature. you look at me, roll down your peach-colored crinkled socks, remove your vest and continue. it was the era of mathematics. i stole books from the library. books they brought for white boys. the fact i stole, the fact i ate paper, no one ever suspected. why would they? was the black supposed to be literate? furthermore, you say, you came up with proofs and algorithms, design and blueprint of the elaborate. taught yourself a portion of the dynamics, mechanics and the magic of discrete mathematics, advancing in thought, chiseled in logic, sharpening your wit and capability to blurt out the complexity of the number theory. they tried to distract me. over and over again. i fought. i murdered, without regret.

if they call you, if they talk to you, or laugh at you -it is the tragedy of distraction. don't fall into that trap. you say something quietly to yourself, and scratch the edge of an old burn injury, scarred on your chest. you ruffle your hair, and fold your shirt, hiding it in a narrow, dark corner of your unhinged locker. as a general quietness permeates across the room, you burst out in a hysterical fit of rage and laughter. calming down in fourteen minutes by the clock, you resume your story of murder. of your semester as an innocent, before you robbed and looted, and tore away the peace off your peers. the bad guy allegory of the love fetish. murder was my new fetish. my enhancer. to take my time, to over-think, to change a segment of the crisis, the frozen agility of progress, the enhancement of care, the provisions and the provincials -you say to me, to love the stir of violence. in confusion and haste, i say good bye, and walk away from your tremendous face. kicking away a pattern that you create and re-create. i don't have friends. and don't have any. i'm the pollinator of enemies.

but i tell you charles, in the midst of the confusion, the disappointments, the inconsiderate burns of the love distraction, there is a superiority in belonging to a union: a duet, a pair, a togetherness, a saccharin emulsion of entities, blending and re-creating to a part-self, a half-self and a poly-beneficiary. in that saturday kiss, the morning sweat, the terrific lust of madmen and playdolls, when we slip back into a painful powerless devolving cobble-track, holding hands, and bones and hearts and souls, washing the tears and honey milk songs, to be there. no matter what. isn't that a power troupe? is that a sympathy you suppress when you see us walk across the narrow park by the riverside? is that a remorse, an incapacity, a debilitating inability that you wrap in your translucent foliage, hiding and howling in the steaming showers, burning your inseparable ego? with respect to your philosophy, and your belief in non-intersections, in parallels, i suggest, you supplant your bitterness for me and x, the novelty, the frailty and our botany.