by Daniel Davis Clayton

Nightmarealistic
Kumbayah my lord, Kumbayah. Someone's crying lord, Kumbayah.
Statistics
[you think I missed it),
disguised by the scientific physics of university research departments, brought forth in materialistic reviews by the American Press critics. Nevertheless, I thought I saw through the psychodrama-producing, mental self-image trauma inducing, internal bleeding karma-deducing theories of inferiorities of Negro minorities. [You're fucking up my chi.] You're manipulating my feng shui. My aura is being tampered with. I don't even feel right going to church. And it hurts, being cursed, worse due to birth and it's not by personal choice, nor mirth.

Our 1820ish physical worth.

I'm from a small town called Emory, Texas, where you're taught to keep your eyes cocked downward even when you walk. I was instructed to fear darkling spirits, to administer jeers marking like whip rivets, to endure pure shrills until my ears enjoyed hearing it. The years passed in the aftermath of silence, quiet as it's kept. I never wept, only schlepped in and out of alternating ulterior motives and masks. Old folks asked, "What's wrong with that boy?" Every month, I was a different person, in coercion, searching to find myself, battling stereotypical versions which defined myself, and dog paddling above the emersion, which in time, I find, conspired abound to drown myself. And just trying to fucking make it, I emerged tempered like steel and temper-tampered like untaught two-year-olds, yet still lost. The Holocaust of genocidal tendencies taught to teething children can be seen when we venture outward from these walls and are all annotated in research assignments which support the morbid manifestation of mental confinement. Doctorate essays say to continue giving an extra percentage of monetary assistance to welfare recipients whose children are entrapped in special-ed classes. Take the child out and no doubt, you'll be loosing money. The government's kind of funny that way: encouraging us to retro-succeed for minute greed, but indeed,

It is ultimately our families who make that decision, not "The Man." "The Man" has, however, imported uncut dope and supported trumped up quotes, acquitted body-burning, cold-cut throats, created shoddy towns of our most sacred grounds and left my body yearning for enlightening needle injections, pills of severed family connections, blunts of adjunct informational collections, historical mystery corrections and answers for my minds perplexions. It's all quite implorable; perhaps, even too much to ask for. No reparations for us, unlike the others -- others like Asians during World War II, Jews after the World War was won. Even the Egyptians allowed the Hebrews enough to make a golden calf.

But what would we do, my Hebrewian cousins? Would we construct an idol like the Cash Money Brethren out of golden rims and buckskin limbs and jeweled limbs with our reparations? The grilled-out stories of the Brothers Grimm, in ghettotorrian situations? I've been wanting a Cadillac since I was knee high. They've been calling me the Battlecat since I was as nightmarican as a razor-bladed apple pie on All Hallows Eve. You conceive to concede, and I pimp 'til I bleed like Enron executives, except they call me a thug. In other expressions, I'm a word hustler. I hang out on microphoned corners with the soul of Sojourner. My Truth is that things aren't as they seem. They've deferred my dreams and called them schemes and even had me thinking I was a criminal for conspiring against their conceptions. [They thought I would miss it], these
nightmarealistic
Kumbayah my lord, Kumbayah. Someone's crying lord, Kumbayah.
statistics.