I'm a White Who Turns the Baker's Cake Sour

I speak slurpingly, slurring syllables and

cementing sentences with a lengthily

locked lisp synchronized with second-guess—

second-guessing stutters.

I act awkwardly, sweatily pouring precipitation on a warty palm

("tree"—my assigned skinny kid nickname, big Nick named me)

when a peppered, leathered, feathered public

eye-balls, tongues, whiffs, fingers, and ear-drums me.

I bend self consciously, breaking backbone and

sulking under the summer sunshine

because of a sickling, semtexed sternum.

I think differently, dialectically devouring and

socialistically swallowing and spitting centuries of history

and struggle, vehemently vomiting this country's consensus

of Friedman correctness, incessantly inhaling the scent

of liberation prevailing, forever fingering and fisting

beneath the bombastic bums of bougie bullies

until explosions bombard their ivory towers

and they come crumbling and blundering down.

So

I stick out,

but not initially.

I can blend in with the whitewash on

the middle post, painted on straightly,

accepting my assigned identity.

I can blend in with the white-lined border in

the middle of the court, dividing straightly,

accepting my assigned identity.

I can blend in with the egg white in

the middle of the flour, cracked straightly,

accepting my assigned identity.

But I'm a paint drop

who slashes the painter's cheek.

I'm a line

who trips the referee.

I'm a white

who turns the baker's cake sour.

I speak slurpingly, I act awkwardly, I bend self consciously, I think differently.

And I think differently.

And I think differently.

That's me.

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