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.