This Week's Writing 11/10/24
This substack's name just keeps getting more relevant.
The sad dog has reason to be sad. I don’t really have the heart to talk about this week further. Here’s what I published though.
Politics
White supremacy leads people to swallow ridiculous bullshit. (EIH)
If Trump wins, we’ll need solidarity, not blame. (EIH)
The global anti-incumbent backlash doomed Harris. (Public Notice)
Tim Walz 2028. (EIH)
Cultural Criticism
Amy Levy and a queer poetry of secret glances. (EIH)
MY OLD ASS is a story about being true to yourself which isn’t. (EIH)
Poetry
I got nominated for a Pushcart Prize! Nominated poem below. (Five Fleas)
Nothing.
And then
nothing,
but
in verse.
Oh Noah! I have thought everything was horrible since 1974. I was 11.
I have been thinking a lot about the hellish state of Texas. I lived in Austin (I was a grad student, and had no plans to stay in the state) when James Byrd was dragged to death behind a truck. 80 pieces of his body were found on the route. If it were not for the federal FBI, it is likely that the 3 perpetrators would not have been arrested, tried and found guilty. They were the first white people in Texas, found guilty of killing a Black man. This was in 1998. Not 1968, 1998. I am afraid that in 2025, no one will be prosecuted for hate crimes in “red” states. Arkansas, Wyoming and South Carolina have no laws against hate crimes.
Lucille Clifton wrote a poem to James Byrd. This poem could be written for so many victims of hate crimes, George Floyd, Ahmed Aubrey, Mathew Shepard, Charleston Church Massacre, Heather Heyer, Michael James and Jackie Burden in Fayetteville NC, 1995 (I lived there in 1995).
jasper texas 1998
for j. byrd
i am a man's head hunched in the road.
i was chosen to speak by the members
of my body. the arm as it pulled away
pointed toward me, the hand opened once
and was gone.
why and why and why
should i call a white man brother?
who is the human in this place,
the thing that is dragged or the dragger?
what does my daughter say?
the sun is a blister overhead.
if i were alive i could not bear it.
the townsfolk sing we shall overcome
while hope bleeds slowly from my mouth
into the dirt that covers us all.
i am done with this dust. i am done.