The Tiny Hates RAW

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New CRAVE - its called “If i could be yr Kim Gordon”, made this with the TIN PAN ALLEY kids. 

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A group of wonderful musicians came out to 71st Door and helped me realize a dream, a soul group. This song is called SomeDay its a rough mix, and the backing vocals are not recorded yet. I want to thank, Ed Sotelo, Lawrence Daniel Caswell, Elijah Vazquez, Matt Hadaway, Joe Wheelock, Jacob Wynne, and the last but certainly not least, Dan Wenninger. 

Let me introduce to the you, The Family Dollar.

PREFACE # 1 OR THE OPENING

to tell you the truth, i am not sure how to start this, nor am i sure what this - “this” is. I can assure you that it is not propaganda, or the radical writings of martyr, and since it is possible that you may read this, it is fair to you and i that we establish the facts that we both know.

1. this is NOT a sequel to the sequel to the book Huebris.

2. it says so right on the front cover, and we never lie in promotional materials.

3. whatever this “this” is, it was told to me, and (in some aspects) witnessed by myself. it regards two of the most vile human beings i have ever known.

4. it would be safe to say that i hate them.

so for better, or worse - i, Christoph L. Richards, character is now - Christoph L. Richards, author. this is my book, and i will be the one writing it. the third rate writer of the books previously mentioned will not have a hand in the presentation in any prominent way.

i would like to state for the record that RA Washington is a disgrace, and if we could go back in time i would of never allowed that farce to write me.

thank you, dear reader, and now -

JACKSON, The Nights and Days of Claude and Breen

Christoph L. Richards, author

********************************** * *****

 PREFACE # 2, OR IF AND WHEN

the urban landscape is the dream of the young, its color is that of hope, trimmed with dispair. the poor suffer, - we all know it, and yet every year more art is made to dramatize this mythic class. the working poor. ha.

Claude and Breen had no regard for the working poor. sure their fathers and mothers were of this very same ailment (what? its not an ailment?) and yes it was a social sickness, for the wanting to climb caused a very certain suffering.

their philosophy was to do as little as possible to make as much as possible. the townies whispered behind their backs, called them Hipsters, get over boys, but they didn’t care. it was a party, and all they had to do was turn on, and tell the truth.

thats what they were known for amongst us makers, above it all, truth sayers, no matter who got hurt. no matter how embarassing that truth. pride goeth where a man’s courage cannot.

and so we find ourselves a few pages into this tiny tale and the “ands” keep building up. - simply because its a both/and world. so it goes without saying that there will be no redeeming features in this work of fiction.

1. we wish to not educate you at all dear reader.

2. we hope that you are disgusted by the base humor.

3. we hope you rally to get this book banned.

4. anything we say or do in this book to any character who resembles real life -

(we mean it). well. kind of. sort of. in a way, its both true, and not really. so yeah we mean it.

well  .  .  .

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^   ***** ~~

THE FACSINATED LISTENER

If she will look as if she were

a fascinated listener,

since men will pay large sums to whores

for telling them they are not boring.

- W.H. Auden

A Jane* - okay! so what are we going to do about you owing me 1500 dollars Claude, i mean its not as if i really had the money to lend, and you said it would be all paid back by now.

Claude - sweets, you know i can’t play with you. shit baby, you live in our building.

A Jane - well why have you been avoiding me?

Claude - i haven’t. you know how it is, i get causes and i get caught up.

A Jane - what the fuck does that mean. look, i just don’t want to be lied to anymore. set a date that you can pay me in full.

Claude - its not the planning. 

A Jane - what?

Claude - the planning. its not the planning.

A Jane - that makes absolutely no sense. fuck it, just please pay me back.

Claude - you know i got you. want to sit around, do a little Jackson?

__________________________

THE DEFINITIONS (SQUARES)

Jackson = Cocaine

A Jane = a woman that no one remembers by name. usually someone who went to a very liberal private school, of that has a GED.

__________________________

in order for thhis to work, in order for the book to soar to the true heights of the absurd- i must tell you who Claude and Breen are. 

(the following excerpt is from

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF GENTLEMAN RICHARDS)

Breen was peanut butter brown (the local madame DEE said he looked like Eric Benet) with large coon eyes, and a perfect Cosby nose. his curls looked as if he had sprayed curl activator and placed his head in the oven for twenty minutes to cook.

Claude was petite, and fair skinned with eye brows that arched naturally as if tweezed. his cackle was high pitched, and he possessed the most ridiculous set of muscles stack onto the skinniest chicken stalks ever invented. he also possessed the longest tongue know to modern man. it furled an amazing 12 inches. 

both were consumed by a love of drink, both were considered gay by common folk, and gods by art brut chicks wanting to get their pretty nig freak on.

THOUGHT BUBBLES

or why it be so soft in all the hard places.

BREEN: look mothafucka, i don’t care if she sits on your fucking face you cannot sleep with her. she could trip and slip into butter coochie first, and then Horton Technique her way onto them flaccid meats, and you better not thrust.

Breen’s nostrils flaired Cosby bull, and his facade of temper was only cracked by his dear Claude’s instant cackle - part high pitched trill, part snort.

CLAUDE: man, i don’t want any part of her. she is insane, and much too black for me.

BREEN: what? you high yellow beast! the chick is a white girl from Mentor, she ain’t no sista. all these kids love Wocka Flocka, that fact doesn’t make them any blacker than you or me.

CLAUDE: look dude, she is a black girl. just think about it, crazy weedhead, and an allmighty behind. her hocks are a shelf of nature.

more cackling.

BREEN: just don’t look at her, or come out into the living room shirt off on some Prince nostalgia. Debbie ain’t for you, i’m not sharing.

CLAUDE: like i’d ask you to? remember that bad ass redhead from the last book?

BREEN: YEAH, SO?

CLAUDE: well i didn’t want to share, and there you were tongue out, mouf on “fuckher”mode, slipping in.

BREEN: man, you wanted that to happen. always the revisionist. can’t you get it through your dense skull that they can always re-read the damn thing. this is not a mothafucking sequel!

CLAUDE: i know that. its that bitch washington putting words in my mouth.

BREEN: don’t blame his sorry ass, we are on our own here.

CLAUDE: bullshit.

BREEN: its in the contract. Claude and Breen only. now just lay off my girl.

CLAUDE: word, no worries.

____________________________***********)

Questions Regarding the Lack of Plot Device in Washington’s Fiction

by Harold Bloom

In 1957, William Seward Burroughs broke the world of fiction wide open with his contreversial , ultimately historic novel, Naked Lunch. In it, Burroughs works in a form that became known as the routine, and played the sorts of literary artifice games younger writers, including Washington choose to employ. 

The shit is the meandering of a bored drunk, and it has no place in the canon of ideas, let alone the art of letters. Why be so base? So soft in all the hard places? If smut is the aim then give us some naked breasts to consider, some hetrosexual action (humping) to flow toward the mastabatory tradition. This work is not thought, its just bubbles of feces left in the Punk Rock idiom so many have already attempted. 

If this travesty is going to continue, and it will for sheer stubbornness, this writer must employ new tricks, invent new forms. The Copy Book method is done.

BRANDISH    ing

it was quiet between them now, the rush of blood had died down to the murmur of breathing. she laid on her back smoking a pinch of hashish, and he stroked the middle of her shoulders with his right foot. you see, they were comfortable now, and when each remembered they should be faking, that’s when the book can begin. this is where all the stories lead - toward a terrible trouble, toward some incest of lying the lie within.

DEBBIE: are you always so gentle?

it caught him by surprise, he rushed an of course, and .  .  .  stopping himself, said

no. well, im not sure.

DEBBIE: its nice not to know, don’t you think?

she swept her legs from under covers, and made a show of going to pee.

BREEN: i think it depends.

DEBBIE: on?

BREEN: on what it is you need to know, and what you can except not knowing.

they were silent for longer than a minute. he could hear her stream hit water, it felt forever.

are you going to stay the night?

DEBBIE: do you want me to?

she climbed back into the bed and laid on her stomach, her face catching the obscene street light.

BREEN: of course.

DEBBIE: i have to go. i need this to not be an issue.

BREEN: i don’t understand? is it because i asked?

DEBBIE: NO. im glad you did. i would of had to go regardless, i have some early appointments.

BREEN: OH. 

he sat up and lit a cigarette butt. trying not to look at her as she slowly gathered her clothing.

DEBBIE: don’t be sore, or pout. i was just thinking that you were the first man i’ve slept with in a really long time.

BREEN: im not pouting, i just can’t figure you out, and   .  .  .

DEBBIE: it scares you. right? COME ON. its because you cannot figure out if you should take this lightly, or let yourself feel what you feel.

BREEN: and what DO I FEEL?

she was dressed now, her how face shadows, but he could distinguish her lips. it was always the lips. Breen pulled the covers up more.

DEBBIE: look, don’t yell. i don’t know what you expected, im just saying goodnight for now, what did you think? that i wasn’t coming back? and if i decided not to, what then? you’re captivated. quenched. scared. and so am i. goodnight sweets. i’ll text you tomorrow.

***********

sleep was not even a consideration. he smelled her everywhere, hear her breath, feel the lilt of her lips upon his. but alas, it was just the physical that he could remember, and the undoing of Breen began with the word fuck.

2.

sssssssssssssssssssssssssss****************************************

ITS ALWAYS FOR HIM.

Excerpt from The Letters of Sylvia Plath to Ted Hughes

Dearest Ted,

I want to apologize for not speaking for two days. When the sadness comes so suddenly, and our daughter needs, and you need, and then finally i need - it shuts me down, and makes me resent you, us. Not toward hatred, but it prevails past my love. Past what you have meant to me, and then our working conflicts, but you seem to rise through it all, never stopping, always creating. Always so cool, and controlled more poems, more submissions, more publications, more voice. When will it be my turn? When will it be about me, and what I need? What will make me more? Do you love me as you whisper on the phone? Who is it this time? Is she a raven like Anne, or is she strawberries, and England’s countryside with a touch of protestant ass divine? Do you remember my mouth when she sucks you?

You wife, you do understand that fact?

Your Wife.

Sylvie

A Tad Rebuttal 

by Bono of U2

my dear Ariel. the magic. i read you as if fucking. years after you cooked yourself in an oven over a fucking Englishman. i would of known how to love you, its what i do best, the love pouring over guitars, from my heart swell in the world. you so beast of a woman, i can love and bring you to life, and lift your poems from the basement of the academe, and push your songs toward heaven.

you should be famous Sylvia, more than Paltrow, or that fucking cunt Rich. i would float air for you. i would give up peace to touch your poet titties just once, to stroke your mare and give rise to sighing.

with deep affection, beyond graves and hunger, bombs and martyrs.

Bono

The Red Mistake, A Rebuttal

by Claude, character

f

f

fffffffffff

fff

ffffffffffffffffuuuc

fff

FUCK bono. fake ass humanitarian. and fuck you all for even reading this book. you are all assholes who wouldn’t know a funny if it wiped your ass. what i mean is, lets get on with the debauched fuck jokes please. people do want entertainment, not some art historical romance bullshit. beside the fucking Plath letter is a forgery. bitch didn’t write no letters to Hughes. EVERYBODY AND THEY MAMA KNOW THAT.

______________________Dud.

CLAUDE COME INTO HIS OWN

or the sauce that sister spilt

SISTER: town this small always gonna gossip baby, that how i heard you and him is gay.

CLAUDE: we not gay. fuck that. who told you that Sister Nancy? and know i can tell when your black ass is lying.

SISTER: baby, it don’t matter who said it, you got to get right with your Lord Savior.

CLAUDE: this is stupid, besides just because Breen has every Stylistics Record, including WHEN THE LION SLEEPS TONIGHT, does not make him, nor i, part of the Down Low.

BREEN: what the fuck ya’ll talking about?

CLAUDE: sister here thinks we gay cuz some fucktard told her.

BREEN: AND? who cares?

SISTER: exactly. and i said i heard it, not i think it. big fucking difference. just get right with God Almighty.

CLAUDE: WOW.chicken.

BREEN: my sentiments exactly.

it was at that moment when both of them realized just how striking, and curvy Sister Nancy was in her sanctified clothing, and as she broke into a praise dance, the gyrating and super rhythm the woman possessed gave rise to a blood lust along the lines of Dr. Hess, and they both fell in to her sides, hands on her ample. the dancing, the shouting, the heat. their clothes begun to fall away, Sister’s robe along her stunning hips, the towel wrapped Claude bulging just so. YES, they fell in, each glory tonguing, pushing her envelope, her moans and stomping- the rising as she rode their faces, stroking first Breen, and finally her own brother, Claude, his red mistake full and bursting to spray. Sister Nancy took all of Claude into her. she was of him, and there was no more glory left, no music. just Claude coming into his own.

THE LIBRARY

BREEN: hey man, open this door! what the fuck are you doing in there?

CLAUDE: go away mothafucka, i’m busy.

BREEN: who in there with you? she not in there is she?

He could hear the sound of women giggling.

CLAUDE: what she? go away niggtastic, i’m busy. go pretend to make something.

BREEN: she better not be in there, we talked about this. you know how i feel about her. look man, i wanted to see if you wanted to go to the library.

CLAUDE: look fucker, GO AWAY, we are busy in here. library my ass. i know what you are up to. you got that uppity white girl coming over and you need some props.

BREEN: WOW. chicken. why would i do something so lame?

CLAUDE: yeah, whatever. go away.

BREEN: alright man, fine. see you later.

{leaving stomps. he is faking.}

BREEN: bye fucktard.

{more stomping}

fifteen minutes later, Claude exits the bedroom with Bobo, and Hilary, the downstairs neighbor. that vile vegan! his red mistake dangling participle, and the ladies dress in Hemp robes.

BOBO: you got something to drink man?

CLAUDE: yeah, check the cabinet next to the sink. you want something Hills?

HILARY: naw babe, im still wasted from last night. you should drink some water Claude? you haven’t had a sip of liquid since we got here.

CLAUDE: i don’t need anything babe, just the Jackson and some more of your fine ass. lets go back in the room. this time without the man boy, veggie bitch.

HILARY: babe, calm down. we got all day.

Breen bursts in, 

I KNEW IT. oh. just you two dummies.

BOBO: hey fucker, how goes the art of lonely?

BREEN: i hope you get rapped by a vegetable. you dizzy cunt. 

CLAUDE: NICE. (insert hi five)* i thought you left.

BREEN: i had to be sure. WHEW. library, who wants to go?

******************************)

INTO THE LIBRARY, the quartet goes, The Hilary is dressed in a baby blue ballgown and chucks, Bobo, in more Hemp fibers. Claude is wearing a pink tank top, and the tightest white pants a man can own and Breen, in casual black (he’s a bit chubby). 

the library is bustling with teenagers doing the internet and turning the place into a low level Rec Center. the head librarian is fine as hell, well in a Patti Labelle kind of way, with the quick drawn on eyebrows to boot. she has the upturned nose of a true Cockney, good hips, but no one has told her in at least a decade. Breen walks up to her, all swag, looking homeless.

BREEN: Miss? do you have any books on Black Mysticism from the 1950’s?

HEAD: no sir, but i’m not familiar with that subject actually. would you like me to show you how to use our computerized Dewey Decimal System? well its actually not Dewey, but its our electronic database. you can search by subject, author, title, and even genre. if we do not have it, we can order it from another branch that does, and you can pick it up from here.

BREEN: thanks toots, but i’m good. you know, we should hang out, do some Jackson, see a band, get a drink? dinner and a movie?

The Librarian sizes Breen up, her hemline struggling to be the truth, and the shake, 

HEAD: sure. i’m out of here by 7pm.

BREEN: YEPPER. come to this address when you get off.

HEAD: should i bring anything?

BREEN: just yourself. you are amazing. I’m Breen, its nice to meet you.

HEAD: my name is Lisa, and i’m glad to meet you as well.

*******************HOURS, MAYBE EVEN A DAY LATER****************************

his whole head felt like an exploded watermelon. he was a prop from a Gallahager Show. Breen’s face caked in spittle, mouth on fire. he tried to get his eyes to adjust - he didn’t know where he was. he called out, but he couldn’t make any sounds, he tried to move, but a terrible pain shot up his left side, and he nearly fainted. Breen could make out Claude’s shape, and tried to move again.

CLAUDE: HEY FUCKTARD, you alright?

BREEN: WHA- what happened to me? where is the librarian? 

CLAUDE: what are you babbling about? there is no one here but us. do you remember anything?

BREEN: the library. the librarian .   .  .   Lisa. what time is it?

he could finally sit up, so he did, scratching at his face.

CLAUDE: dude its like 5 in the afternoon. here, lets get you up and in the shower. and you don’t remember anything else?

Claude pulled Breen up and they staggered arm in arm to the bathroom.

BREEN: why do you keep asking me what i remember? i don’t remember jack shit, but i know you know what happened. so spill it.

CLAUDE: wouldn’t you like to know. lets just say your depravity has a new standard of excellence. damn you are one SICK FUCK.

Breen splashed water on his face, the more he washed the worst he felt, nearly hurling a few times from his own smell.

BREEN: just tell me. its not funny anymore. i know something bad happened, i can feel it, and you know. you are a fucking asshole.

and he hurled again.

CLAUDE: better than being a whole ass. this shit is epic.

the cackle sounded out, and Breen felt murder in his heart.

BREEN: if i find out you did something to me, i am gonna fuck you up. you cocksucker, just tell me. run the crime down.

CLAUDE: what are you trying to do? mess up the book? i can’t tell you, it will spoil the suspense for the readers. this book has to use different plot devices to up the ante. Harold Bloom is all over us. now get in the fucking shower, and get ready, we got an outing to attend.

BREEN: WHAT? c’mon douche it, what outing?

CLAUDE: (cackling) its a surprise. get ready, we are running late.

BREEN: I FUCKING HATE YOU.

CLAUDE: i know, love you too.

****************************************(:

RECAP OF THE LIBRARY

by Ronald Isley, with rebuttal by Robert Kelly

ISLEY: when my brothers and i recorded LAY, LADY, LAY, the night before - (a fact we kept hidden for over thirty) something happened to me, much like Breen. i’m not here to testify, just here to tell you about the library. most of you who will read this no nothing of the genius my brothers and i created. w were an amazing group from the fifties on into the eighties, always relevant, shit i even had a resurgence in the nineties thanks to my good friend Robert Kelly, but i was contact and paid while in prison to discuss the Library.

after the initial flirtation with the librarian, Breen went off looking for books on black philosphers, geechee magic, and poems by Robert Bly. Claude being the crazed lunatic much like i was before prison, took the white girl- Hillary and that veggie bo bo deep into the library research section, pulled out a satchel of his Jackson (you do remember what jackson is?) and began having them take turns snorting lines off his red mistake. then the debauched fucking began with Hillary on all fours, and the BO BO taking the clit to town. Claude jizzed over the entire row of Norton Anthologies before getting apprehended by the security guard, who chased him, taser in hand out into the library quad. it was quite a scene, for children, and seniors were jammed packed into the library.

Hilary and BO BO managed to get out without anyone taking notice - (as white woman, they had the power to be invisible when not in the company of men) - Editors*

but they left the Jackson all over the shelves. 

after a few hours with the library district manager, the fine librarian had been fired, and publicly shamed. all she could think was revenge. and who better than the charming black fellow, Breen, who had visited destruction upon her life in a mere fifteen minutes of library visit.

(insert magical singing - Do it, Do it, Do it - till ya satisified)

The Rebuttal by R. KELLY

the waste of the powder is not how a Chi Town player would of worked it. them brothers are real clowns, (Cleveland right?) but damn they got good taste in the ladies. damn good like my record 12 PLAY. if i would of been there i would of smashed them two bitches out! “you feel like a jeep!”

———————————————————————————————————————————-0000000)))))))))))))))

3.

Breen took one look at the couch, and knew exactly what was needed. he could detect the sheen, the invisible wetness of it. he knew what Claude had done.

“that fucker put his naked hocks all over this couch. i can detect the dried juice.”

he screamed the last part, hoping the culprit would respond.

of course there was none.

BREEN: hey man, why? why of all the places you could go, why on the couch?

CLAUDE: fuck YOU. who is this “we”.

BREEN: you and that STRUMPET. the one from the new speakeasy.

CLAUDE: speakeasy? really? why do you mimic everything you hear? you MEAN - the new bar. not some fake ass highminded speakeasy. Keira and i did not, i repeat, we did not have sex on that couch.

BREEN: MY MAMA GAVE ME THE COUCH. her mother, my grandmother, owned that there couch. you know how i feel about that couch. no nig juice, no ball dust, no pussy sweat on the DAMN COUCH.

Claude sat down on the couch and crossed his leg, lighting a cig all in the same motion.

CLAUDE: stop yelling.

(whispers it.)

BREEN: WHAT?

CLAUDE: Stop. what the hell does this have to do with a blowjob or four.

BREEN: FUCKER. stay off the couch.

CLAUDE: you are all caps man, and i don’t appreciate it. i’m sure the readers don’t want to see a bunch of capitalization. just because the writer fucker, Richards, who is written by, the ass Washington thinks that exclaimation marks are evil doesn’t mean we have to listen.

BREEN: well how are we suppose to show emotion?

CLAUDE: why the fuck you asking me? i’m a trope. not really here, REMEMBER?

BREEN: stay off my mama’s couch.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!;)

THE TRADITIONS WILL NEVER INCLUDE YOU.

A Conversation Between Shakesphere and Studs Terkel

SS: fie on thee, jolthead thou canst read.

ST: yeah, yeah. thou liest, i can read you old cad. so what if everyone knows your work? what does that very work have to do with the modern man? the urban life you portray never could exist now.

SS: are you referring to the very alarming fact that there are so many coloreds now? moors to be exact.

ST: see what i mean? not relevant. not one Chicago bit. first off, the very idea of a “Moor” is offensive, and so outdated it does not even merit a place on this interview tape.

SS: nonsense, you fool hearted hack, all swollen and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye.

ST: do you think its a tad odd that you’ve managed to quote yourself twice so far?

SS: HAVE WE EATEN ON THE INSANE ROOT THAT TAKES THE REASON PRISONER?

ST: i think its safe to say this conversation is useless.

SS: which, with pain purchased doth inherit pain: as painfully to pore upon a book.

____________________________________

THE RESSURECTION OF SOJORNER TRUTH

Claude - hey nigbot, what you up to?

Breen - practicing my Black Magic.

Claude - do you even know how stupid that sounds? you are a walking Cosby Cliche.

Breen- seriously, those books from the library are straight up crack musak.

Claude - DAMN MAN. stop that shit. let’s go to Peru!

Breen - the Jackson. shit man, i’m busy. trying to conjure this new spell.

Claude - JACKSON. COME ON, LET’S GO.

Breen - Listen. who should i conjure - Janis Joplin, or Sojourner Truth?

Claude - numb nuts, they are both dead, long time.

Breen - i know fucktard, hence the use of the word conjure.

Claude - anyway. JACKSON. i got company coming.

Breen - if you had to choose .  .  .? FINE. so you don’t believe, but if you did  who would you ressurect - Janis, or Truth?

Claude - DOUCHE. you are not Jesus, there will be no ressurection - Now Back to Life, Back to Reality!

Breen - fuck  it man, when  this shit works don’t you try and horn in on my thunder.

Claude - Whatever. don’t you try and show up to Peru. Wastoid.

Breen - you a gay Capt. Kirk with a swatch watch on.

Claude - you a fat Cosby kid with a smile fetish.

Breen - you a loose caboose.

Claude - see ya fella.

Breen - can you bring back a twelve of something good?

0 ……………………… YOU AS A MAN CANNOT CONJURE *USSY.

A Discussion of The Working Man, and His Home

by Anne Sexton

i am so glad that Christoph L. Richards, author, has asked me to comment on Man, and his penchant to believe he is God. let me first say that although I am known for my poetry, I have always been interested in the Non Fiction form. furthermore, having been a housewife, I am quite comfortable discussing the nuances of men, and the home, and their relation to the money. The belief that their wives belong to them, as if the pussy is by proxy a man’s domain has caused tremendous harm to the idea of family, of man and wife. 

Having said that, let me discuss this latest work of fiction in the series HUEBRIS, now written by my esteemed friend, Christoph L. Richards, formerly character, now author. (and yes, i do realize that the publishers, Mr. Richards, and the Tropes, Claude and Breen do not see this book as a sequel, but isn’t all written art just sequels?)

The fact that Breen is under the delusion that he will be able to conjure, from the dead - a woman is the greatest fallacy i’ve ever seen recorded in fiction. What a strange Negro man, to actually believe that he will be capable through some Native Voodoo, to push a woman, or anyone for that matter from death to life is perhaps akin to madness. I know madness, as Dr. Martin Orne can attest. I am writing this now, and I’ve been dead from my own hand for over 40 years, but you have chosen to purchase this inane dribble, so suffer your choices.

____________________________THE ROOM is dark. Claude goes for the light, and then realizes the power is out all over the apartment.

Claude - Wait here ladies.

He calls out - ” Hey fucktard! you alive?”

No answer.

“Dude, this is not funny, what happened to the power?”

No answer.

Laura - yo, so we gonna party?

Claude - calm your horses, you will be entertained in a bit, besides Richards does not have the talent to make you believable.

Laura - whatever, you fucker. Just placing me in this work of fiction is not enough. Let’s Go!*

Claude - HEY. that’s my line. Editors?

*The above phrase is strictly the property of Claude, Trope, and should not be used by anyone else in this work of fiction.

- Editors.

Claude - dude, come on out.

A figure emerges, her shadowy curving the line - 

*Sojourner Truth - The man is not in at the moment, we are on a  journey.

Claude - WHAT. who the fuck is talking?

Instantly the lights flicker on -

*Sojourner Truth - It is I, the hero of the south, the pride of women .  .   . Sojourner Truth!

 In order for the above passage to be funny in the Postmodern culture of Non Information, we have compiled the following from sources within the INTERWEBS.

- Editors.

A Brief Biological Sketch of Sojourner Truth

Compiled by Ida B. Wells -Barnett, Historic Woman Figure, and Elizabeth Alexander, Modern Poet Figure

Sojourner Truth (c. 1797 – November 26, 1883) was the self-given name, from 1843 onward, of Isabella Baumfree, an African-American abolitionist and women’s rights activist. Truth was born into slavery in Swartekill, New York, but escaped with her infant daughter to freedom in 1826. After going to court to recover her son, she became the first black woman to win such a case against a white man. Her best-known extemporaneous speech on racial inequalities, Ain’t I a Woman?, was delivered in 1851 at the Ohio Women’s Rights Convention in Akron, Ohio. During the Civil War, Truth helped recruit black troops for the Union Army; after the war, Truth tried unsuccessfully to secure land grants from the federal government for former slaves.

Truth was one of “ten or twelve” children born to James and Elizabeth Baumfree. James Baumfree was a slave captured from the Gold Coast in modern-day Ghana. Elizabeth Baumfree, also known as Mau-Mau Bet to children who knew her, was the daughter of African slaves from the Coast of Guinea. The Baumfree family were slaves of Colonel Hardenbergh. The Hardenbergh estate was in a hilly area called by the Dutch name Swartekill (just north of present-day Rifton), in the town of Esopus, New York, 95 miles north of New York City. After the colonel’s death, ownership of the family slaves passed to his son, Charles Hardenbergh.

After the death of Charles Hardenbergh in 1806, Truth, known as Belle, was sold at an auction. She was about 9 years old and was included with a flock of sheep for $100 to John Neely, near Kingston, New York. Until she was sold, Truth spoke only Dutch.[5] She suffered many hardships at the hands of Neely, whom she later described as cruel and harsh and who once beat her with a bundle of rods. Truth previously said Neely raped and beat her daily. Neely sold her in 1808, for $105, to Martinus Schryver of Port Ewen, a tavern keeper, who owned her for 18 months. Schryver sold her in 1810, for $175, to John Dumont of West Park, New York. Although this fourth owner was kindly disposed toward her, his wife found numerous ways to harass Truth and make her life more difficult.

Around 1815, Truth met and fell in love with a slave named Robert from a neighboring farm. Robert’s owner (Catlin) forbade the relationship; he did not want his slave to have children with a slave he did not own, because he would not own the children. Robert was savagely beaten and Truth never saw him again. Later, he died from the aforementioned injuries. In 1817, Truth was forced by Dumont to marry an older slave named Thomas. She had five children: Diana (1815), fathered by Robert; and Thomas who died shortly after birth, Peter (1821), Elizabeth (1825), and Sophia (ca. 1826), fathered by Thomas.

The state of New York began, in 1799, to legislate the abolition of slavery, although the process of emancipating New York slaves was not complete until July 4, 1827. Dumont had promised to grant Truth her freedom a year before the state emancipation, “if she would do well and be faithful.” However, he changed his mind, claiming a hand injury had made her less productive. She was infuriated but continued working, spinning 100 pounds of wool, to satisfy her sense of obligation to him.

Late in 1826, Truth escaped to freedom with her infant daughter, Sophia. She had to leave her other children behind because they were not legally freed in the emancipation order until they had served as bound servants into their twenties. She later said:

“I did not run off, for I thought that wicked, but I walked off, believing that to be all right.”

She found her way to the home of Isaac and Maria Van Wagener, who took her and her baby in. Isaac offered to buy her services for the remainder of the year (until the state’s emancipation took effect), which Dumont accepted for $20. She lived there until the New York State Emancipation Act was approved a year later.

Truth learned that her son Peter, then five years old, had been sold illegally by Dumont to an owner in Alabama. With the help of the Van Wageners, she took the issue to court and, after months of legal proceedings, got back her son, who had been abused by his new owner: Truth became one of the first black women to go to court against a white man and win the case. See also Elizabeth Freeman

Truth had a life-changing religious experience during her stay with the Van Wageners, and became a devout Christian. In 1829 she moved with her son Peter to New York City, where she worked as a housekeeper for Elijah Pierson, a Christian Evangelist. In 1832, she met Robert Matthews, also known as Matthias Kingdom or Prophet Matthias, and went to work for him as a housekeeper. In a bizarre twist of fate, Elijah Pierson died, and Robert Matthews and Truth were accused of stealing from and poisoning him. Both were acquitted and Robert Matthews moved west.

In 1839, Truth’s son Peter took a job on a whaling ship called the Zone of Nantucket. From 1840 to 1841, she received three letters from him, though in his third letter he told her he had sent five. When the ship returned to port in 1842, Peter was not on board and Truth never heard from him again.

On June 1, 1843, Truth changed her name to Sojourner Truth and told her friends, “The Spirit calls me, and I must go.” She became a Methodist, and left to make her way traveling and preaching about the abolition of slavery. In 1844, she joined the Northampton Association of Education and Industry in Northampton, Massachusetts. Founded by abolitionists, the organization supported women’s rights and religious tolerance as well as pacifism. There were 210 members and they lived on 500 acres (2 km²), raising livestock, running a sawmill, a gristmill, and a silk factory. While there, Truth met William Lloyd Garrison, Frederick Douglass, and David Ruggles. In 1846, the group disbanded, unable to support itself. In 1847, she went to work as a housekeeper for George Benson, the brother-in-law of William Lloyd Garrison. In 1849, she visited John Dumont before he moved west.

Truth started dictating her memoirs to her friend Olive Gilbert, and in 1850 William Lloyd Garrison privately published her book, The Narrative of Sojourner Truth: A Northern Slave. That same year, she purchased a home in Northampton for $300, and spoke at the first National Women’s Rights Convention in Worcester, Massachusetts.

In 1851, Truth left Northampton to join George Thompson, an abolitionist and speaker. In May, she attended the Ohio Women’s Rights Convention in Akron, Ohio where she delivered her famous extemporaneous speech on racial inequalities, later known as “Ain’t I a Woman”. The convention was organized by Hannah Tracy and Frances Dana Barker Gage, who both were present when Truth spoke. Different versions of Truth’s words have been recorded, with the first one published a month later by Marius Robinson, a newspaper owner and editor who was in the audience. Robinson’s recounting of the speech included no instance of the question “Ain’t I a Woman?” Twelve years later in May 1863, Gage published another, very different, version. In it, Truth’s speech pattern had characteristics of Southern slaves, and the speech included sentences and phrases that Robinson didn’t report. Gage’s version of the speech became the historic standard, and is known as “Ain’t I a Woman?” because that question was repeated four times. Truth’s own speech pattern was not Southern in nature, as she was born and raised in New York, and spoke only Dutch until she was nine years old.

In contrast to Robinson’s report, Gage’s 1863 version included Truth saying her 13 children were sold away from her into slavery. Truth is widely believed to have had five children, with one sold away, and was never known to boast more children. Gage’s 1863 recollection of the convention conflicts with her own report directly after the convention: Gage wrote in 1851 that Akron in general and the press in particular were largely friendly to the woman’s rights convention, but in 1863 she wrote that the convention leaders were fearful of the “mobbish” opponents. Other eyewitness reports of Truth’s speech told a calm story, one where all faces were “beaming with joyous gladness” at the session where Truth spoke; that not “one discordant note” interrupted the harmony of the proceedings. In contemporary reports, Truth was warmly received by the convention-goers, the majority of whom were long-standing abolitionists, friendly to progressive ideas of race and civil rights. In Gage’s 1863 version, Truth was met with hisses, with voices calling to prevent her from speaking.

Over the next decade, Truth spoke before dozens, perhaps hundreds, of audiences. From 1851 to 1853, Truth worked with Marius Robinson, the editor of the Ohio Anti-Slavery Bugle, and traveled around that state speaking. In 1853, she spoke at a suffragist “mob convention” at the Broadway Tabernacle in New York City; that year she also met Harriet Beecher Stowe. In 1856, she traveled to Battle Creek, Michigan, to speak to a group called the Friends of Human Progress. In 1858, someone interrupted a speech and accused her of being a man; Truth opened her blouse and revealed her breasts.

Claude - Sojourner Truth! how the fuck did he do that?

Laura - who is this old black lady dressed like a pilgrim? you didn’t tell me your mama was in town Claude.

Claude - Stall ‘em out DeeBoo. STALL ‘EM OUT.

_______________________________ END OF BOOK ONE.

 ” You asked me recently why I maintain that I am afraid of you.”

- Franz Kafka

 ” Nothing goes in, or so little, that is not rejected on the spot, or very nearly.

    Time will tell.” 

- Samuel Beckett

FUCKE YOUR FRENCHE - A Conversation Between 

Jean- Paul Sarte, and Baudelaire

JPS - I find it rather odd that you, with all your flowery death and ill that you are not a homosexual.

B - Have you always been a cad? I know of your book regarding me, my history, my essentialness.

It is straight shit, if I may say so.

JPS - Now why would i dignify that with retort? Its the sort of fight I used to have with Simone. The very idea that within your subjectivity there is a salient, and rational point to make.

B - Let me quote you to yourself, for according to your dear old friend/foe Camus, it is one of the qualities you hate about yourself. That need for attention, the wilting ugly small man potif.

“and there seems to be no doubt that Baudelaire was a fetishist.”

JPS - That quote is absurdly out of context. I will not be misread.

B - You mean you will not be read at all. Why, Fleurs De Mal is still widely read, but you keep company in second hand bookstores with the dead ideas, while that witch you could never get to wed you becomes more and more famous with each passing year.

JPS - It was meant to be .  .  . a highlight of your suffering.

B - MY SUFFERING? That should be none of your concern, your own should be weigh far more heavily than the pitifully short life of a minor French poet. and why POEMS? You cannot even allow yourself to say a man’s first name, let alone know him.

JPS - I knew men, and it made me rather know her. I had Simone, and I didn’t need anything else.

_____________**********************)

SHE WILLS IT.

Claude found himself alight with love, but no martyr. No Mary, or grand gesture. Just the gentle rolling of a curve, of a waif, of mistakes. But that was long ago, and now he was a farce of wills. The incomplete jester, the rollicking chicken shit liar. NO. There had to be more to him? Sure within the structures of this book, and of these ill sentiments (we are making fun of you, but do not pay attention. keep doing what you are doing) so i may slip by.

He lit a cigarette, (and you expect him to, the rhythm is just right.) and what if he is a BLACK LOITA, and these women, who hold him terrible - are HUMBERT. What then? Would we protest the damning of his body - beautiful lust? Would we hold them accountable for the wombs they wield as weapons, even as he begs - ” I want to love you. I want to be loved.”

Shall i point out the farce? For you would not read me without the ill timed joke, the gorilla gestures as a seeing eye dog yr pony showed. ill time forgetting. ill.

Laura - baby, is there anymore?

she used her worn left foot to push the cocaine plate away from them.

Claude - sure, but you’ve had enough. 

Laura - you don’t get to tell me its enough. this is why i am here, this is our exchange. and since the typist is too afraid to give me dimension - the reader must know, i was sent here to torture you.

WHITE ON WHITE.

Claude - don’t pretend to understand the exercise of why we must be tropes. you are here for my cock, for my beauty. you hate yourself so much Laura.

they both laugh, and start to fuck again.

pull hair.

bites.

passion rubs the cradling with knees.

the lapping

leave it wet. 

sticky.

leave the head raw, there is no tomorrow.

she slides underneath him, milking.

he is afraid of her, he closes his eyes, tries to remember Amy, or Shanna, or Carolynne. it is the company we remember never the company we keep.

Laura was awake before him, he realized that he was lying on the floor his naked torso twisted in stained, and sweet bed sheets. He could hear her laughing, he wanted to get up, but realized he could not. He went to scream - “MY LEGS.” but no sound came out. his hands felt around his face, tugging at what should of been his mouth - ” MY MOUTH.” Claude shook himself, trying to thrash some noise alive, he could not, and he felt his face was wet. His tears flowing, he would of tasted salt. 

You sleep?

 Breen asked, his tiny peezed fro sticking through a crevice in the door.

GO AWAY. Claude answered, throwing a shoe at the door.

Breen - Come on man, don’t be like that, let me lay up in there between the good hocks!

Claude - fuck you. eh, where you been? that conjure job you did worked.

Breen - I KNOW. That lady is amazing, so regal, so black. I think I’m in love.

Claude - You? Shit man, that fucking amazon scared me half to death. Claude got up his high yellow gleaming in the dust driven light from the window. 

He opened the door, 

Claude - you remember Laura right?

Breen beamed, OF COURSE. Let me lay in here, its cold in the place.

Laura - Are you two .  .  .

Breen - Don’t you even say it, just cuz you fine and white don’t mean i won’t choke your dizzy ass out.

Claude - woah! why so hostile, man you can’t act that way all the damn time. No, Laura we are not.

Laura - Not what?

Breen - NOT GAY BITCH.

Laura - Right. Claude, i got to go. Call me when its not so homoerotic. 

Claude - Damn baby, don’t leave. i was just getting started. Nigga, you always fuck up shit.

Breen - hmmm. LET’S GO TO PERU!

******************************************).

Cassius Clay vs. THEE WHITE DEVIL: Eric Freeman (doorman)

CC - You would think that everyone would know that Satan shit is a fucking joke, cuz i sting Satan like a bee, and drop my honey pot at a lady knee.

EF - Isn’t your name Ali? and why did you betray Malcolm X? Perhaps you are the devil, silly boxer.

CC - First off, I loved Malcolm, but he betrayed The Minister, betrayed all black people really. Secondly, I will anchor punch your dumpy ass. 

EF - But dude, isn’t it all really just brothers, hurting brothers? I mean, I never did nothing to none of you. Besides  .   .  . how does it feel to be punch drunk, and drooling on your Cosby sweater?

Clay chases Freeman into Lorain Avenue, his panting          audible the street over. 

CC - Slow down cracker and let me hit you.

EF - Now why you wanna go and do that? 

Hours later, 

CC - Let me ask you something .  .  . do you think Satan really exists? I mean what if this evil versus good shit is really just a way to control us.

EF - Yeah. I’ve thought that, but just look around, like see that old woman over there? 

CC - Uh huh.

EF - Look at her feet, only a Devil would allow a woman that gross to think she should come to Touch Supper Club in stack heeled sandals. Jesus wouldn’t let her do that.

CC - Now see, you got it all wrong. Jesus has always let the people walk around in weird sandals and shit. Stockings and gold lame’ sandal, with a matching hat. 

EF - SHIT MAN, her vines is hurtin’ my vision. Let me get that drool off your chin Ali.

CC- Call me Clay cracker, Ali died in the Rumble with Don King.

EF - See! Brothers doin’ bad shit, evil shit to other brothers. 

CC - Yeah, with you crackers laughing and drinking micro brew in front of the Pay Per View. Don’t act like the colonial ain’t around your neck.

(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((holl ))))))))))))aaaaaa!

The Plot, thick on the Palmade.

Breen - Man, i’m tell you we gotta get Sojourner on TV. We would make a fortune. 

Claude - Yeah? Well how do you suppose we do that Monkey.

Breen - Fuck you. Look all we gotta do is write a press release. Shit, who do we know that will do that for us?

Claude - We could call that fat fucker Rafeeq. Shit, he’d do it. 

Breen - Naw, cuz then we got to hang with him. I’m not down for him falling asleep in a middle of a sentence, bucket of wings, and a cig dangle.

Claude - True. Well what about that one guy, Christoph from the old building?

Breen - You mean that sucka i punched in the face. Shit man, he hates us!

Claude - Yeah, but he has to help us, he’s writing this book, and we are Tropes in it.

Breen - WHAT!!!!!!!

Claude - Didn’t you read the fucking contract? damn dude, we are like half way through this fucking debacle, and you don’t even know whose writing your sorry ass.

Breen - I just assumed it was the Washington fucker from last time.

Claude - Naw, they fired him. He teaches yoga at Cleveland Yoga now. 

Breen - What a faggot!

Claude - Why? Cuz of the yoga?

Breen - DUH!

Claude - You are a neanderthal. I mean it, just go lie somewhere and die holding your cock in between the hocks of a Pigeon. 

Breen - Lame. Anyway .  .  . how about Ed Sotelo?

Claude - He could do it. Let’s call him up.

RING. ring. RING. ring. RI -

EAS - Hello, this is Ed.

Claude - Ed! Its me and Breen, what you up to?

EAS - Oh, hey man. Nothing man, just the duffness. You?

Claude - Man, we need some help. Can you slide through? We can cop you a meal.

EAS - Give me a hour, and I will come on through.

Claude - Word.

And Now A Word From Our Sponsors:

EAS - What up fellas? 

Breen - This is him? He look like the prototype for Luigi from Super Mario Bros.

Claude - Chill. Ed, don’t listen to that guy, he’s been a Cosby reject for some time now.

We need a press release, something that will really pop. 

EAS - What’s the event? Details people. That’s the key. (Ed looks at the camera sitcom style)

Breen- Dude. Why is he looking at the camera? 

Claude (whispering) - I don’t know, maybe he thinks we are on TV.

Breen - Ed, its Ed right?

EAS - Yes.

Breen - Dude, this is a book. Man, we are not on TV.

EAS - Then why is the text in teleplay style?

Claude - People hate to read, this is our way of getting them to.

EAS - RIGHT. So details?

Claude - This is going to sound completely insane .  .  .

EAS - I’m listening.

Claude - Well … Breen has been studying Voodoo. Black Magic. Sorcery.

EAS - Are you guys .  .  . straight?

Breen - WHAT THE FUCK? Why does everyone think we are gay?

EAS - Wait. You guys are gay?

Claude - NO. Listen, Breen has conjured a historical figure.

Breen - And not like that Washington fucktard, with the dead people talking trick from the last book.

EAS - I see.

Claude - So we need you to write a press release announcing the arrival of a very important historical figure so we can send it out to the media.

EAS - And then … 

Breen - People will pay us to meet, and listen to this historical figure.

EAS - But guys .  .  . lets not get too far ahead of ourselves. The main issue is that not one media source, local or otherwise will believe this press release.

Claude - We thought of that. We are going to make a video to send with the press release.

Breen - And this will be the proof the news media will need to come out and do a story.

EAS - You guys are off your rocker. (He looks at the camera again, and winks.)

Breen - STOP DOING THAT.

EAS - I’m not talking to you. Claude, who is the historical figure.

Claude - Look Ed, can’t tell you until you say that you’re going to help us.

EAS - Well press release are not free.

Breen - You don’t think we know that?

EAS - Still not talking to you. A professional press release is a work of art. Its not like i sit at a bookstore, and just crank them out on the side. Its meticulious process, and not one with out its form. Having said that, I can bang one out for about $150.

Breen - Done. Claude pay the man. 

Claude - I don’t have that kind of bread lying around. 

EAS - Look, thats a fair price.

Breen - Bullshit. Bullshit. Dude you trying to fleece us.

EAS - I assure you - Argentinians do not fleece.

Claude - Ok. the bread is fine. We can get you that. 

Breen - How?

Claude - Laura.

Breen - yeah right. You act like you got the golden dick. DUD.

EAS - I need half upfront. Now for the love of christ - who the fuck is the historical figure?

A majestic shadow emerges from the back hall -

Sojourner Truth - EDWARD. 

EAS - WHO IS THERE?

TRUTH - It is I - The protector of all negros, and plants - Sojourner Truth.

EAS - NO, SERIOUSLY. Who is it??

Claude - Sojourner Truth dude. Ain’t I A Woman? You know who that is right?

EAS - You guys are insane. Insane.

With no warning, Truth swoops in, and takes Ed Sotelo by the hand. Her features are bewitching, and he begins to tremble like a leaf. His glasses fogging up. 

TRUTH - Edward, do you wish to be my press agent, there is something I must say to the people of today. There is a truth that you moderns have lost, a love for freedom you all have decided to let slip between your interweb fingers. 

EAS - Oh my fucking god. It is her.

Breen - Duh. So you want to do the job or not?

Claude - We will cut you in on the profits. 

EAS - Of course. This is a historic moment. 

Pedro.late.tremont.

redux.

Sid + Nancy = new.

My new book!

Sing A Song, Full of the hope, and the .   .   .

Its been interesting to read the reactions to Justin Vernon’s Grammy, from the “we don’t know who he is” shock posts, to the ” finally the mainstream is understanding us!”. There is downright hate, and quiet, but non-critical hero worship. 

What is most compelling is the simple fact that this phenom - this search for the blue-eyed soul hero has happened before. Vernon seems to be taking it for what its worth in interviews, using the tried and true indie rock cliche -“Hey, I wish you never noticed our music.” This paraphrased conceit (and it is conceit) was uttered in the label friendly mag - UNDER THE RADAR.

Nothing worse than an ungrateful artist thumbing his/her nose at the rest of us, but I suspect that really wasn’t Vernon’s intention. What is it about this music that seems to be speaking so many of us, and at the same time garnering the attention of mainstream press? 

So here’s my theories:

1. because of justin’s unkept, rootsy midwestern vibe (wow did i just write that?) middle america relates to him, simply because he looks like our sons. and since our sons have the emotional intelligence/honesty of a bottle of pills - we look at Bon Iver, we hear that hushed falsetto and we think - “this is what Johnny must be going through!” Justin’s gift, and the gift of so many modern [strange] singers is sincerity. There is a bracing emotional honesty to the Bon music, and it is this honesty that allows us to cast Justin Vernon wherever there is a void. He then becomes hero, myth, son, rebel - when all he wanted to do was play his songs.

2. Justin Vernon gives us A Chance To Feel Something!  

3. There is something oddly captivating about ” The Blue Eyed Soul Man” and it is this Soul Promise that is at the heart of the fervor for Vernon. For we root for things we do not understand, how is something so soulful coming from this man, that looks a bit like our “Johnny”?