'This is to warn you that I am no longer held in check from fighting white supremacists by Elijah Muhammad's separatist Black Muslim movement, and that if your present racist agitation against our people there in Alabama causes physical harm to Reverend King or any other black Americans who are only attempting to enjoy their rights as free human beings, that you and your Ku Klux Klan friends will be met with maximum physical retaliation from those of us who are not hand-cuffed by the disarming philosophy of nonviolence, and who believe in asserting our right of self-defense- by any means necessary.'- telegram from Malcolm X, 1965
Freedom Of Speech
What is it tempers the Damascan steel with such hatred,
the fair skins of our forefathers laid over the wastes of what is
no longer, transformed by the sweat and mind of men, readied
by the campfires of dawns long cold, nestled in the rays of the emergent
sun of words I feel in my breast pocket, and clutch with each beat,
this book, my war with the winds of Thor, controlled all these centuries
by those rodent-faced minions who hide their miens from the sun,
show no face, lest their horror be manifest, this war which ranged
over the many years my birth slipped from my conscious recall.
I, too, rifted from the flow of things, steeped in the high latitudes
of Iceland, fed by the winters, chilled ignorant to the rot which seeped my nation.
1941 saw me the first to drop all to defend my nation, all that is country
to me, which no warm September morning can break, nor extend.
I have discovered the lair, the nest, of the craven hawk, fed well
on the fighting that pits the others against themselves, all the while
the hawk circles for the losers, each one in succession, after the other,
as its content nurtures on the carrion catch. Here is where the righteous rise
to liberate, and scatter the Biblical milk, honey, and all that mammon
against the Paleolithic storm. Here I shall flense the very essence
of the sea's greatest beast, the core of the Nordic take on things,
which renders its oil unto your eyes. You who were betrayed
and mangled by the incorporation of two wars against what we call America,
eddied and furrowed by the lost years of service to your race,
waiting these tens of thousands of years to emerge, only to fail
to the final consumption of your kindred, souls which will know no Heaven-
for this I shall need no words, I shall glean luck from the breath
of oceans, take off toward the red-iron future where age matters not,
nor death shall seek my keeping. Friend, brother, here I say: Heil!
Freedom Of Worship
At the flute-end of living the great Irish Elk lowered its fabulous rack, ventured without
fear into the cold weather of evergreens it always knew
was there for it, as a ripe storm massed, bringing with it the god of a new time, well
behind its front, splintering new granite and aged oak.
It braced upon the boulders overlooking a Northern sea, felt the hot breath of a dark alien
god shriek at its great beauty,
beat its drums, hang its head, double over with a bestiality no inferior elk could manage,
for its head lay at the center of its creator.
The measure of its success was not dependent upon whether the lava which would cover
its bones would give up its tale, for all things are when they are,
but in the release of living it gave up, in its last moments, the meaning of the lava, as the
long migrations of millions had brought it to this cliffside,
beckoned it home to the catalytic foam and salving cold of the ocean's spray, its Northern
life at an end,
head unbowed, rack unshed, a face that was birthed of the Evening Star, turns, snorts,
backs up to rear forward
toward its onrushers, prouder than it ever was in its carefree youth, filled with the bilious
lies of the beckoning evil, the star that these small creatures bore,
the deceits they crawled out of their mother's bodies with, all converging here, where old
tides meet this day's wind.
It was too much for the life within to retain, the hordes milling over the fallen
magnificence they could never know,
fist upon fist failing to bring victory, until even the numbers proved to much, yet the great
elk still not dead
to the impartial stars, its quiet power retained their attention, over the insolent cackles of
earthbound wanderers
stuck below, its veins a bare map containing all the knowledge of the universe, violence
more than is knowable- in its own measure a song
which no lava can smother and burn, nor erase. It is here, in the ancient rhythm of the
betrayed elk, bones still inviting the lights of the heavens to sift through, whitely
from the fonts of a redness that always merges with the earth, that I bow my head, and fix
my eyes upon, an older silence.
Freedom From Want
Fatted for death, they sit and reap, while I ponder which son of Normans, or Vikings, or
Celts, first gave me name,
this compound of earth and water- half of that which ancients knew the universe was
admixed with- this rock- well-
Who is to know of such things? Centuries from now
will a descendent of mine still stare back with the features that felled mastodonts?
Will the nose still jut proudly Roman, matted inside with the good fur to warm each
breath?
Will this son of a son of a son distinguish himself from the whims of history?
Be freed from the clutches of the Jew in his Temple, who passes over his 'brethren',
counting only the numbers
his simony can bear? I should hurt him if we should meet-
my blood browned by the African's lust, or fed on the Chinaman's savagery, curdled with
the Semite's toxins,
I hope nothing of him remains, nor anything of me linger in his form.
Yet, shall I bare hatred for the product of my defeat? Or just shame?
I shall sling no saber-tooth's carcass over my form, nor parade
in front of the fire where stories of our future took root, nor tan a thing
which his ignoble bearing supports, nor his breed appreciate.
I think it would be easy to cut his throat. He would probably sharpen the blade,
beg me to do it, too. To put an end to his bastard misery.
which his credulous countenance accepts as some dowry for loving all things
with eyes bloodshot on warm days and easy living, rusted with the memories
of things that mean nothing. It is here where I shall bury him, not
in the belly of a sea too caked with the sweat and last breaths of heroes-
it should spit his hulk back at we infidels to the human, but I shall take him
to a stale bed, laden with petals of weak roses, and other accoutrements of pleasure
his whore of a life wasted upon and within, aptly so
for he who should subdue me may only do so with lies,
the poison fed to beautiful blond children, thickly swimming under every sense
of identity that fuses the Aryan with torment with strength with victory, ultimately
the pariah, which lays to sleep in the dim dreams of peace.
I smash in this future, and let the dregs settle where they must-
for it is in that retarded grimace I shall desire no more.
Freedom From Fear
In the end it is luck that broods in the anger ceaselessly tossed toward the sun,
and not at the nations which decide things in the immediate.
Not Roosevelt, nor Churchill, nor Stalin could carry the day, even as Berlin lay smoking
and dead,
as the bombs which would render Japan sterile were but miniature stars waiting to be
laded.
It is when I walk out at midnight and think of the children, all of the good children, all of
the good American children, all of the good white American children,
that I worry over the canter and folly of this age, the oncoming demands of the Negro,
and the Jew banker who pulls the cords.
It is in the eye of Sputnik I see the world as a dank, hostile place, gleaming only at its
poles,
whiter and purer, the mortal concatenations of each continent pushes toward its ends, the
best who can dare
the seas', the mortal concatenations of each continent pushes toward its ends, the best
who can dare
the seas' mercies and wrath, year after year, battling the elements' unceasing grip- each
night
women and men hunched over their progeny, fearing each yip and howl, yet gaining
strength
from it, while the niggers and aborigines, the gooks and the kikes, bathed and weakened
in their paradises,
the fairer kind were made to work far into the dim race of season with season.
May it be that our severance from the oafish laze was our salvation,
we true fugitives from the stink of humanity, better than what we call humanity,
will become the germ-bearers for what shall succeed us all.
As the light browns, may the storms that echo in to our sleep
learn to grace the child within with a diamond ferocity that is seen through and cast out
at the dimming humanity that plagues the globe,
strangling it with its neediness and weaknesses,
things sloughed off by you and me, long before
this century's angry icons clashed and feuded
for the lucre of the sickly Jew. But all is not a given,
for from this stench, still some stride onward,
and over corpses, great egrets moving a raw world's spring.
Her pelvis thrust into overdrive, visceral
stamp of imperious desire, her skirt sweeps
by moment, her fingers draw you near, extremely
spread they limn heed to you [just offstage]: "Come lover
Dance only in my curve! Or dance lone!" Sexual
rapes any description of her rage- for she leaps
flamencous at your gape, on night's tongue. She will be
all you taste in morning come alive- you know her
kind torches sullen steppes of the soul- she will flame
all you are- damn it all to some hell!- So she lies
with her form?- So she makes you a fool?- Do not care!-
The feeling will just come- be delight!- Spanish eyes?-
Of where lives their sulfurious white?- Not her lair!-
Now, who is quixotic?- This angel?- Who needs name?
