“Colloquialism” by Adrian Matejka
Being a color in Texas is to wake stressed
from being. To wake in a panhandled lethargy
of dust and heat, a mishmash of hazards
flashing a downpour.
Bad to be black,
worse to be a mixed indetermination.
--
Being a color in Germany chills like
mosquitoes in amber. I knew three
blacks, all from Africa. Most thought as
Americans, we were racist. They
didn’t know it’s hipper to be racist
over nights of broccoli and condors, behind
javelin glances and incomes. The only
whiteface I ever found was at Barnums.
It’s savvier to hate gypsies, Turks, and
the Mexicans of thirty different countries,
their eyes stewing in your diaphragm. For
Christmas a friend sent us a card with a
black baby Jesus, no Sol Invictus for your
felonies and chuckles of niggers
born in barns. Why hate a black, when
a black can hate itself? Verdicts and
deadlines, whispers of slaves and Klans.
Have you found your spunk yet? Ich
weiβ es nicht. Was ist spunk?
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