by FREDERICK K. FOOTE, JR.
(633)
I know nothing, and nothing knows me right back with aplomb. We just tight like that.
My dear old not dead enough and departed dad used to say, “Boy, you need to rent that space out ‘tween your ears for a parkin’ garage or somethin’.”
Dad parted his hair in the middle and departed from us in the middle of the night when I was tension years old. It was not my San Andreas fault that he left despite what you might have heard. I did try to part his head again with my butcher knife. A time or two if my recollection is right.
There is no love more Amazing Grace than that between a father and a son. It is a righteous and remarkable thing, and I look for him every day with the butcher knife hidden behind my back.
I had a girl once. She moved away. I was not the cause of her bowel moving. Ask her. If you can find her. And if you see her let me know, I’d like to send her a message too.
Tell her that when I was with her, I knew nothing about love. I’m not afraid to admit when I’m wrong. I’m a grown man now. I know that love will fuck you up so bad. Worse than diarrhea, diabetes, disabilities, and bad dope.
I try to remember what I know about love, but every time I fall in love, I forget. I know nothing about love all over again. You haven’t truly loved until you love somebody who knows absolutely nothing about love. Take my word for it. That is a soul redeeming experience.
I did love my pet possum, Pogo. I loved him when he was alive, and I loved him when he was a stew. A love like that is food for the heart, stomach, and soul. I hope one day again I will find a love that is as true and sweet as that between my Pogo and me.
But my greatest love is for America. America made me what I am today. America say, “Niggers, if you ain’t Samuel L. Jackson or Oprah, Serena, or Tiger Woods or flying first-class, stuff your ass back into the shadows. Eat cake crumbs. Live in a zoo and love whoever in the fuck will love you. I ain’t got time for your Black Lives Matter and reparation jive.”
Gun Massacre America knows about love. America loves me keeping the police state afloat. Keeping the prisons full. Keeping the judges and lawyers employed. Allowing the social worker to live in the suburbs and the parole and probation officers to play with guns and lives.
America, the home of the homeless needs me, Bigger Thomas, Willie Horton, and Micah Xavier Johnson to keep them white folks voting right and toeing the line. I’m the main ingredient in American love even if I ain’t loved by America. I don’t know nothing about love, but I know there would be no American love sickness without me.
Involuntary Servitude America loves my original creations, the field chants, hollers, blues, gospel, jazz, and soul, but not me.
Redlining America loves me to keep rockin’ the hip-hop rap on the cash register keys to keep the greenbacks backing up.
Segregated America loves me ballin’ and bashin’ my brains out for the privilege of entertaining America.
America the land of lynching gave me a possum to love and a chance to be Beyoncé or Etta or Aretha or Jesse Owens or Samuel Little or Joe Louis or Chester Turner or Martin Luther King senior or junior. I know nothing about love, but I know I love America like I loved my possum. I just need to find a pot big enough to fit America into.