For today, [the proprietor] has scheduled sales of two 150-foot plots on 178th and 179th Streets, between Audubon and St. Nicholas Avenues. "Now, I know when you see a black person come near you at night, you're first thought is, 'He probably wants money.'" I wanted to ask Abel wherever did he get that loathsome idea, when I see a black person come near me at night, I think, "Here is another chance for me not to be a pathetic white person." Funny, right? Wildly missed connections. If only he would think, "This white guy is probably struggling with his own idea of race relations." Or maybe, maybe I should be thinking, "This man appears to be approaching me with the intent of talking to me." Maybe, I should be thinking nothing until the man actually interrupts my conversation, starts looking me in the eyes. These are the questions of a nighttime stroll. They are my filtered observations, and I am a filtered soul. I haven't pondered enough of my own actions. I haven't interacted with society to the extent that I should have at this point. I am a sheltered, filtered soul. I need to work for the government, but by now I've probably done so many aggressively foolish things that they'd never hire me. Let's not even talk about the IQ test. I should join a basketball league, or a pool — or maybe I should just hang out on my corner and see if my feeble heart can take the adrenaline spikes of my paranoid mind. And if I listen to you for long enough, I will have to stick my head into the path of an oncoming train - not because anything you are saying is particularly distressing, obnoxious, or boring - but because you probably have never made any attempt at unfiltering my soul. That is the appropriate role for a believer. I want to find my way.
Take me, Jesus, to the land of hopes and dreams. Take me Jesus to my home on high, to a little brown cabin in the aged dark green forest of Heaven. Let the Vitamin Water-prosperity drench my divine abode in your noble forest, Jesus. Honorable and patient Lord, in the storms of the night before I had the tools that you have now bestowed upon me, my talents, I cowered in shame and fear. But now Jesus, though the storm has persisted, I am freed from the oak intersection of shame and injustice. Lift me high, onto your broad eagle-winged shoulders, Jesus. Carry my inadequate flesh to the red mountains in the distance. Shower me with potion, Lord. Shower me with your juicy love fluids, Lord God Most High. I am capitalizing words that refer to You, God, because I am a believer in Your Ways. Everything About You Makes Me Shine Like The Glimmering Cherubim On High. Like Your Staff And Giant Fucking Chariot. There is no greater force in my life than the towering presence of your design decisions which suffuse my petty, mortal "life," Jesus Son of God, Father of Life, Diviner of the General Assembly of Spirits and Prime Minister of Smarmy, Awful, Christian white people.
Rain in on me Lord God and bring me out of the depth of this intractable quicksand through which I can no longer advance towards Your Kingdom. Surround me with OnStar agents, God. Oh, God, let me sing you a song I wrote the other day about one of your children and professed followers.
I turn to you, honorable Dr. Christ, son of the Virgin, on whose wall a diploma from Boston College rests. Jesus, warm me up. Distract me let me go. Let me fall into the depths of some secular bullshit so when you rescue me it's monumental like when you rescued Paul on the road to Damascus. I will then turn to you Lord, supernatural nothingness. Your omnipotence is derived from the ridiculous amount of variability that you programmed into this hellish Earthball. How clever of you to test your people with stuff like a solar system and the vastly irregular climates of this Earthball. How insightful to build in earthquakes and hurricanes. Thank you Lord God Most High Most Influential for the climates and the different skin colors of your children. It has made this walk-in-the-park world of ours such an easier place to deal with. Now, amidst all of the complexities of drilling for organic matter, we have something black and white, a peaceful oasis — unlike the eight-lane interstate that roars beneath my 150-foot plots.
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