The stranger doesn't even pretend (2)

A hint of blackness applied to a white face released it from law   not just in minstrelsy but for the dream   feeding     mulatto  leader   in  a  pell-mell of   lost and   gained   difference.      So much of me is bound up   in just  indifference    that    the only recourse   is passion      the monastic excess of indifference   might   be   passion    a nasty   capacity for giving    great advice,  a romantic isolation    wherein I can finally write a story about black slaves whipping their so-called masters except the slaves are MLK and his space ghost familiars and they're at party he's hosting, candlelit and rose petals all over the pews, free bible upon entry     the tame absurdity  of   good vs.  evil is all over now, it's all over now.  He's hired a troupe of white prostitutes   to beat and fuck all through the night.    I read about it in black and white and wrote it back in color   how    everyone got   lucky   in one way or another   struck in beautiful figure eights until   his knuckles  were pale   and weightless    and who should the savior forgive first  when the war   is loose    in utopia        and they resemble  one another     have a covert dependency   on one another      shrug off the nerve to shrug it off    and    the   only boss    is guilt   sometimes     which is different  than remorse    having something to do with the ego's attachment   to the weight or weightlessness of the  experience     like a batch   of   ripe   hasbeens   the past       knows   sheer articulation is a kind of glory    comes back shouting  now I'm articulate!   Now I know what I mean!