from "Song for Uncle Tom, Tonto and Mr. Moto"
I am the dance the drum the sneaky inscrutable body
...
of a Jap who knows at last my brothers
are creatures of adobe and Sand Creek and those who bowed
massa
yes, sir, all the good niggers and the mute buffalo herds
all the torrential unconsecrated nauseating flood, each
singing the old imperial clichés — whip marks and sweat, harvest, bone and blood
...
and yes I’m raving, asphyxiated and incurable
and now proclaiming...
and here in my uterine mind something is cleaving, beating,
growling
...
and it is rising in Soweto, in Wounded Knee
in Savannah and savannah, in the Indonesian junk shops
and the smell of the hanged man or the shoyu-stained tables of
hana
in the Andes and terrifying inner storms of the Caribbean
sordid, visionary alleys of São Paulo, the alchemical, Amazonian
jungles
and we are all good niggers, good gooks and japs
...
obsequious, ubiquitous ugliness, which stares at you baboonlike,
banana-like
dwarf-like, tortoise-like, dirt-like, slant-eyed, kink-haired, ashen
and pansied ...
we are whirling about you, tartars of the air,
all the urinating, tarantula-grasping, ant-multiplying, succubused hothouse hordes
yes, it us, it us, we, we knockee, yes, sir, massa, boss-san,
we tearee down your door!
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