he spat kinda ... with a sorta pride , i'd call it -
i think he thought it added an urgency to his words ...
maybe it made the conversation with him, more of an experience.

it did . it did make it an experience .





he sprayed with his words, the words he used to try and dazzle me.



details and timelines, and nicknames with surnames attached ...
all seeming so - complete .
kept the proper distance from impossible.


i watched the driplets perform on their way down, while he
associated heartlessness
with some sort of advanced geneology theory.


the assertion was, ( essentially ) that his immediate
forefathers on all sides were somehow
designated to be those responsible for the collection,
therefore - extraction, of all the gold teeth
that were pulled from all those processed on their way to
cattlecars for what would be further
distribution.





these not necessarily dentists would come to be known as ...
"the men with no ears" ... an expression i wasn't familiar with -
but it'd followed a logic, so i didn't question it . no mention was made of qualifications .
he focused wildly on what
he thought important.



they weren't dentists. i suppose they became qualified as the war went on.
everyone gets better at what they do,
given enough time, patience, and practice.




he was very clear in stating that there was no form of
anesthesia used or anything of the like.
was specific as to how many
lbs. of force it takes for each specific tooth to come free.
this froth mouth lunatic was surely knowledgable about his subject .



such pride,




he was positive that the inner strength neccessary to excell
at that stage of the overall process was somehow majestic.
that the balls that it took to reach into a screaming man's
mouth with a pair of pliers,
and rip out small fortunes while appreciating wagner playing on
the sickophone, somehow, someway made him
more than just a nobody who doesn't realize the
food chain can be climbed.
that ownership - albeit temporary stock, of another's level of excruciate was
in this case, a recordable fact, a space in a ledgerbook -
an instance followed by instance followed by instance and of course
,,, so on ...
of when a man
owned another man, and his fate, and his horror.
and that being capable was in turn being worthy . and being worthy, well ...
that of course set him apart ... genetically speaking.


he was sure he got the good blood.



i personally was so far passed the concern about
whether or not his lineage was as professed . i accepted it as a " given", and
left it be. his direct line drawn by this blood was another issue,
that infinate sadism was a cell passed trait,
that, ... i wasn't so sure i wanted to believe.



we bounced this point off of eachother like a brick, for what seemed like hours.
but it wasn't, it was minutes ....
...minutes that were finding me uncomfortable with his urgency, and his honesty.



these minutes made me wonder about how the circuitry of the brain can be passable -
like athleticism, like eye color. how maybe in there
somewhere, he is right about some things.




i was made to wonder how my great - grandfathers reacted when their slaves felt slow.


my people ran plantations in kentucky up until - of course, the middle of the civil war...
then they packed their things and returned to england.


i wouldn't tell him ... because then i'd have to be there when he
wrapped his arms around me, as if we're the same ... or worse yet..

if he abruptly ended his argument...

and hailed me the genetic victor.



when you get good at it...
a toothpull takes just about a minute.



if you own someone or something for a minute ...
that doesn't really count for much.
it doesn't compare to generations -
he'd know this.

evenstill - he can't know how these spitting minutes took ownership of me.



he'd certainly be there with a custom pair of bent nose pliers in his hand.
i don't doubt him for a second.
he'd have his orders, and his interpretations.

but where would i be?

1855

priviledged

kentucky


with a work ethic that i feel ought to be contagious...

and a clear vision of what things should look like when theyre done.




in me from somewhere is this idea of exalted purpose when it comes to
tasks at hand.


my fingers are bent, and my back is broken from sacrifice for completion's sake.

i've no patience for those who put themselves before progress...
...before function.



when the impossible is stacked and blocking horizon,

... something happens...

the impossible must be cleared...

...and god bless those who have to help me...
god bless moreso, those who don't share my enthusiasm for the greater good.


i was righteous as a child.


but i'd never really thought about it before it was spit in my face - by
someone who wished for blood on his hands.


what is in me?

i know where i'd be...

priveledged

kentucky

1855.