P. Djeli Clark

“White folk don’t care ’bout pepper and spices. Like they food bland as water.”

That yella gal rolls her eyes so hard at me it’s a wonder she don’t fall asleep.

Watching a Ku Klux raging at me while dangling off the side of a building is one sight I could do with forgetting

Then they’re galloping on all fours, snarling and marking me as prey.

But like I said already, I hunt monsters.

And I got a sword that sings.

They say God is good all the time. Seem he also likes irony.

That’s science talk for how Klan folk turn Ku Klux. Molly says it’s like an infection, or a parasite. And it feed on hate. She says chemicals in the body change up when you hate strong. When the infection meets that hate, it starts growing until it’s powerful enough to turn the person Ku Klux. Ask me, it’s plain evil them Klans let in, eating them up until they hollow inside. Leave behind bone-white demons who don’t remember they was men.

She the one cussing up a storm, but pretty certain he doing all the moaning.

rain pelting my face like the heavens weeping.

Who is to blame for the hate that hate made?

What I have is beautiful music inspired by struggle and fierce love. What he got ain’t nothing but hateful noise. Not a hint of soul to it. Like unseasoned meat.