WEB Du Bois, ‘Marxism and the Negro Problem’

WEB Du Bois, ‘Marxism and the Negro Problem’

Anti-Imperialism.org

[What follows is excerpted from WEB Du Bois’ ‘Marxism and the Negro Problem’, published in The Crisis, 1933, and elucidates Du Bois’ thought regarding the vicious tactics of the aristocracy of labor among the whites, and his rejection of false consciousness as a throwaway excuse for what is actually the interest of the settler working classes, who have become contributors and beneficiaries of imperial capital. As always this piece is provided for the purposes of study and discussion.]

…Revolution seems bound to come.

Perhaps nothing illustrates this better than recent actions in the United States; our re-examination of the whole concept of Property; our banking moratorium; the extraordinary new agriculture bill; the plans to attack unemployment, and similar measures. Labor rather than gambling is the sure foundation of value and whatever we call it — exploitation, theft or business acumen — there is something radically wrong with an industrial system…

View original post 1,403 more words

Advertisements

release prayer #1

let jitters hiss out like / grass-steam at earth-sun awakening & / rose over blanket bloom in daylight petals / brain-wrinkles & shudders ease into the hands shaking in quiet airs / the ceasing is / fleeing-oxygen in a rush & left-behind stillness, stillness in the lungs, stillness in / fingers warping the screens, warming your thumbs in the evening quiets, the drawing of the dew-roots from the heart, the morning rising from your shoulders and / their crests in a calm way, / budding & creaking into soothing mist

land of stagnant wasps

there is violence in trumpet strings, cut deep in the brass-hands / we are pushing air into their /voices; melodic & humming out over / grass isles & the glow in our sky is / heavy with strong-purple clutching rain that climbs back into clouds there / is vapor & honey in your chapstick-touched words pressing me / into / corners and I / like the pressing hands in lead-touch; no-subtlety interrogation tongues tactically dancing around & what / was violence in the strings is quiet coming in heaves now, tranquil & slithering / between our ears, into the old paths wrung by the wasps / carrying still / on the cups and comfortable resting on /

hands & ankles & fingertips & rust & wasp-children, slithering / into canals upon kayaks and marketplaces in old jewels, land / full of waltzing bees & striped creatures /

lying in the vibrations of the bells & you & me bursting-spell in

cocoon body guarding tender-guts; caught / me violent // handled like / cautious kind of choke-hold; hand-hold like / whispers between tree-leaf palms / speaking life into uncut stems, we are / vital-signing into a rib-jail, lucid & inescapable, incomplete / as the excavation of catacombs under / the church, we / are ancient bones bubbling to the surface & wasps / in the night, // children of hornets / with lips of fire and broiling memories / so song-crest violent, un-erasable & full / of kind bruises, forest-cities of clasped hands, self-hearth thoughts / that / we never will forget.

[a thing i like] george abraham’s al-youm

A friend wrote something great.

kamelya omayma

I am seated in a well-lighted corner of the Student Center at Wayne State University. A few seats away from me is an Arab man with a thick beard and sunglasses despite being inside. I came here by way of a Lyft car driven by a young man named Abraheem who is generous with his smiles and inquisitiveness, who moved here from Gaza seven years ago. (He said that during his visit back home last month, they only had three hours of electricity each day and it took him more than week to get his laundry done–because why have bought laundry machine if you cannot use it? This is to also willfully say nothing of the people in critical medical conditions and hospitals and hospice who are also getting less than three hours of electricity — whereas some reports say Israel’s allowance of electricity for Gaza is down to one…

View original post 2,522 more words

11/30 [perfectionist-ism]

& eating the quiet,

I roll in splinters, kitchen desk scrapes on

my sister’s fingers like something brought home,

knuckles

dirt-filled and cavernous rapping  out Nirvana on

suburban tables, spoons of spilled milk dancing

on television–that movie Fantasia & songs’ hypnotic

writhing through hung & broken silence from bubbling

air conditioner ventilator,

swooning in the depths, & it is the first time he

shows us weak, shows us

imperfect & bedridden by a bee-sting-allergy

this is

metaphor of mistaken weakness sprouting through

perfection-ground crack

that has defined my childhood,

shown the covers & how

perfect smothers

perfect teaches and guides but forgets

to hold,

congratulate & clutch & fail

over

examples like plane and robot-arm pilots of brains

sinking in sky, sinking with clear air

pushing off through bike-race finish lines, sobbing from

pushing in

private school hallways & soccer grass

breathless & streaming through the hills,

stampeding spikes in churning cold mud & heels,

fake injuries & evading failure at

all costs,

shoving all in sugar-hungry mouths like old-fashioned sundae

rotting in heaves,

silent in classrooms

hollowed out &

still

afraid of mistakes

[10/30] lisboa

there are legs growing from the ceiling staples

walking in heaves from boards and painted dry
there is threat in red mouth, wandering the brooks of cobble and gasping forward, lurching of teeth
soft-rolling of dentyne serpent, pair of rivers as pride, matted hair statue colonist painted himself gold
stood in the middle of the market, supple coins in tourist pockets, and holes
of jogging pant plaster writhing up walls
gaps in the spine and breast of
spray-designed dancer, machinist and losing
air from the gouges in the lung-pipe metal,
opening into streets, into two rivers, into blood floating out into the avenues of europe
on the bodies, on the chattel, on the human faces I sit nightly, on the writhing masses of history, on the hands that broke with sweat and blister, gathering in the night, dead and silent in the holds, swarming flies and clutches, man looking like me
packed this in, pushed back borders, burned
and looted continent, drags in wall, drags in city of blood and statue grows from pavement,
statue in own image, statue like
eyes,
statues like green gifts from other predatory nations, floating off the shore, drifting into the deep into the mouths of ruined ships filled
with corpses
that we forgot to make monuments for

[9/30] end (iii)

iii.

words like entrail nebulae–buying

time and waking in the sky–sputtering out the thoughts

and grips on the plane seat handle, bump-death & all

gyroscopic drops from earth-ceiling, upside below &

scared of eye, scared of mirror, scared to blink between

heart beat on tuesday, fear of machines, fear of gym workout too long

& heart rate & fear from passing out on a track

legs still sprawling, spinning forward & clogging

lanes with air in the hand-runner that picked you up

you could finally imagine it fully, a

trinket-fragile,

impermanent thing.