275-23: Keynote Speaker

Wow, It’s great to be here again in front of you all.


Friends, colleagues, leaders and trailblazers of the Green Conquest, I am so thrilled at the turn-out tonight for the 29th annual Sustain to Gain Gala event. I was asked by the organizers to say a few words about the Gala, and how profitable our crusade to green the globe has been.  Next to blocking out the sun, and we’re working on that, there is pretty much nothing we can’t and won’t do to make this world a better place for us!




Before you get to your meals, I’d like to give a..what do the bl..inner-city kids call it again…sorry, I’m not quite “down”..ah yes…I’d like to give a shoot-out to the First Nations and the rest of those rag-tag group of indians. That’s why I’m wearing this feathery thingamajigger on my head, because, fellow venture capitalists, we need to remember that they’re humans too..kinda like us.  And a special shoot-out goes to my main beeyatch, Mama Africa! Right, amirite? C’mon, give it up!




Providing us with superfoods and super villains, we couldn’t have made it to where we are without ya, tuts. Shell, you gotch yourself a keeper, buddy. Lucky bastard..
But enough with all these pleasantries, it’s not like any of these people are actually here, right!  So go ahead and dig-in to your heart’s content. We have enough polar bear roast to feed an entire army of child soldiers and a endless flow of red wine dark like the blood-stained streets of Bahia.  You earned it! Together, let’s leverage the world for a brighter future!


275-20: Backsee

They didn’t tell her this like so, but everybody know that she get fired cuz her backsee stick out hard-hard in them cheap uniform pants.  Hear the joke; yuh think a fast food franchise that make nuff money off of dealing fat and sugar to people would have simple common sense to acquire staff uniforms  with a little more waist, a litte more hips for the thickly-inclined? They can’t afford it? More like they don’t want to afford it! So she now have to hold her breath tight to squeeze-up in dem two piece of ting they call leg pants. And every morning she praying to Jesus that they put her on cash and not on clean-up.


You know what rotund does mean? She get fired because of that type of backsee…round and rotund. Suggestive, they say.  In trut, I find it to be quite regular, but I work fries and ain’t get promoted to consultant just yet..



Backsee big and bad. But not too-too bad cuz assistant manager keep calling her into the back office.  Dropping sweet lines left and right. Lines of a promising future in the service industry.  Telling she to stand tall and all typa mess like reach for the top as he recline nice in the manager’s leather chair.  Nasty snake. No wonder she scratch up he face like that. Good for him.

So they fire she.  One time.

That’s why me, I here in this breakroom and I keep to myself, smile when called and yam-up these white people salad we selling now so that my frame tight like they like, and wallet fat like I need.

Peanuts inna Baltimore

They are allergic to peanuts.

They  work at a small peanut oil processing plant.

They touch, smell and taste peanuts all day.

Pick it.

Press it.

Bottle it.

And Big Man dey watching from his high office.


Most don`t speak Big Man`s language.

All don`t get paid enough.

All are forced to work. There are no other jobs.

They need the little bit of cash to pay for their anti-histamine.


They are allergic to peanuts.

They work for a small peanut oil processing plant.

The few who speak with Big Man plea.

They show their  bleeding hives

They show their swollen eyes.

Those who can speak

Those who are not choking on the floor


we are allergic to peanuts.

we are allergic to peanuts.


Big Man says to be quiet.

Don`t blame peanut oil, after all its done for you.


Big Man wipes the white spittle from the corner of his pasty lips.


Are you sure it is peanut oil that is the problem?

What if it was grapeseed oil?

What if…canola

what if…olive

what if…sesame

Don`t blame the peanut. Peanut is good for us.  Peanut is good for business.

He say:

If you have a problem, you should wear a mask.

If you

have a problem




But don’t blame the peanut.  Peanut is good for us.  Peanut is good for business.

But we workers know that this here is a  big fucking peanut oil processing machine.

Not next type of oil,

Not what-if oil

Ah Peanut  Oil we ah talk bout.

We work here. We live here.

Mask on or Mask off

We can`t breathe.


Together, We spill the bottled oil on our bodies and ignite the fire.

Together, we barge the barricaded office of Big Man and forcefully bring his room-temperature body next to our burning flesh.


Together, We jump into the extraction machine.

Hear the bones crack.

Like the dry husk of the peanut.

First visit to market


How do aliens buy local?

What currency do they use

Food stamps, time shells

Blackblood fuel


How do aliens eat local?

What appliances do they need

Sun Rays, X rays

Radon seeds


How do aliens think global?

What conscience should we use

Third Eye, World Lie

Mapa’s Blues


by: Chris Vaughn

A poem inspired by the Alien Nation project

275-11: The Recipe

I gone and write down all deh ingredients down on piece a paper so, fold it twice from corner to corner and stuff it in my arse right tight so when the Lord does call me home, me and my Ginger Beer recipe gonna walk up to the pearly gates together as one. Cheez on, what a day that will be, yuh! In my three piece suit prim and proper ready to kick deh bucket and leave this wretched place, and leave all yuhs ungrateful children that plotting to teef my recipe from me. Chuh! Fool me once, if yuh please!

On my tombstone, that big piece of fine rock, make sure to write ‘Official Creator, Founder and Royal Curator of the Original Ginger Beer’ in the Queen’s Calligraphy yuh hear? That’s the very least you and your lazy brothers can do for yuh father. The very least.

In fact, I fit to write the recipe nice-nice so in blood-red ink on the last page of my Royal Barbadian Passport, so if ever I does forget where I going after the coroner pucker me up in my ivory casket, I can reach in my inner pocket and show all the heavens and the earth that I, Harold S. W. Walcott am the one and only official Barbadian Ginger Beer Royal Head Master, if yuh please. And I will die with my secret lodged in my old black arse and three cloves clenched in my cold fist. Tink I gunna let these unruly pickney take my good recipe,wreck it and then share it with their friends and family to enjoy? Over my rasshole dead body! Wuh loss!

275-8: Church the Underpaid Robot

Laughing to himself, Church stiffens his back, his entire body becoming erect. In a slow and lazy fashion he lifts his left arm then snaps his neck to the right, his small afro shaken by the sudden stop. The robot dance never seemed more appropriate.  In his corporate attire, Church continues with his B-boy Babylon moves, his pop-lock-your-ass-is-got breaking.   The plantation boogie has now moved to Church’s knees and to the bottom of his feet as he begins to moonwalk across his living room floor.  There is no synthesized beat to keep rhythm or hard bass line to guide his meticulous footsteps.  In his mind, the beat is stronger than any.  It’s the rhythm of punching clock, the tempo of metro doors closing and opening, the monotone melody   your pupils murmur when staring at a computer for hours.  It is the white collar jive, the no-money minstrel show.  Church is on a roll and sweat beads down the side of his cheek.  The well-toned muscles tense and release making Church’s body jolt, coil and sway. Instinct, Doubt and Temptation.  Streams of hot sweat begin to meander around the neck of the urban Zulu dancer and soak the collar of his pressed business shirt. Under it, his tank top clamps unto his rib cage, a new bright white epidermis on the melanin stricken skin of your average black nobody. The movements become more frantic, extensions of the limbs more sudden and vibrant.  Friction between his socks and the apartment’s musty carpet set the sole of his feet afire. The  thump from the apartment above doesn’t even phase Church instead it serves as an audio catalyst enhancing the otherwise soundless high-fevered prancing of an underpaid, under-appreciated but dangerously well-groomed and disturbingly polite new-age field negro. But man, can this brother jive!

(excerpt from a story I started writing a few years back….)

275-7: The Whip and The Horn

This someone insisted that I remove the words honky and cracker from my facebook status.  They scowled me for using racist terminology. This someone said that I am committing reverse-racism.  This someone warned me that by calling people honkies or crackers, that I may risk alienating allies and other white supporters that are also down for the cause.  This someone insinuated that I may lose my job.   This someone says “ You don’t like it when a white person calls you a nigger?  So don’t drop to that level by using the word honky and cracker.  Turn the other cheek.” This someone quoted scriptures to denounce my actions and then paused to let the deafening silence of white jesus approve this someone’s moral sermon.

Cracker please.

Cracker and Honky are descriptors that stem from one’s actions.  A cracker cracks the whip of white supremacy and white privilege on the backs of working blacks and beats them senseless with unjust laws and capitalist agendas.  A honky toots his horn at two in the morning in low-income communities, accosting vulnerable people in order to assuage his self-centered desire for sex, drugs and power all while non-chalantly breaking down the many social structures set in place by the people.  Don’t want to be called a cracker? Simple, drop the whip.  Don’t like being called honky? Well, get out the damn car and act like you got enough sense to know that the world does not revolve around you.

The crazy thing is that this someone is my Afrikan ass.  It’s the second-guessing that despite all the evidence, my reasoning may not be logical. Or valid. Such is racism.