“Why, Yes, It’s About Time”
In which we meet the Pote Loryut of Alabama
by Douglas Mercer
THE RENOWNED David Sims recently said that when it comes to Blacks, the costs are too great.
And the bills keep rolling in.
Now Alabamans, for four long and grueling years, are going to have to listen to a blimp-like baboon tell them what rotten people they are and their ancestors were. That’s right, a bloated, overstuffed Negro named Ashley M. Jones has become the Poet Laureate of the Yellowhammer State. And if you’re thinking that “laureate,” which means wreathed in laurel, is a super-European word, well, you’re right. But that “sassy” Jones, the illiterate, “don’t mind.” Why, she’ll just bust out the Ebonics and say: I be laureate.
She’s the latest in a long line of Negro trash who puffed themselves into the role of poet. There’s Maya Angelou, who, at Bill Clinton’s inauguration, celebrated the demise of White America and gave a putrid paean to the “rainbow” multicultural future. Then there’s angry Negro Audre Lord who debased the King’s by trying to fight “racism, sexism, classism, and homophobia.” And then more recently there’s talent-starved Amanda Gorman who parlayed a gig at Biden’s inaugural into a modeling career and now rubs Black elbows with criminal “rappers” and that culture-trash dispenser “Beyonce.”
So now comes the buffet-loving Ashley M. Jones, who looks like a freight train run amok and who occasionally grunts words onto paper and wins a Black award and other Blacks say it’s “deep” and next thing you know she’s being interviewed by a Black employee on the Jews’ Good Morning America.
It’s not a good morning, America. Not at all. Not when the likes of her vault to the top.
Jones is the Angela Davis of rancid free verse. She looks like she was the model for that “Oracle” demon statue they just put up in Manhattan.
Alabama will never be the same.
And you can be sure that if that other huge and hulking Negress Stacy Abrams gets elected US President after sandblasting Stone Mountain and spreading the dust in a landfill, Jones is sure to get the nod for the inaugural. She “be like”:
White America dead
Gib us all the money
Or that other all-time favorite:
Cill my landlord
Cill my landlord
C-i-l-l my landord
That’s not one of hers, of course; it was by that other obscure Afro-poet Leroy T. Kill-Whitey, whose career was cut short when he was locked up for killing his landlord (and his landlord’s family). He’s the one that Norman Mailer wanted to get released, but even the Jews said it was “too soon” for such intense “justice.”
This no-talent hack has risen to the top of the Alabama (dung) heap. And because she’s “Black and sassy” and a “pote loryut” and is comfortable with her body weight, the Jewish press have taken note. This be a hominid that they can use. It’s as if that Ta-Nehisi Whatever had busted out some lines.
And just think: Once in Birmingham they loved the governor!
But now they don’t like him at all. At least in statements meant for public consumption. Instead they grit their teeth, listen to Ashley M. Jones excrete all over them, and pretend to like it.
* * *
Proving that newspapermen in Alabama don’t know how to write anymore, one of them spewed:
Ms. Jones, a local of Birmingham, was lately named Alabama’s poet laureate, a place she is going to maintain from 2022 to 2026.
The title of poet laureate of Alabama was created in 1930. Nominated by the Alabama Writers’ Conclave (AWC) and commissioned by the governor, the poet laureate of Alabama plays a prominent public role, making appearances at schools, libraries, colleges and universities, and other state institutions.
Which means that doddering old fool, Governor Kay Ivey, had something to do with this. After she signed the papers, someone told her that the poet was Black. She was heard to say: “Oh, my.”
Jones’ work is widely acclaimed. In 2015 she was recognized with a Rona Jaffee Foundation writers award, which celebrates special contributions women writers make to our culture and society, according to the website. That same year, she was a finalist in the Hub City Press New Southern Voices and Crab Orchard Series in Poetry First Book Award contests, as well as the National Poetry Series.
You know how this coondoggle works. Three people with a mimeograph machine put out a post card with a Black first on it and name Jones to something or other. Soon she’s got a CV as long as Negro rapper’s rap sheet. Soon Jews the world over swoon over this “Black womyn with gumption” and lie by saying her words are important and mean something.
She be lauded! She be the laureate!
She be a big fat nigga.
In addition to Jones’ work with the Magic City Poetry Festival, the Alabama Writers Cooperative, the Alabama Writers Forum and PEN Birmingham, she is a member of the creative writing faculty at the Alabama School of Fine Arts and of the core faculty at the Converse College Low Residency MFA Program.
You see, the poetry world in America is nothing but a beggar’s ball. When’s the last time anyone went out and bought a book of poetry? And this sad and sorry state of affairs is the doings of that pervert pedophile Jew poet Allen Ginsburg and his horrible “poem” Howl. He took the Ayahuasca and wrote down whatever occurred to him and, because he was a dirty and filthy Jew who hated America and had the backing of his ilk (who owned the publishing houses even then), he managed to buffalo the poetry establishment into certifying his trash as “great.” Thus that establishment brought mental illness, self-hate, and unspeakable filth to the masses, who were told it was “poetry.”
Any acne-ridden subversive could then say, well, I don’t have any of the Ayahuasca but I can write down whatever occurs to me. And soon you were getting all kinds of much-too-free verse with no rules. Everyone who wasn’t vomiting from the spectacle was playing tennis with the nets down. Standards? You’ve got to be kidding.
And out of that chaos, the Jews could harvest and promote whatever served their purposes.
And soon you got incontinent slop like this from the “Poet Laureate of Alabama”:
melting the Sunday sky,
new mercies exploding, dynamite,
over our brown bodies.
Pretty little ones, dressed in lace, beneath
quivering old ones in hose and hats.
Remember how 16th Street shook,
symphony of fiery coughs
that turned our Birmingham to blood.
Under what God’s hand did we die like this?
Certainly under no God I recognize could this dreck be exalted. (And, may I add as an aside, It was never your Birmingham.)
She mixes undisciplined word salads with that Hate Whitey vibe. Which makes her a “great artist” to the Hebrew schlockmeisters who stole our media from us.
She is the primary Black individual and, at 31, the youngest individual to have the title within the 91 years Alabama has named a poet laureate, a notable second within the historical past of a state that’s nonetheless grappling with its historical past of white supremacy and lately banned the educating of vital race idea, which argues that historic patterns of racism are ingrained in American regulation and different trendy establishments.
Yes sir, here’s the new “standard” ideology. Here the worthless “critics” appear and write puff pieces for her, in this case with rather bizarre syntax. (If this is Blackspeak-meets-the-King’s I’ll take the King’s, thank you very much.)
Known for her piercing prose on Black womanhood, life within the American South and previous and present-day manifestations of racism in Alabama, Ms. Jones has earned a slew of accolades. Ashley doesn’t gloss over the painful components of American historical past, the day by day injustices confronted by many African Americans or her personal traumatic experiences.
Gloss over? She puts White Man Bad front and center like a crazed monomaniac. Jones thinks White America itself is a painful component. She was hating Whitey from her mother’s milk, and the praise from the anti-White establishment in this country is now the dragon’s milk she guzzles like there’s no tomorrow.
(Just assume I’ve written “sic” in forty or fifty places in each of these quotes; my pen is low on ink):
Charlotte Pence, director of the Stokes Center for Creative Writing on the University of South Alabama and chair of the poet laureate choice committee, mentioned Ms. Jones’s broad, inclusive imaginative and prescient of poetry, which incorporates slam poetry, oral traditions and outsider artwork, gained the group over.
“Slam poetry” is poetry that makes you want to slam your head against a wall. “Outsider artwork,” in addition to being “artwork” done by people who ought to be inside a mental institution but are not, is artwork done by people who can barely wield a crayon and like to wail about the big bad White men who once owned the plantations.
The appointment of a Black girl who’s unflinching in her criticism of these in energy, the censorship of Black historical past in colleges, housing discrimination, police violence and the methods of racism and white supremacy persist, is the newest instance of the hassle to raise the experiences and work of Black Alabamians.
Once more the odd syntax — that hagiographer may have dipped one time too many into the Ayahuasca herself. Grammar be racist! Lucid prose flowing like a clear-running stream be racist! Racist!
And it all reminds you that these Black “anti-racists” who are stuffed to the gills with titles like MA and PhD “earned” them in “African-American Studies” or the like.
The National Memorial for Peace and Justice, which opened in Montgomery in 2018, is devoted to the victims of American white supremacy, together with Black individuals killed by lynching. Nearby, the newly expanded Legacy Museum focuses on the legacy of slavery. And on the State Capitol, a committee is working to extract racist language from the Alabama Constitution.
There you have it. This is the heart of Dixie. Where you now get a near-baboon who figuratively tears the heads off White people invited to libraries to tell little White kids they are horrible and should be ashamed of themselves; who tells Blacks they should get more gibs because it be justice.
This the surviving White ladies and gentlemen of Alabama allow. If a once-mighty people fall any further, they’ll be rummaging around on the floor for table scraps.
It is fascinating to contemplate that it’s been nearly a century with none individual of shade holding the place, and I do assume that speaks to one thing that the entire nation must do to take care of.
None individual of shade. I be laureate. Followed by grunting noises and then she walks herky jerky through the room with her knuckles on the ground like Cheetah.
* * *
As Jones will never tire of telling you she grew up in Birmingham, Alabama where about 60 years ago a White man killed four Blacks, an event now called the Birmingham Bombing.
This incident, which pales in comparison with the untold number of Negroes who have murdered Whites, has taken on the stature and proportion of a veritable Shoah, if I may use the Sacred Term. Bob Dylan wrote a song about it. Or maybe he didn’t; he might have been busy grooming and molesting twelve-year-old White girls.
* * *
The 70s Jew miniseries Holocaust popularized that term (which prior to that meant something quite different) and also popularized the theretofore unknown idea that World War 2 was mainly about saving Jews.
Right around the time that Holocaust aired, another anti-White “mega hit” burst on the television scene: Roots. This was the show in which the Jew Ed Asner got to break character and play the evil White shipmaster who got to turn the screws on Negroes’ thumbs. Also notable in Roots was the scene in which O.J. Simpson got to wear a loincloth and prance around as a Mandingo warrior before he chopped a White woman’s head off.
Apparently that corpulent little butterball Ashley M. Jones was quite affected by a rerun of this tripe.
Three-year-old Ashley also watched Roots, the iconic television series that brought the brutality of slavery — at least a sanitized made-for-TV version — into our living rooms in 1977. It so traumatized her, though, that for years she feared she and her family, all African-Americans, could become slaves, too.
Jews create and propagate shows like this in order to make White people feel guilty and to stir up anti-Whiteness among other races; in this they succeeded, and the Black time bomb that is Ashley Jones is the dark fruit of their labors.
Meanwhile, the nasty greybeards among us Whites stroke their chins thoughtfully and say “Why, yes, it’s about time.”
* * *
Added to the terror that was struck in Jones’ black heart by Roots was the fear she experienced when she first was told about the Birmingham Bombing.
It didn’t help that as she learned of what had transpired in Birmingham during the years before she was born, when she learned of the police dogs, the tear gas and the terrorist bombings that made the city ground zero for the nation’s struggle for racial equality.
Cry me a river. Tell that that to all the White people who have been murdered in America by Negroes since 1963; that body count is countless; but no one says anything about it. No book of poetry is published about it; no one trumpets it long and loud as the crime spree of all the centuries that have ever been; and certainly no gets named Laureate of anything over it.
And knowing that this place was a place where Black people were killed and terrorized and not allowed to live full lives under the law tainted the city a little bit.
A little bit? By the gods, you’ve made a life out of it.
* * *
Believe it or not, this nullity has had books published. Several. One of the earliest and worst was called dark // thing which, from what I can glean from cursory research, is a fingernails-on-the-blackboard screech about how bad the White man is.
Ashley M. Jones stares directly into the face of the racism that allows people to be seen as dark things, as objects that can be killed/enslaved/oppressed/devalued.
Apparently the slashes represent the lashes that all Blacks have endured at the hands of Whites. That Blacks are now a privileged class, supported lavishly with tax dollars, effectively exempt from many laws, and elevated by Jews far beyond their natural stations, escapes these people.
Her second book, dark // thing, is, as the title, suggests, quite different that its predecessor. Jones wrote it in 2016 and 2017, during a period when much of America was grappling with the stunning results of a presidential election and the world of change it wrought.
That it brought no changes whatsoever also escapes them.
Reparations Now! covers a wide range of subject matter. While some poems delve into the horrors of lynching and police violence, others celebrate family, music, and spirituality. Some pieces demonstrate society’s demonization of Black women. When she began writing Reparations Now! she didn’t know what the title could be, however she wrote what was on her thoughts: the situation of being Black in America.
What’s “on her thoughts”? What do you think? The eternally hard luck of blackie; what else? Does she have any other thoughts? She certainly never thinks that she should give up the sorry scam she’s perpetrating.
Of course, despite her shrill protestations, the real situation of being Black in America is they never had it so good.
Collectively, they are like rats who roam around the outside of a big mansion where the people inside are throwing a continual party. The food is so plentiful that the people toss much of it out back. Then the rats crawl up and get their fill. It’s a mean life perhaps, but absent that mansion the rats would go belly up en masse.
Then there is the book Magic City Gospel; which from De Soto’s ‘discovery’ of Alabama to George Wallace’s infamous stance in the schoolhouse door, to the murders of black men like Trayvon Martin and Eric Garner in modern America….
Seems like she has found her theme.
Jones’ first book of poems, Magic City Gospel was a National Poetry Series finalist and a silver medalist in poetry in the Independent Publishers Book Awards. “It’s about the experience of being a dark person in America, not just Birmingham,” Jones says. “I was angry, and so are the poems. I don’t need to be quiet about what goes on in America.”
No, no one is the boss of her. But I must say it wouldn’t kill her to shut her lying mouth.
Other poems, like “She Is Beauty, She Is Grace,” which is devoted to Breonna Taylor, Sandra Bland, Oluwatoyin Salau and so many killed Black ladies, are concerning the methods [by which] Black girls may be robbed of their personhood by society.
Other poems show the execrable nature of her “gift.”
Villains, victors, what did you see?
Wa wa watermelon, a chorus of coons,
X’s on the eyes, a grim cartoon?
Y’all come back now, hear?
Zippety do dah till the day you die.
Ho ho horrible.
the wheel turning cotton to make the nation move. we the scapegoat in a land built from death. no longitude or latitude disproves the truth of founding fathers’ sacred oath: we hold these truths like dark snuff in our jaw, black oppression’s not happenstance; it’s law
The golden wings of poesy this is not.
This is the sound a nation makes going down the rat hole.
There must be an end to it. Or there will never be an end to it.
* * *
She’s Black and she’s proud! Say it long! Say it loud!
“It’s no secret I love a man who can sing and dance and walk like he’s got black wings.”
And, presumably, rob a liquor store, loiter drunk on a stoop all damn day, wear ill-fitting trousers, talk like his soul is full of filth, leave his children in the lurch, maim and murder, and spend 10 to 15 in the pen.
“Sure, anyone could argue that James Brown’s mere being is an emotional swell. I would argue that — have you heard that man sing? Only James could sing ‘neck bones, turnips, candied yams, smothered steak!’ and make it sound like a cry to the Lord. Soul Power by James Brown took me into that moment because in the poem, I say it’s like a time warp or a time loop that sound is so full of energy. And you can put a lot in that energy. It’s angry. It’s happy. It’s sensual. It’s excited. It’s Black.”
On this the cretin and I agree: It’s Black, all right.
On December 15, 1988, James Brown began serving a six-year sentence for carrying a deadly weapon at a public gathering, attempting to flee police, and driving under the influence of drugs. Rumors of a PCP habit had already surfaced by the time his erratic behavior came to a head in September, when he reportedly stormed into the insurance company next to his office, waving a shotgun and complaining that strangers were using his bathroom. When the police arrived, Brown led them on a high-speed chase through Georgia and South Carolina. He tried to ram police cars with his pickup truck. They shot out two of his tires; he drove on the rims for six miles.
He feels good. He be Black and proud. He say it long and loud. He Black. You can make a Negro world famous but he’s still a Negro. There’s nothing to be done about that.
“I imagine, more often than is healthy, news stories carrying my hashtag, images of me accompanied by ‘unarmed Black woman.’ I wonder how they’d interview my family, how someone on Fox News would try to say I was asking to die.”
First off, no one on Fox News would say any such thing; they surrendered whatever manhood they may have had (and it wasn’t much to begin with) a long time ago. But it really is quite amazing the fantasies they have — the Klan in the night, the hatemonger getting revenge. She’s really just a single step from Jussie Smollet’s fantasia about red-hatted marauders assaulting him. Which only goes to show that since White predation on Blacks barely exists, they have to invent it.
Her deepest wish is that someone, somewhere will one day “say her name.”
“I’ve heard people say that George Floyd died. Yes, he died, but because of what? George Floyd was murdered. Emmett Till was murdered. Tony McDade was murdered. Sandra Bland was murdered. Philando Castile was murdered. Breonna Taylor was murdered.”
The lachrymose laundry list. Name the Black murderers, why don’t you? Say their names. That list will go on and on and on.
“When I say murder, I’m saying: Columbus crossed the ocean blue in 1492 and yes, he created a new world, one which was punctuated, fertilized, tilled, by murder and rape and the blood of so many people who made the honest mistake of thinking human life mattered.”
Not all life matters. And White Civilization is worth all the blood shed times twenty million.
This angry Negro does not stop.
“Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence while owning slaves and raping one in particular, Sally Hemings. All men created equal unless you are, in fact, not a ‘man.’ Unless you’re one of those incapable of reason, sweaty, degenerate Blacks who make things tick at picturesque Monticello.”
Ok, that last bit was on the mark. Give the devil her due.
“George Wallace lost the Alabama gubernatorial race when he first ran in 1958. It was not until he got backed by the Ku Klux Klan that he won, and made way for the infamous inauguration speech in which he called for segregation forever in opposition to the ‘tyrannical’ forces of Washington and the push for civil rights.”
Tyrannical does not belong in quotation marks. The Federal imposition of Black rule in a White land qualifies as tyrannical. Hell, those Founders were suffering a few pennies in taxes on tea and stamps, and they grabbed their rifles before you could say “ancient liberties.” What would they have done had such dark things been appointed to lord over them?
Give me the songs you mentioned had been yours however you realize got here out of our lips first. Give me again Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X and Medgar Evers. Give me again the great thing about my hair. The swell of my hips. The huge of my lips. Give me again the entire Atlantic Ocean. Give me a endless blue. And a mule.
And all the money they want.
Which street would I turn down that was that fateful wrong one? Where might the Klan be hiding this time? In a dark corner, in a business suit, in Congress, in a police uniform, in a cake shop, in a judge’s robe, in a prison guard, in a gun owner, in a red hat and an American flag?
Always the red hat, these days. It’s a Jewish script. Perhaps they’ll make a television show out of it. The White man in the shadows. White hood or red hat. Watch out for that rope!
“Coming from Birmingham to visit my grandmothers in Bessemer, Alabama, and Greensboro, Alabama, always took us through forests, and when I looked at the branches I’d imagine they were just strong enough to hold me and the other five members of my immediate family when the Ku Klux Klan strung us up by our necks with rope.”
They really shouldn’t have shown her Roots. That was irresponsible. Ed Asner can be quite terrifying when he puts his mind to it.
* * *
The horror of Trump, Birmingham, her Blackness — these are not the themes of high literature, but they are enough to make you the chief poet of Alabama. They are enough to make you the head yellow-eyed wordsmith in the Yellowhammer State. But given the title of her latest book — Reparations Now! (subtle, that) — and her infamous refrain “Reparations today, reparations tomorrow, reparations forever!” — you can be sure that her manically obsessive subject is — wait for it — reparations.
Their dignity is never intact and they always carry their begging bowl.
She says that so-called “reparations” is not just about money. But trust me. Money is what they want.
Ultimately, that creation of space where it is lacking is part of what Jones means by reparations. She says it’s not just about financial repairs. “What I mean when I say reparations is that I want what we are owed. Which means for me as a Black person, I want to be able to walk into a room with my hair however it is fixed, with my skin as dark or as light as it is, and not feel immediately targeted.”
Truth be told, absent the Jewish promotion machine she’s got behind her, no one would pay her a second’s notice. But in her mind’s eye, all eyes — all White eyes — are always on her, their possessors hoping to kill her. Total nonsense; pathological nonsense.
“Give me land, give me all of the blood you ripped out of our backs, our veins.”
“What I’m asking for, reparations of all kinds. I’d like to be able to drive through a certain neighborhood and not be afraid that the cops are going to come get me, right? Or I’d like to walk into a grocery store and be able to put my hands in my pockets and not feel like somebody’s looking at me any way. It’s those reparations.”
Well, people probably do look at her a certain way, and no wonder. She’s an always-incensed Negro with a vicious streak a mile wide. And she hates White people, and says so loudly. So you at least have to be on your guard. And you don’t have to tell any White man about walking through neighborhoods and not feeling safe. Hell, in Oakland there is a corner I remember at the intersection of Mandela Parkway and Huey P. Newton Way. If you should ever find yourself there unarmed — run!
The poet Ashley M. Jones needs excess of monetary reparations to compensate for hundreds of years of slavery and its legacies — to her, true reparations require an unlimited cultural evolution.
Let’s just say that cultural evolution — unlimited or limited — is not exactly what Negroes are known for on the world-historical timeline. It’s more for the destruction and despair they engender everywhere that they are noted, and rightly so.
* * *
And now for four long, grueling years White Alabamans have to listen to this hateful screeching. What kind of people would put up with this? A White Republican elite acceded to it.
Now she’ll be like some dirt-colored Pied Piper, waltzing around the state, laying waste to its White heritage, pulverizing its White history, and blowing to bits its very Whiteness.
With frequent stops at Popeyes, of course.
“How can we, in this age of reinvigorated (not newly created – make no mistake, we have never truly eradicated racism, oppression, misogyny, discrimination) bigotry, dismantle the in-plain-sight perpetuators of this unjust and murderous system? It’s not enough to point out the blatant instances of racism, not now, in a country whose complacency and eagerness to claim progress has resulted in this president, this culture of division, this continued attack on people of color, LGBTQ+ people.”
Look, she tossed a bone to the fags.
“I have been, like many Americans, incensed by these last four years which were, we know, just a natural extension of the underbelly of White supremacist thought that has haunted our nation since its founding. I have been at times frustrated and afraid for my life.”
What utter bilge.
This will never end until we end it.
A small cadre of Black so-called cultural representatives found a Black woman with massive and unfounded racial self-pity who from time to time could put a word or two together — however poorly — and they built her into the Second Coming of poetry incarnate. And now she’s like a live Black grenade they can throw into all sorts of educational and cultural gatherings — and the White man will just have to take it, as his children are abused and their future totally ruined.
* * *
You heard ole Neil put her down?
When it comes to lambasting the White South, this dark thing makes that hippie look like a piker.
Four more years, indeed, And then, in 2026, she can desecrate the 250th with her filth as a parting shot.
He rape her, dun’he?
We built dis country
So where our money?
Take their streets
Slit their veins
Justice fallin’ like the rains.
Blacks, they cost so much — and the bills just keep rolling in.
Meanwhile, the greybeards are gathering like the clouds on Stone Mountain: Why, yes, it’s about time.
* * *