ABSTRACT
The deformed, put-off dreams, the mutant hopes, futile efforts, spent living and spent dying. To the best of his frail honesty Calvin C. Hernton write out of a deep, human, psychopathic need for salvation or murder. Death by hating and eating, generational devolutionary slaughter by mating and excreting. In the cyclops of human denial the microscopic beams of snake eyes thrash his soul into conniptions of the criminal. Homo Sapiens deformed by crossed sticks, corpulent green backs and the myth of white woman. Meshes of Calvin C. Hernton psyche boomerang with centuries of sea-weed. Scars of oppression barb-wire his people's personalities like sword-slits in the profile. Because being Negro in the world, and especially in America, is to screw yourself perpetually in public. With black phallus jammed into your anus and white world cajoling supplication, deriding and demanding and defining it, you clandestinely emanate yourself a sort of God, a real God, but a deformed God.
