Virgil Kills by Ronaldo Wilson

Author:Ronaldo Wilson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Nightboat Books

Some artists and writers, and fewer critics, might argue that this is “making some way out of no way,” but Virgil understands the material consequences of being presented with things bent, torn, and already spent before it might be reconfigured into experiment.

One example was in the cardboard boxing of a “Baby Wet & Care” doll and wire hangers that Naldo and TheThenBuildingBlackDad fashioned into a catcher’s facemask, other toy-train-track boxes triple reinforced and stuffed with foam from somewhere, forming the body-armor, and the headgear padding to absorb missed catches.

“Naldo,” what Virgil first called his big brother, had some pitching arm, just like the sweet serve that whistled by Virgil’s ear, in doubles. Naldo calls tennis, a game of motion. Naldo pissed on Virgil in a bathtub. Naldo looks like Virgil, and for this, there are consequences.

Virgil burned Naldo’s arm on purpose with the soldering iron as payback. Virgil broke the window. Virgil did not tighten the front wheel of the ten-speed. By this, Virgil means that he is engaged in the activity of performance, something Ralph Ellison calls “tinkering,” in the tradition of Edison. Virgil thinks he mentions it, but it’s something more, something that won’t bind Virgil into being absorbed into simply wanting to tell his story.

Living, To Play (Virgil’s Dad’s always morphs in Virgil) and MommaSpine taught Virgil and CeSis everything they could for them to constitute their most original lives. The roaches scattered at the roadside hotel, or sleeping under the sky of a rest stop between Millington and Alameda—and to add, for six or seven months, LivingToGive, another name for Virgil’s dad, was away at sea, but MommaSpine was there: “She raised you guys alone.”

In Alameda, Virgil remembers the windows were open early in the morning, voices, and the house was cold. Maybe one of Virgil’s uncles, The Twin or BAMA40 was in the house.

Maybe BAMA40 came to protect his brother’s wife after he found out about the break-in. But it was no matter, Virgil, nine or ten, was unafraid of who it was that robbed their home. Dust the windows for prints, black dust left on the white sills. The fingerprints were only marks to Virgil. Not peril.

Naldo’s arm, which is like his father’s, is akin to Virgil’s—all of their arms, like their skin, is loose, especially at the joints. “They all play tennis the same,” the PI Tennis Prodigy says, their strokes swinging to make forcing shots, bodies taught to propel opponents into compromised positions.

The weight of the ball comes, too, from the hard quads. The speed of the pitch comes from the elbow’s rotation, forearm’s aim and finger tips flick. As in tennis, “Go up after it!” BlackDad coaches, Virgil’s serve crisp off the strings, his racket head slicing the air. Through impact, his body flowing out, and into the court for power and position.

This is not a White life.

This is: TheCurveButtDad is advising LanternShortsYellow to NOT GO TO STANFORD, as if the same rules apply for her AZN AZZ, especially the specific

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.