Parsimonious Ends

Twice I have attempted to settle down at this old wooden desk of Tom Reid's, the one piece of worthless furniture I have that has long exceeded its mileage, and twice during these attempted settlings I got the gut burn. First the burn pee, successfully contained, and then a second night dump, flaming out of me, with my maternal grandfather's plumbing; he lived to a badly reached 88, my big child loud grandfather Louis. I inherited his bellicose agitation, his terrible digestive tract, and possibly his Alzheimer's, but that is thus far speculative. I forget where my keys are, or why I rolled to the kitchenette, but not yet lost my spatial sense of location, like why I head to a particular franchise. I may like Dunkin Donuts but my intestines make a different argument, and it was a struggle to visit Dunkin today, and that not for the pleasure of the thing itself, but because I had not eaten. The head crew Asian cut me a break on seven cents out of his tip cup, not because of my poverty, but because of making change, and I guess this means he and I share a mutual respect, given my customer frequency.

Asian cultural norms, minus the cult of the Emperor, re North Korea, Mao, I find admirable, and hope they resist the worst aspects of Western identity politics. Yes, I am a bitch with a heart of gold, and if you want to pick a fight, then bring it on, because liberalism creates as many problems as it solves. I have a mind in here, to echo Clinton over Coretta King's coffin, and I should not have had to spend most of my life suffering because I was born with brain damage the size and width of a quarter, and I never, never deserved to be played like a patsy by other disabled people I trusted. Fighting the system is hard enough. I should not have had to spend my best years living in senior housing, and I will die fighting this, spending my last breath in anger, even due to the fact that HUD Secretary Shaun Donovan looks like a venture capitalist. Obama is probably aware of this, and now that I have your name Shaun, you will be hearing from me, though your look of efficiency belies that you head an ineffectual American gulag. Ah, the Principal spin doctors, and their bleeding humane compassion! Clintonian white bread, a good boy trying to aim for the progressive good.



























Erik used to meet with HUD Secretaries. I only got as far as the civil servants under them, and that, when I had my little scrap of power at the Matrix Research Institute, but this is the choice I have in this great Republic, to reinstall Harvard left centrists, or a squeaky brand rich Mormon who was molded by Mattel manufacturing.

Technically, I am already broke, living on borrowed time. Forty nine is not young anymore, and now my little brother and I had a real quarrel in email; there goes the refurbished basement in South Carolina people. Poof, with a flaming colon up for sale.