Reversi, Elemental

                      Set you down this;
And say besides, that in Aleppo once,
Where a malignant and a turban’d Turk
Beat a Venetian and traduc’d the state,
I took by the throat the circumcised dog,
And smote him thus. 
Othello 5.2.407-412
Poor Aleppo. You are not fooled by this malevolent primate, are you? At the very least, we are in love with our own theories about the bottleneck distribution of our origins, except when there is no origin, no first cause. I cannot resist telling you that there is the most fleeting glimpse of Kris Kristofferson's ass in the post post Vietnam film Welcome Home, just barely, a shot of his crack, the tush of post public hair in the buttock cleft. A stock movie with more than a hint of nutmeg on Robinson Crusoe. The Vietnamese remain perplexed by our fascination and defeat in their country. No one ever discusses their subsequent border skirmish with China, no, cripples like me will carry the survival guilt of her teachers and blood uncle who served, even her doomed ladle-girthed slobbering ex, plugging my cleft with his fingers, he hated serving in the infantry, leaving me unsure about damage to my rectum, the girls say no, but still, my suspicions remain. Did he damage me? Rectal penetration with this bobble head felt like an enhanced interrogation technique. I carry their guilt. The silence of mother's brother, the anger of Jerry, whose name I have posted with such frequency that maybe ludes are a good idea at this point, since this is kind of all that I have, my legal stalking of the unfortunate Shakespearean for three semesters, thereof. As if to keep writing him assists me through the act of trivializing him, and maybe it is that, the narcissism of pain, a trivial mockery that I am fucking stuck in one place because I had to run from my family, and now I am stuck in the matrix of black protestants who do not like the new generation of low income Koreans who wave at me with freeze dried grins. Do I have any allies left?

No, and twitter undulations do not really count, even if one of you would, on a dare, help me, or give me space to relocate, the accommodations needed for my broken skeleton are daunting, level shower floor plans, firmly bolted grab bars, toilet at the correct power chair height. I need to cease engaging the transvestite with the catheter on his clitoris. We have been having the same conversation for twenty years; he is old and sick and I don't like him and he treats me still in his scarred and stroke damaged brain like a patient chart, and I am none better for heeding his advice, worse for trusting him and his fucking demonstrations; he depresses me and I am just short of losing my compassion for the Yoda death freak; yet he is my history, and we're still boxing. It is my fault. An enemy that is my only social link, he is either too damaged to actualize my animosity, or perhaps genuinely trying to give me a life line; it's pointless, either way.

I am going to go lie down, but to give you a clue, I will be tying this back in to the last movie, Bright Angel. "O kay," you shrug. I always thought I could win, would win, and had a happy writer's life. My margin of error derailed not a few transit systems.