On Mary's lap lay sleeping?
Whom angels greet with anthems sweet,
While shepherds watch are keeping?-- the classic carol
Jack Dorsey is the boy man who lucked out and got the coolest bubble gum machine we fantasized about as children, but the standard terms of service bulletin does not abrogate moral responsibility, nor does it resolve the issue of what to do with fanaticism in the context of social networks. I know something about hate, real vitriolic hate of the type which led Poets & Writers to suspend me before bitterness and betrayed trust extended to hating my former homosexual associates, one of whom was a real friend, if not the best one for me, before my tolerance ruptured into corrosion, before I really got hurt, physically and mentally, and experienced black racism which liberals hastily deny exists, but I know enough to know we are not going to kill ourselves back to the age of Exodus, and I have restrained myself from my worst caustic excesses, for selfish reasons as well. I care about my legacy. Members of al-Shabab need to realize they are already corrupted, if they are using twitter to heighten the profile of this fantasy Caliphate they believe they can impose on Northern Africa.
I weep for our dead, but also for the fact that I am the oracle of a history very few are willing to respect. I lived the Kent State massacre, lived it, and like the rest of the country, was horrified that a state national guard could kill university students simply for protesting our military aggression bent on dousing Asian nationalism. I've read that Google hates being the arbiter of first amendment rights; I get it. Dorsey imitates the model, a convenient preclusion of conscience. Tears can now resume streaking my face.
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