The Ellsberg Anarchism

"Crimson and Clover"-- The Shondells

Normally, I automatically delete the majority of chapbook contests Allison Joseph transmits, but Brain Mill caught my eye, despite that it apparently overflows with generational neo-liberalism. I logged on to check the site for fees and to look for its open poetry series for the month of June, only there seems to be a contradiction between what the email instructs and the links on the site. My lack of sympathy for the five zillion MFA programs within the college of arts academies may be construed as my lack of success within it, but only in part. I am increasingly conservative, with more than trace elements of libertarian sentiment (despite free press antagonism to Peter Thiel) and most writing programs have wallflower multicultural codes already implanted within them-- not that they don't produce good writers, but, with varying exceptions, like David Mitchell, they're all the same, variations in style, technique, notwithstanding.

I have not had a good Monday, and left my key rope on the table because I became distracted, got back to Riverside, plowshared the office like an enemy combatant, exhaustively plopped on mattress sinkhole, today succeeded with my odd trick of getting up exactly on time for a program, and casually measured my emotional pain as self-mutilating, easing, mildly, with chili, burrowing in on the last of my usage before an overage.

It is not a good time to be me, the angry, race baiting militant. You might ask me what I want, within my episodic battles with the Presbyterian modus operandi I now mostly have what I want, being left alone, cleaning up after my dead Vinnie, battling kimmy's stubborn temperament, all apartment dwellings have tenant frictions, and before I inducted myself in Presby's sandpit, I was in Marie's row home, dirty and straggling as reverted to form in my fifties, dumping my commode stool in her back alley. The chip on my shoulder is over my lack of choice. I was this close to getting my own mortgage in 1994, and now, my only options are grin, bear it, or give my notice, then ask myself how I'm supposed to defecate when push comes to shove, if I turn myself out, hence Brain Mill's "Love & Mercy" theme caught my eye, in the turmoil of my own scourge:

I am going to write this, twitter and Google be damned: FBI director James Comey, the swarming liberal apologia for law enforcement's lack of willingness to behave like a police state with Mateen, can go fuck itself, royally. It behaves like a police state with me. I cannot move, and I've been stuck here thirty years, with a near insurmountable ability to restore my economic freedom. 

If The Pentagon Papers changed public perception to the extent Ellsberg's vindication would have it, we would have never fought the Iraq War.