Poor Signals Binge

"In Rome everything is the color of flesh," -- Diana Dors, another brass platinum defying the patriarchy

Individuals who are as disabled as I don't evict themselves from public housing without a game plan, without even much ability to pack the daybed, the one instance where dead Frank made himself useful, finding a wood frame I liked, with poles I grip after my palsied lateral twist balances my buttock on the sorry twin mattress, a holdover from the unsafe metal bed my mother purchased, the women charging in when I was new, assembling me back together, and yet I've made up my mind that by the end of September I'm rolling out, on a bus, swaddled in a diaper if I can wear the one box of diapers Timothy Artis dropped off when he was still active, in his servile request for rides from the women with cars, myself perhaps only hurrying along Presby's Inspired life in its forgone conclusion, putting myself out on the street to get scuttled in a time of political uncertainty, as I am presuming the election will be a coronation for the Clintons, both of whom look like wax museum figurines, while I wage a titanic mortal struggle within, unseemly at that, checking off the list of lost habits, no Vuse, no pot of coffee on demand, my little plan rolled up in my back pocket, I have to pull myself together and research shelter accommodations, discipline, in this summer torpor, too humid to sleep and nearly too humid to work.

I was always circumspect about Samuel Clemens as a local colorist, meaning I give obeisance to the canon of classification: Great American 19th century author, without caring. Shocking, though of course African American scholars have sabotaged Huckleberry Finn; Clemens too struggled with self-subterfuge, talking himself out of a suicide attempt. He was a successful grandee of American letters. No question of that, but he never anchored himself securely in economic terms, and made a number of bad investments, from which he never truly rebounded, which illustrates creativity in its self destructive tendencies.

For those of you whom I may confuse: I am vacating myself from 22 years of duress from an ineffectual, hypocritical, superficial Protestant dictatorship which exploits damaged humans along the same lines of modern animal husbandry, which is obscene, and a topic which once made Peter Singer the epicenter of activist outrage, along with those grievances, iterated previously,  ambulatory individuals would only endure in a schematic and rigid tragedy like Ethan Frome, which is Wharton's homage to marginalized invalids, the likes of whom are, in contemporary terms, only found in Siberia, or Syria, Libya, maybe New Guinea.


The struggle to destroy Little Vinnie in April turned my one small vinyl suitcase into garbage. to be placed in the trash room before I run around center city demanding an advocate and legal help at the point of a bayonet, as I can. For a dago who used to be able to consume poultry and pork like a pig, I'm eating only in small spoonfuls of stress. You having a decent Monday morning? Time to really work a little and stop panicking, even in the knowledge I am not solving a thing letting blacks continue to make me the heavy, treating me like prey, or bludgeoning me with threats.