Pity the Trump

The time is all we've lost/ I'll try it! Jonathan Edwards

I cannot say what the other drifters in Philadelphia's LOTR think of me, with the possible exception of Black Adder, a young man who doesn't suit as a primary target, but I no longer have a healthy social intelligence, let alone social extensions I value, and value me in return. I had a flicker of interest in the Asian computer geek, but haven't batted an eyelash, nor intend too, as I know nothing, inclusive of his age, sexual orientation; he is kind, however, and comprehends my fervor when I see him. I have a relationship to kimmy, at least in mourning for Vinnie, a relationship to broadcast schedules, to Trader Joe's as a brand, to the self-absorption of the seventies, singing Jonathan's post Woodstock angry ballad as loudly as I could in my alienated urban world of happy blacks and more diffident Pakistani's.

All I have left is memories of fraudulent emotional investment, and on bad days, the cut of my former manager's voice in my head, with her come off it attitude because a poem of longing for a man I never caught had a double entendre on the word "come," which suited her convenience to go off on me. "Hands With Cerebral Palsy" was never a literal experience between Tassoni and I, never an assertion of a caress to his face, only the stanzas of a broken heart. In this context, I've assiduously avoided too much dissection of the flaming Trump phenomena; never liked him, saw him as carnivalesque, his rise indicative indeed of the warnings prophesied in Network and Max Headroom, but the establishment has so gone off its rocker I'm leaning toward not giving my vote to Harambe, the saintly victim of human primacy. "Sunshine" was a pop fizz out of the turbulent 60's, but despite the resonance of the chords Edwards strikes, it cops a plea, and in that vein fails its liberal zeal.