The Hunt for Kony

"There were people with their tongues hanging out of their mouths."-- a child narrator in a Richard Gere film

Scowling. The viewers who reported me due to the immersion of my sympathy with Christopher Dorner had it right in the first place, and correctly divined my genocidal impetus. I would dare to sit in judgment, and like the Chinese authorities in the Peoples’ Republic, I’d gleefully waste thousands here and thousands there in hyperbolic exaggeration, and deep down inside, there are many human power mongers like me, not to add a few Egyptian generals to the list, or the entire governing body of North Korea. The only reason I do not really let loose, I mean really let it out in a verbal ingenuity of hell fiend on wheels in a scathing vat of boiling gold to the tenth Klevin, is only partially due to an over developed paranoia. I care too much about the project I’ve developed on my two blogging accounts, akin to my fervor to annihilate public housing.

The fossil fuel residue that ignites my violet Roman temper upset mio padre. I telephoned him to discuss estate planning in my avarice. He then telephoned his demented sister of whom, it may be said, is wearing me out in her shrewd and shrill inconsistencies. This, from a spastic running her native tongue into the searing Fahrenheit. Marie, my Uncle Joseph, Louise mio padre’s wife, with her RA, would save us a great deal of trouble with a lungful or two of carbon monoxide, regardless of my cousins’ umbrage. Richie and I do not get along, and he’d whale me for the blunt force of my unhappiness his mother has absorbed since 2006. Billy would be softer.

Should I apologize to the writers like Robert and academics like Carrol Cox or Sheldon Novick, when I letter write failure miseries in my box set? I did the same thing to Professor Jerry McGuire, now in emeritus status, deploy rhetorical strategies to make the more deftly able feel badly for me. I would apologize to Robert for my last plaint, but he is too well mannered to tell me he is weary of my electric chatter in his head, and I am uncouth enough to go into minute speculative detail signifying nothing, except for one small item. Robert is my exception to the rule about online interactions. He is my friend, mainly because we’re both poets. All I was going to convey is that I do not want to sleep with him, and then apologize to his wife for that, but you see how the worms wriggle in the tin if I keep up this reflective introspection, especially as one Watson like sidekick is better than none at all. You have no idea how much I’d like to say “fuck housekeeping” and bring back an official caste system. I have to lie down, as I’m interviewing a second candidate later this afternoon, even when I utilize a post as letter writing to no one. I would have liked Reiner's film somewhat better if it was as nuanced as Lost in Translation. I may pick this up again. Buttock has made a request, in the interim, not to suicide by pressure sore. One of my former aides just pinged me on Linked In. That she will probably regret in relatively short order, ha.

Houyhnhnms

...there will be found the future warriors of the faith who will march out one day, burning and slaying in Christ's name, against a heathen Europe sunk in corruption, to see at last, amid the smoking ruins of Rome, a black Pope will sit on the throne of Peter.--Hermann Broch, The Sleepwalkers, p.29

Two pitches in one month, wow, aren't things looking just grand? The failure of my hearing loss article came about because I looked at deafness and chronic conditions as distinct, and then became rapidly confused, and beyond that I am still running a ticker tape, revising the pitch. Tried to behave with the editor as these losses are costly, and I am sulky about that, and have been sulky most of the week as it is the holiday and I'd like to get out and have no plans. Sticky and grumpy and for you, no doubt, your shower is routine. For me it is a damn death dance and I cannot do it today. Dana Byrd wrote me a short personal note on my membership renewal request, thanking me for participating in the Ulysses group last year, as if it was somehow commendable that spastic Italian trolls rubbed shoulders at the intersection of Dublin and Jerusalem. When I last saw her she was impeccable. Member appreciation night. Tight blond bun, blemished slightly by acne, she seemed preoccupied with her own worries, perhaps that her employment wasn't up to scale? Or a lover's rift, and despite the fact that I am on the edge, the brink of true madness, maintaining my membership matters. Next week it shall be renewed, because I believe in the preservation of what we were.

I can barely remember the pleasurable heat of a man's penis inside me. More than likely I will never again have the opportunity for willing and consensual pleasure, and I am angry about that too. But let me qualify: I am mad that Obama essentially changed nothing; I am mad that the tea party essentially changed nothing and in addition, they seem to think behaving like morons is a virtue. I am an American, regardless of my lust for Tuscan soil, but I am tired and have been beaten down by the disabled community in this city, no less, by a landlord that now walks on egg shells with me, by my declining strength, and for the Europeans and others who have viewed my posts, forget the myth of American exceptionalism. It works only for a minority, and of that minority, fewer sustain success through the course of a lifetime. Corporations can be compassionate to loyal cripples, of course, and I blow a kiss to old Ma Bell, but more than likely I will not be blogging after 2014, whether on Google's platform or another. My debt default will hound me to my grave, and no one cares about independent living center collusion, nor what it did to me; this is peanuts in the scales of corruption, and I am sure the feds will get right on it when I get to them; my health and ability will never be the same, however, and in a counter narrative I could just surrender and heed Veronica, find a care facility and then wait in pain because I am still strong willed, not ready to die.

Can't you just live your life? 

The risks involved in taking a leap of faith once again at my age are different than yours, and I'd be alone in taking them. I have very little new manuscripts to submit, and I have to start culling these posts for transformation. I hope that odor is a gasoline discharge wafting in, rather than something in the studio. None of the powers laid a finger on China over Tiananmen but the Alawites need to be scolded into the next century's persecuted minority. I cannot imagine the loyalists around the Assads could not calculate the risks of a mass carnage. I did not know Hafez was guilty of the similar atrocities when I used to read Time's coverage of his rule. I thought in black and white terms. Good guys and bad, but I can envision dying by a police taser, if disease doesn't get me first.

An Elgar for Hillary

Or a nihilist soothed by taut strings

"You're the one who left me." Frank Versante, my nihilist ex fiance

Who am I to judge how Hillary played the hand her husband dealt her? Just a disenfranchised voter who doesn't have much to be thankful for in terms of political ejaculations. I write many things that breach manners, how homosexual friends and associates and sixty year old transgendered freaks twisted my mind and loyalties and sensibilities and how a supervisor's gloating became ugly and a mass mocking, and all this is what is wrong with me in my broken body according to everyone else. I do not let it go, even though, whether I let it go or not, the fount of ablest hatred is always at hand, similar to Sister Veronica's interrogation.

I understand hate crimes, and while Antisemitism used to perplex me, after what I have been through and whom with, it doesn't anymore. So again, whether Bill and Hillary find each other a necessary liability is something none of us can ascertain against expediency. Huma Abedin may have made the same calculation for a lesser problem, since no one is claiming Anthony Weiner is a serial affair monger. Political analysts discussed this during the opening days of the Bush Administration, that one thing both of our major political brand families have in common is a narcissistic preoccupation  with themselves, and I do not understand why any American wants more of the same when so many of us have been left behind.

I would love to let the trauma Linda Dezenski dumped on my plate and a Jewish lesbian named Fern Markowitz then facilitated before the still functioning transvestite made the old crone eat shit go, but the games we Americans play with our most disadvantaged elements in our social safety net makes us no better then Sisi and the justication he uses to crush Brotherhood sympathizers. I want to go back to work, with a misshapen set of teeth because I cannot afford dental fees, with chronic bowel impactions and lung fluids. I can't drive and can dream on if I think New Mobility would give me more work when I am still angry at their Jesus lesbian for breaking the girl buddy honor code--and as I've told you, they put me on ice before I raised my voice about Josie Byzek and her labial Gnosticism. Jesus loves her, her body crippled by damaged nerve sheaths.

If the Hillary movie is made, surely a vetting intern can find video of the couple patronizing a group of special education angels in wheelchairs.