Vocal Cords of Alyssa Milano

"This reverend brother has been all his life engaged in fighting among the Saracens for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre; he is of the order of Knights Templars--" Sir Walter Scott, one of the first to utilize the innovation of life insurance.

I spent the evening desperately looking to make a digital pitch, failed in the effort, but resolved to hit Harper’s later this week with a traditional mailing despite living conditions to the tune of a dilapidated bunker. I misplaced my hardcopy file in this melee of public housing and destitution, but misplaced it on my own, despite my father’s ineffectual convergence with minority fatalism and Mainline Medical’s deplorable product fitting, I had the file, pulling out my accomplishments, still making an effort to get Negro medical management to see me as human, barking them down to fleeing from me in terror, but didn’t place said file back into place. It is a strange power to have, this spark of hatred in my eyes so ready and willing to die in the name of an insurgency I cannot even define, as every sort of organizing principle has governance behind it, whatever equitable distribution we believe in or not. Tanz Industries and Darius might have saved civilization on a thumbnail, (not the only one disgruntled with the CBS cancelation) but the Variety piece tells us nothing except ratings. No sourcing, just a straight news item, no names, no tug of war between the show’s producers and the executives at the Central Broadcasting System who made the cut. Salvation was a damn good series for what it was, utilizing real propulsion theory and applied engineering, so that even libertarians can hate corporate sometimes, and certainly do. We all hate rental agents within varying degrees, and make no mistake that section 202 owners are engaged in the business of gerontology, but it is not a market based contracture. It is a taxpayer subsidy for a broad range of spectrum disorders in the elderly 62 and above, and I rolled into it as a 31 year old career professional. Now look at me, luckily so caged, so free to leave. I can roll out on this fraternal Presbyterian dictatorship anytime I please, after years of subjugated terror. Threatening the governor of Pennsylvania means next to nothing to me in this context. I mean that literally, despite the fact that Wolf and Ridge and the ailing Rendell are status quo establishment politicians we all used to favor. Put Wolf, the executive, and Toomey, the stalwart Irishman, in the same room, and what do you have? Both are pro-business, one doesn’t like the Social Security dispensary on the backs of American workers, the other is never going to say that Medicaid is merely a transposition for the descendants of slaves. Both would condescend to me, “now now spastic, homicide is not a legitimate political outcome.” But that’s only a veneer, and all a care giver has to do is have a bad day, leave me lying on the single foam mattress, move the power chair away. It would be interesting to discover if I still had the collegiate strength to get up off the floor, to conquer bad wheelchair technology.

The Day Would Be A Lot of Highway

The feud kicked off after Carrey posted an original that he made, depicting the execution of Mussolini alongside his mistress, Clara Petacci.

Caption rightfully goes to Northam's repository of equally stark satirical interludes.

Before I go on with more integral matters, let me buttress a wound licking moment and yowl that I lost a potential novelist online friend, Shayna Grissom, because I engaged in my usual delight of contention braggadocio in the discovery that Alessandra Mussolini was a living facet of history, and I almost couldn’t not defend her against a farcical jackass like Jim Carrey. To me this is fascinating, that while I’m here on Blogger pondering the many roots and branches of Italy’s indispensable cultural legacies, Mussolini’s granddaughter is actually live on social media! I very nearly groveled and decided this would amount to little more than an irritant, and so went after Carrey, whom none of us like, for his hard joke about Benito’s death. It was lacking in tact, his cartoon, contributing nothing to anti-statist tensions. I only really use Facebook as an outlet, or for a question, but Shayna cut me off, and yes, I felt it, one again reaching for tentative rapport. She did a shout out for a volunteer to review her agent letters, I offered to help, was happy for her novel, and here we are, after following each other perhaps less than a year. Fragile suburban housewives, I am on my last legs, and get shafted by her neediness and insecurity, and none of this had anything to do with her, her husband, or the death of her sister-in-law. That tweet, if hers, may have been when I first paid her individuality any notice. I’d really like not to be dying by myself and get a hug by someone other than a jamboree jigger getting paid to serenade me into the Twilight Zone. I invested in Shayna’s validation, and now, I’ve paid, but if Alessandra allows me to stay on her feed, maybe I can get a nice essay out of it; I am not sure how much I can assume about my strength, taxed as it is. There is no giving up, mind you. A home for cripples would simply torture me. I either can take it on my own, figure out a foolproof exit valve, or take an institutional technician’s abuse. Those, as it stands, are my options, as my bridge to via support caved in a while back. The current caregiver, ever helpful, suggested I ask Shayna for a token fee, the same Shayna who raised her voice against censoring YA novelists. Uh huh. Any reason why I should try to keep placating this tyranny of female centric herd dynamic?

The Occupation of Venezuela

"Guaido has grown so much politically they haven't been able to touch him," the assertions English language media  asserts about stature

Things are moving too slowly for any hope on my part that mobility medicine can mitigate what I have had to endure since September of 17. The direct care worker, whose pseudonym he probably cannot reference as the knight from the Arthurian legends, gave me most of the day off, but for all that, making an effort to cut down on Twitter interaction, discipline is compromised through indigestion due to my bowel and inability to evacuate, as by the time he gets here I am empty and when he’s ready to clock out, it is too late, is only just getting in 3 o’clock Monday, his automotive issues taking a toll on the month. I have not moved the goal post further along toward developing new editorial relationships, though I have started a back burner story about the homosexual drug addict Jevs sent me as a back up when Galahad takes time off. Obamacare, no matter its exchanges and networks, doesn’t change the nature of an hourly wage on Medicaid budgets, and you’ll get drug addicts with criminal records who can get aging tenants evicted for being extreme homosexuals with criminal records. Eviction from a public housing building such as Riverside might leave me overjoyed if it was the result of my own actions, but if it came about as the result of an extreme queer (even Galahad recoils from this man, and Galahad is an inner city minority resident),  this is something else again, and would give me ample cause of action to sue Trudy Richardson, the building manager who no more believes in civil liberties than she would that the legends of St. Nicholas has legs, but be heartened. Apathy has triumphed over my visions of treating Trudy like one of Daryl’s head shots from the Walking Dead, which relates directly to the fact that Galahad resents the fact I’m not grateful for him. Why should I be? He isn’t indispensable, and I cannot push him to help me regain strength. His time off, though earned, is primarily arbitrary. Jevs doesn’t have standards in place to be mindful about giving these individuals required down time such as I’d receive. He is frustrated with this lack of gratitude. These flare ups take their toll, the vituperations in a sphincter which exudes a furnaced laxity so domineering that a younger undergraduate took the Shakespearean’s request to write a poem about her name literately and wrote an anagram about her identity being flushed into the sewage system. “It’s it’s—” stuttered the then voluble Jerry McGuire, with his ham fisted strength yet young, at the time, less good looking, than the now imploded Luke Perry. Magee Rehabilitation, its first keystone inscribed the same year as Jerry’s “it’s it’s,” stumble cadence at a conference table on a Chester campus, is more representative of a healthcare system in crisis as opposed to something worthy of marvel. I’m not post-op; not in recovery. The physical therapists express resistance toward my treatment, the only innovation since my last visit being wall diagrams about surviving a mass shooting, oblong ellipticals in deep red blue color contrasts, with arrows. Perhaps soiled adult briefs would be a distraction in the face of such an event, burrowing the exuberant celebration of youth, a youth which truly believed in victorious conquest. As one of my literate British followers noted, when you have nothing left to lose, you have nothing left to fear.

Singular Insulation Propelled on Cheap Batteries

The wounded gunman, {sic} Gary Atkins, looked at one of his hostages, MaryLinda Moss, and told her it was all over for him.-- Robin Abcarian

Robin's feature is a nicely balanced human interest story, taking aim at American excesses all around, whatever conspiracy theories are still plaguing our fourth largest metropolitan newspaper in their post-Tronc aftermath. SWAT teams invariably escalate tensions, however pristine they appear in television serials, the villain didn't want to lose it entirely, this is California, after all, a state that latticed Trader Joe's, which doesn't advertise, into a nationwide cult, and a woman with diabetes thought fast on her feet, touching upon our ambivalence with cages, referencing the positive attributes of being a free market society. Some prisoners do become notorious causes, but those are a small minority, and MaryLinda was cognizant of limits. Perhaps some of you feel I was never cognizant of mine, and shrug. It isn't your fault I moved into "the badlands" of Philadelphia and wound up defeated, unwilling to correct the price I paid by moving back in with my mother, and here I am, so much bloody pulp, not strong enough to rewrite what I have to while shit gases out of me, allowing myself to wither on the vine under JEVS. This is where I get Galahad from, the care worker with whom I got frisky. I knew of JEVS when I too coordinated, and so here we are, with an all black cast, including a flaming gay drug addict whom I have to try really hard not to run out of my unit Monday. With all due respect to my Catholic and Christian accounts, this Trey fellow is a dead man on stilts, an incredibly fucked up little twinkee, he makes my West Oak Lane man look like college material, and I am barely holding it together, even though this Mawson Dave followed me, put aa assertive foot forward with Twitter DM. Hello Joanne, how are you? I patted Galahad's shoulder. "See you, I got a new boyfriend," teasing him. This is how we put up with each other, the bitch and the lion. I do not know what Dave wanted, don't have the energy to play the field anymore. This Q6 is a good chair, and after raising my voice at my uncle's troubled medical vendor, the avuncular technician, a man I know from childhood, reminded me that people are people, whether private enterprise or state model run, changed the arms for me to restore my hand grips. It is too little, too late. Restoring my legacy is an overload, and Galahad's determination to keep me from implementing my despair plan is only aided by inertia. All I have to do is unleash my inner caustic, empty, hollow-eyed hatred, as in, get the fuck out of my studio, you nigger imbeciles, and then go buy what I need, sort out the details. It is contingent upon me to want to live, to keep fighting, but this Q6 is just too high off the ground for me to be anything in it other than a potted plant. I no longer dress, barely prepare my food. The VNA achieved next to nothing, as did my father, my father's sister. Now I am just a body, giving unskilled blacks a Medicaid living at 10.5 an hour. Not one person respected the narrative I offered them so I could retain my skills, not one. I presume my followers have nothing to say to that. 
I truly believed my sense of lifelong alienation would one day pass, back in my make the best of it Reagan era coming of age, and I would have been proud of myself for the strength of my accomplishments, instead of hit after hit leaving me already dead, barely able to sustain interpersonal relationships, impoverished, soiling disposable paper linens as soon as the end result of Lyndon Johnson's 60 year civil rights expansion walks out the door.

Wireless in a Snow Shower

I'd heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well, it goes like this
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah--Pentonix

I suppose, presuming I have regular viewers, like the dwindling audience for daytime soaps, that you would rebut me by pointing out that a minority paraprofessional from the hood cares for my welfare should make me feel guilty, as my conscience doesn’t give a flying fig, not that I do not think said paraprofessional isn’t a nice guy, of course he is. I simulate the ingrained Italian generosity learned from my family on my childhood knee, and he contributes in return, in this charming interstice of the village of the damned, but it is an act I am within relative parameters, able to keep up behind my otherwise world-weary sinuses. Earlier last week, in grieving for his previous patient, he gripped my right thigh, covered by solid gray sheeting, to emphasize the man’s edema, and I felt sexually aroused. That happens, as old as Lady Chatterly’s Lover, the nurse sexualizing the regressive grooming of the crippled husband (when I read Lawrence I resist the vulnerability his cadence demands, not my favorite canonical author) and as recent as the marginal industry effort, me before you, a genuine triumph in cripland film I should feel obligated to view for this account. Perhaps I’ll invite Dr. Dorwart to write a guest review instead, to rest these world weary Italian eyes: I am not going to fuck the nigger five years my junior. It was the mere incidental grip on my thigh. We’re supposed to go to Dunkin Donuts this morning to update the OS for my forlorn second generation Apple 5s, pondering my reluctance to allow ATT to turn off my plug in, adding the expense of a new phone, but if I cannot trust the hotspot to ping?

Victoria Wharton is actually causing me more grief than the kind-hearted African I callously denigrate, but this is as much padre’s fault as my own. He sent her to me. Without Facebook I would not have suspected her mental instability, and was reluctant to reconnect her to daddy, but did so she would stop texting me. My sister informed me Sunday evening that Victoria is a threat to my father’s welfare (drug swiping, etc) and the dowager’s lioness roared. I let the woman have it and threatened her with arrest, due to slipping on my own gullibility, my father’s as well. 

He hired Victoria. Eldest daughter presumed Victoria was reliable, steady, but instead, is another episode of white trash feigning a low middle class. Exactly what fantasy of personal grace and demeanor do I reside in? My heart always breaking on my father’s rat pack stylized imitation, ladies’ man to the end, twisting my love on the rack, the daughter he abandoned, submitted to medical repair, again, and again, and again. First love of my life, he represses what a bloody disappointment I am, first born, fitting virtual reality is no longer removed from the lives we live.

The Dining Room Table

When I could still enjoy solitaire as a form of recreation rather than psychological duress, some of my favorites were the two deck game, St. Helena, and the small table game, Four Seasons. I made Four Seasons harder than it is on Warfield’s software, allowing only one move on the tableau per pile. I won rarely. Another was Hit or Miss (or Roll Call), a simple count and discard game, Accordion, and oddly enough, Perpetual Motion, which is a simple pattern game which can last a long time. I would not recommend playing it on the device, in my teenage mind which had no idea I’d plummet back into this distraction at this age, not helping myself. I have to wean myself away from all this awhile, upset that I allowed Karina to prey upon my sympathies, giving her money to wash my hair. Instead of being conscientious about the matter and giving me advance notice that her mother would be entering hospice, she took my money without finishing what she started, flimsy woman. I read this a long time ago in her and knew better and the Muslim, who is up in arms that I’m ditching TLC even though I’ve told her this for weeks, won’t do it, and my father’s ex attendant, whom I said I was going to hire on my dime, won’t shut the fuck up, so much so I’m having second thoughts about honoring my verbal assurances to her. She lost her mother too. “When Momo calls what you going to say?”

This is Saran, the big African child who cleans my stool five days a week. What does she think I’m going to say? I am a racist Momo and I’m sick of your accents and skin color, sick of not being able to have any time to myself, at all. I may not be dying, but my strength is gone, and all I have is my mental capacity struggling against my mechanics, not even positive I can trust my uncle’s company to restore my independence just a little. Mike altered what he sold me, but I shall never be fully functional in this machine, and it may be too late; fine, but I am losing my ability to cope. In Philip K Dick’s Electric Dreams, this peels off under your thumbnail like mica, a sad series, aptly casting Terrence Howard and his moral rectitude, carrying the burden of incendiary individuals like myself on his back. For me, this is going to bed early. I will make edits tomorrow after the Jewish nurse dashes off. She has achieved nothing in terms of making things better. I am under no illusions about moving on, what I’ll continue to face.

Despair, Numb toppings

My tone has only been moderated of late out of fatigue, but my caustic bite will invariably imperil me in short order. Attendant care coordination used to be part of my job, but whether Medicaid Waiver Services were centralized into Pennsylvania's Independent Living Enrollment under Corbett or Wolf,  Maximus is a centralized Marxist obscenity, and I have absolutely no idea how to survive it. The system is worse than any of the nigger stories I've told you, just the system, which is a hornet's nest of cheap immigrant labor. I hear my followers plummeting even as I write this, knowing we all grow frail and need support, but this intake system is a disaster. The broker I met yesterday said it covers the entire Commonwealth. Hundreds of residents have probably died, or lapsed into a coma, waiting for services to kick in.

I have no more reason to live, not after this round, recuperating and failing at the same time. None, and my body stresses may not leave me much choice, soon, whether I hope to save my published works or not. The grandmothers valiantly attempting to restore me cannot see my rapid before and after prolapse in on myself, so much so the little suicide plan in my head won't work to the extent I've regressed. It isn't that I want to die, I just know depending on blacks is tantamount to a fatality, and whites ain't gonna spare me. I know it already. I cannot be a good ideological libertarian being crushed by entitlements, and if I have more time than I believe, I am campaigning for euthanasia. I part company with all who think this marginalization maintains dignity, and when I do meet the case manager, I am going to end up pissing her, him, off.

Carnivorous Torsion

Sleep with the fishes

With the possible exception of the homosexual class, what I despise the most in our human endeavor is stupidity and convention shielded by collectivism. It is a great deal to say I've bottled so much of my malevolent contempt, in relation to this, with a cork because of brotherly kinship for the absent libertarian Tony Stiles, but there is a grain of truth in it, because I must have been a Roman henchman in another life for a prominent family, and if I really let my hair down, I mean really, I'd blow more than one server on Blogger and really pose a problem for my local precinct. 

Lest you think my hatred is merely aimed at the disposal of disadvantaged human wasted space, for which American 202 public housing was designed, let's take Michael Pera. He is either Italian or Polish, as in "stupid Pollack," an affable custodian, but also one of the dumbest morons I have ever encountered. When I bellowed out loud and clear you can go fuck yourself to Trudy on Friday, pulling my phone out of pocket, Mike looked like a frightened bug eyed beagle. It is 6 against 1 here at Riverside, no more than a gang of 4 or 5 at any one time, and they are scared to death of a cripple with 1/3 normal mobility; I was perfectly civil to the patrol officer they summoned to my unit, and have no idea what the young man told them, as this is sort of aggrandized domestic violence, but they all the sudden folded. Michael Pera makes my dead ex seem clever, and he makes Trudy Richardson's managerial conniving seem nearly prosaic.

What am I not hearing in Trudy's and my sister's and my family's argument? That going through another 25 to 50 paraprofessionals would assist my grooming and cleanliness and ease my housekeeping stress and at least get me food when this Jazzy goes down for good? I have already been through nine years of this; the afternoon in 07 I accidentally flipped, I had an aide scheduled who never showed, and Trudy launched her first attack, assigning blame, to me, because the system has such huge craters that I had to wait nearly a year for a fucking power chair because I earned an unexpected insurance payout, and the fucking assessment team asked me if I was suicidal, in public, after being molested by an Unlimited Staffer. It is all of you who are deaf, and whatever my belligerence, these fraternal government partnerships breed ineptitude. I am going to see to it that at least one minority's career in gerontology impoverishment comes to an end. Watch me roar.

Logic behind defiance

This is what I'm trying to protect myself from, and couldn't, despite mt IQ, my investigative work for New Mobility, Josie the pissing milch cow's bread and butter, or any lies and subterfuge I engaged in to stave off worse than a sexual pass from the most gluttonous mulatto I ever laid eyes on. It happens more frequently to the disabled than any outside of disability centers know, hence my support for morally cool unpleasantness like eugenics, euthanasia. In 1991-93 I had a true quadriplegic client named Don; his aide put him on the commode and cleaned out his apartment. Not sure how he managed his rescue. Could you forgive or get over that? This is why state Medicaid Waiver systems need to be stopped, and it has nothing to do with conservative astringent.

If you read the fine print of these federally "mandated" centers, and you comply with the paradigm, they have a "no liabilities" clause for pairing clients with fly by night providers like Unlimited Staffing, an agency against whom I had had the most cause to seek redress. That "no liability" clause is written into contracts because disability centers couldn't function otherwise, and still, like medical supply vendors, they unravel like a ball of yarn. Homemaker Services broke up its incorporation a number of years back. I first signed onto the waiver as a "federal employee" in 97, then the state treasury said I owed them taxes, because I was assigned a deaf case manager who was accused by the next one of bad faith procedure.

Centralized institutional care is hell, cushioned by money or not, but decentralization doesn't work, I am sorry. Very few people like me, without some kind of professional earnings valve, are freer within being constrained by services. Wapo's reporting illustrates this fact. All the state statues amount to nothing because of substantive victimization between client and paraprofessional, left to their own devices. Get rid of it. In the interim, I found an old housing list, by virtue of dumping and cat knocking and then straightening up; dated, but it is what I need, a list, and maybe I can kick box a summer transition.

Dissolved in Water

A work in progress?-- Trudy Richardson, being diffident while Karina was being obstinate in 2014

You may laugh: I cannot find my fiction file with my hard drafts, and I have no idea where "Jawbone" is sitting. I remember the story, and as I've previously indicated, I have the first seven pages, but for all its weaknesses, which I wanted to revise, it was one of my favorite fictions. And I'm furious, with ambulatory persons not respecting that as a writer I horde articles and facts and drafts. Karina didn't respect it, nor my father's dead mother, nor any African American attendant (hissed). One of my younger aides, who works for a dentist, if social media is any indicator-- I-- ah, it came back, Lakisha Doe. I fired Kisha twice, not before before mother's mother took her to lunch-- but she bought me a huge heavy plastic storage bin. It may be there. It may be under the desk. I threw out the entire Cigna Medicare Part D prescription plan from welfare. I threw out half of the United States Postal Service, which Speaker Ryan may want to close, and my poor female, the one getting the short end of the stick, in my peevish old age, as yes, I am old, I mean this in a variety of ways, is all excited, lively, playing with wheelchair parts. Mom, what is going on?
My accumulations kimmy, things that mattered to me, have to be dictated by the government as forbidden, or discarded, and it just isn't enough, brain damage, a life of recoiled pain, people who walk have to dictate which markers even indicate that a quadriplegic once aspired and existed. The little girl is on my thigh, needy, alone, no babies to attend, as her litter was destroyed, and no more Vinnie to quarrel with; he was destroyed. She is a good girl, but I am no longer the good mother, I'm now too poor for that, a world away from the six thousand I still had when I fought my conscience, paid her adoption fees, donated to the shelter in Joey's name. I have to rest, work from memory but basically now rewriting, but I will assert this. Do not tell me not to hate. Writing, above all else, is the only thing I ever had transcending all else. Trudy can have the police break my wrists dragging me out of the building, but I swear to Christ, I'll take her job with me if I have to before anyone ever railroads my life again while I still breathe, while I yet cognate.

Flora, Fauna, Cashew butter

"But we like suffering."-- Sebastiano Somma

The Woods, being an 06 release, doesn't lack for atmosphere, but as an allegory for the destruction of Camelot, I am still trying to put the thread through the needle. In this instance, the plot summaries do not fill in the gap. Absentee fathers who make promises they cannot keep, those are long realized, but the wardrobe, the hairstyles are too Kennedyesque not to suggest the worst of the ecosystem against the urbane liberalism built on the corruption of bootlegging during Prohibition. Beyond the implication, however, the feminine anguish loses me. Patricia Clarkson is getting on my nerves, and even when it goes to syndication, I'm skipping Learning to Drive on purpose. 

Clarkson has a range similar to Jane Alexander, pensive Protestant females with good breeding who encompass the disjunctive as best they can within the fine tuned chiseled features: thin lips, kept figure, a nurturing conduit of more mothering than sensual definition. I have had the runs for three days, incommoded with sickly sweet stench, washing the mattress of my damnation, today it is the power chair cushion, and this is happening because I've ceased transferring to my shower stool, in order not to corrode the Jazzy engines, since I shall have to make due with this model at least another year.

I do not mind that I'm sloppy, but losing to a filthy downgrade is another matter, and attendants are not going to tolerate this level of battle fatigue. I give up, resign my fate, go insane in an institution. Commiseration will not alter this reality.

I did construct a plan. I finally settled on one, and hope it will not cause an extreme internal struggle, not that I'm ready for it, fortuitous or otherwise, I cannot seem to go down, not quietly. Is this necessarily beneficial? Time to clean the soil, once again. 

Heat Advisory

Even in the worst of circumstances, writers write in their minds, only to draw blanks on all the vivacious verbiage in their heads once in front of the damn keyboard, and the only thing roaring at me now is "I can't go through this again," except I have to go through it again. I can't thrive in this world of applications and computer science. I can't surrender without that surrender translating into a certified nursing assistant's paycheck, or some other facsimile of an aide. The welfare state and its fucking solutions. Aides. Aides like Monica Carr. I've posted about her, her lupus, her morbid obesity worse than my mother's.

She's on the third floor in her client's studio because she can't breathe, and I am like one of the furies waiting to tap dance while she enters Hades. 

A post is not a community, and Blogger will be relieved, no doubt, if I go, kicking and screaming, as the reality of my age forces me back into either a centralized facility, or I stay here in the forced diversity under contract with the Department of Housing and Urban Development. If the oligarchs in Putin's vast tundra want a bone, HUD is the most corrupt federal department in the United States, and that seems contingent regardless of ideology. Real estate equals corruption leading to bribery.

Yes, I have fonts of material yet, yes, I need to be realistic about the fact that I'm 53 and psychotherapy would saturate my fucking bloodstream with an anti-anxiety agent, and thereby I go from battered wife syndrome to a drone on a gurney while my mood is regulated while the aide changes my diaper, but I'm worn out. No, Philly isn't all that bad away from minority residential areas, and yes, I have a lousy attitude. I hate the vernacular "have a blessed day," and I'd be over joyed if I never hear it uttered out of another African American mouth, and even if I could relocate, I'm too old to ever be safe.

I was going to assert that I quit, but I cannot say I will not return tomorrow after a bowl of plain angel hair-- but this is the beginning of my goodbye. I can't be too unforgiving toward my best instructors. Maybe I was bipolar then and simply wasn't diagnosed. I bothered my academic advisor as often as I was pining about God-Shakespearean (wry self-pity), but in any event, I've had enough, and now, having sat in this god awful power chair far too long, I am afraid to leave the Toshiba on. It is now making strange sounds, like a smoke detector, and my Hewlett Packard, though pricier, is older still. Sniff.  

Gratitude for smartasses

It takes me a little effort to remember when I met my poet colleague Robert Thomas. 2006. I do not know how he and his wife tolerated the trip across country, but for me the early evening was cold, rainy, with the Jehovah's Witness from Unlimited Staffing traveling with me, with her misery and diabetes and cat with broken leg. Liana, my nigger hustling burden to whom I was overly generous. Caucasian patronage, guilt, the fact that her face was wan, anxious. Roll your eyes at me. I gave her a loan for the cat with the broken leg because I thought Liana and I would work out, but she got fired, and I still extend myself too much to help younger women, i.e., Karina, but I was determined to meet my last Poets & Writer's sympathizer, so Liana and I traveled to Ardmore, and Ardmore isn't that far from suburban youth in Ridley Township. Eight years ago, my last sojourn out of the city limits.

My city limit range is about as far as the Rosenbach Museum and back to my apartment on a full charge. 15 blocks. I did not get a renewal notice for my membership, which is just as well, I told their director I was broke last year, but when I get out of combat range with Trudy Richardson, my area of marginalization runs basically from 19th and Chestnut to 23rd and Race Street. Everyone is in a hurry, except a defiant stout weather beaten spastic woman in a shawl, gnawing an Italian hoagie from an Asian bodega. In an internal disjunction. No rational reason to love what I have left, to endure. Not a friend in the world who voluntarily wants to telephone me, offer me the comfort of familiarity, my personal interaction with Linda C. Dezenski wasn't like that when I still had it, my former supervisor who evokes such enmity that she has been a law and order corpse beyond my ability to estimate, no. I pulled, Linda responded and then humiliated me. Were we ever actually friends? Somewhere in there, I think so, but it could not survive the fact that I hated decentralization that had to lie about what it was in the dead rhetoric of the revolution, and Linda's enthusiastic, shallow, dominance. Most of you side with her, because I am becoming nothing more than-- I was going to use the phrase "white nigger trash"-- but let me write it another way-- I am becoming a disposable woman in pain who will not make it easy on herself by giving in. The Medicaid system is going to kill me one way or another, but I am about to tell five African Americans who have the juice to go fuck themselves, in a hard contained way, methodically, with what acumen remains, and then? Well, the crowd funding content model caught on, and someone spiked my page views. Grazie.

He is just a man, shoulders as shrunken as mine, and I don't have the clout to compel counter terrorism experts to respond, but this is what I wanted, right?

A small Tuscan town

"That's a trochee in the second beat."-- Anna Deavere Smith

The furthermost I went on Tuesday to producing for Examiner was a shell shocked surfing of beat bylines on reliable Liberty City. I need a break from aggregating, despite Examiner's automated protests, and despite what I've posted in the past about how I desire to finish out my final productive years as an investigative journalist. Perhaps I have caused too much offense in some of my posts, but I have become a racist, however mortified, in enacting my university transfer as a mere form of protest, but deciding to be a good progressive while I was at it. Ten years of forced co-habitation with minority paraprofessionals, over 26 years of inner city housing, and I'm now a somewhat appreciative admirer of Abu Bakr al Bagdadi.

The community integration model has traumatized me into a superlative reactionary, and I do not know if this is what my undergraduate instructor saw in me when he advised me "not to do it." Americans of a certain socio-economic status put a premium on gnostic self love that is in continuous conflict with the worth of any individual human life, like that of Miss Eddie, the expendable bi-racial sloth who triggered within me a brief exercise toward self-immolation until I halted the attempt and wept. I could not reach the supervisor of the agency who sent her and nearly terrorized the woman out of my unit the following day. She had a real expression of fear in her face, and the following day after that I would not let her in. Trudy Richardson was hired some months after this, sent her equality charming minority assessment team up to my door. "I have a job to do now; people I have to answer to." I wonder how she would have felt had my father molested her and I surrounded her with klan members because she was reacting to trauma triggered by slovenly indiscretion.

The larger issue for me isn't Eddie's lack of restraint. The larger issue is the social exploitation of vulnerable people which virtually turns attendant care into a prostitution ring, buried in my 2004 back issue. There are things which need to be said which we never do. The community integration model breaks down when the recipient needs virtual constant care. That is better served in a centralized location.

I came as close as I could on Tuesday to giving Daniel Raudenbush an apology for my resignation and disillusionment with the work incentive project for which he hired me, but the fact remains, that, had John Spots spiraled into his suicidal crisis a month earlier, leaving the good psychologist to interview me with Harriet Fowler, I would have declined the position, and stayed at Liberty Resources until the center would have turned on me in a more timely fashion.

March Winds Slicing Pillow Down

To die cradled in a decentralized exploitation model isn't much of a victory for matriculation, and that is what nigger filth like Miss Eddy forced me to remember-- not that a homoerotic experience would be a dangerous thrill, but that it gets people killed because it is duplicitous, dishonorable. My father let niggers hurt me when I was a child. My father let niggers hurt me because he married a sick and mentally unstable woman who needed to get away from an austere mother. The sick and unstable woman lost his son and managed to rip me out of her womb in grand theater, before she bore my dead brother. I wasn't good enough, so I could eat rust with Abraham Lincoln's burden. A university education didn't change much. Minor miracle that I once had a 3.5 GPA at all, within or without an institution.

Case management has been one continuous line of abuse, and no legal rhetoric, nor anything Liberty Resources represents changes that. The coordinators are mostly unattractive women who need an income and get one by behaving like den mothers, close ranks against the suffering and expulsion they generate, and yet, transvestites like Erik, bull dykes like like Nancy, they treat decentralization like a Biblical commandment. Erik, regardless of my animosity, is dying, and how following black Caribbeans around on a leash is better than centralized nursing care, this is not much of a differential

Sure, vulnerable crunchies like Louise, the online contact who chased me, they have civil service protection. I spent 16 years traumatized by the medical model, another three years patted on the head as an integrated Ridley Township school district token. My mother's lovers liked my tits. I run, dump myself onto Temple's vocational repositories. I sincerely hope my viewers have a more peaceful demise than that which lies in store for me. I cannot close the book on women like Eddy. I'm a quadriplegic over 50. For shit like her, my body, the loneliness in my face, is a banquet of gratuitous indulgence.

I take a risk stating the truth of my psyche: I want Linda Dezenski to suffer brutally for heaping more anguish on my plate than I should have had to bear; it isn't enough for her to die only once, and I'm cognizant enough to see the flag of life long learned masochism in the fact that I keep beating her, mentally, for turning on me, breaking me down because I advertised my personal loyalty as an exclusive commodity. 

The Trader Joe's app is fun. If only it could spit me out a good man, one who cared about me enough for the patience of exploration. Off to the store. Meteorology is calling another storm, swirling us about, morbid cocoons. 

Dilatory Care: An Open Post to Will Self

Dear Will Self,

Sometimes I have to resist the impulse to make connections to other writers; it has gotten me into trouble in the past, particularly when I wrote letters, real letters, to ugly male poets, or sick male draft dodgers (American) who hibernated in Montreal until they abandoned their wife and son. I got caught with my proverbial panties around my ankles with that incident. Perhaps it should have taught me a lesson, long before I recognized my former supervisor online, and that she bitch nearly put me in Liam Neeson’s mortuary.

I do not know that I’d consider Dave mentally ill, the draft dodger. The adjective used was the cry of his ex-spouse’s pain when dealing with a seductive manipulator. Her husband out maneuvered  me at his own game, which might be just as well. He might have raped me, as I was young and feckle enough for the marriage bed, as many men from my past can attest. I was a heat seeking missile for a five Euro fuck. The abuse had not really erupted full blast into my psyche then. I was young, and sleeping with ambulatory men who had no discernible physical impairment was important to me.

“False Blood” your essay in Granta 117, is typical for the publication, and I cannot really ferret out the keynotes within it that made me want to rush to email to contact you, telling you about my dead addict brother. I resisted. You’re British, married, with children, and actually earn a viable living in our profession. Your blood condition is uncommon and sounds like a typical, if otherwise charming, British eccentricity. Whereas cerebral palsy is run of the mill. Even spastic aggression is run of the mill. I know I am not in motive to seduce you. My libido only rears its head in odd moments, I’m tired of being rejected by men online who won’t be bothered even to meet me to give me a chance, and I remember then what my former lesbian editor did to Cecil, and I wish someone would bust Josie for me, for doing that to my prospects, but it wasn't illegal, and women are known for despoiling out of jealousy.

No, I do not know how to cope with the stress of what the black nursing aides did to me. When added up to what cerebral palsy has cost me in terms of sexual assaults and medical brutality, it might as well be a small miracle that bouts of ideation aren’t worse. I have mentioned the mixed race woman Miss Eddy, who hit on me. She is a sick and ugly person, and told me her father was murdered, which might be her fate if she doesn’t learn how to contain her attacks on the down low. American black vernacular for secret sexual perversions. I do not enjoy wanting horridly ignorant poor people dead, but she may exploit other invalids and since I did not file charges against her I cannot prevent it.

Two others stand out. A voodoo lady from Germantown who Liberty afflicted me with not days into my mother’s death. Straight out of a studio zombie casting, missing teeth and a head turban. She opened my mail illegally, looking for a will, frightening me terribly. In this city you learn, and I could smell it on her, that she would have robbed me at the nearest opportunity of physical incapacitation. I could not even grieve for my mother with this poison hovering over my ass, trying to victimize me. No one helped me; I had to get her out of my studio, keep her out on my own recognizance; in fairness it wasn't in the bankruptcy lawyer’s purview to be of assistance but she is the person to whom my terror was revealed.

The disability center coordinators know full well the type of paraprofessional prototype which lends itself to criminal solicitation, and yet they continue pairing indigent minorities with the most vulnerable among the mobility impaired, essentially creating expendable classes and manufacturing tokenism to call it freedom.

Cassie's elevation creates its own form of tunnel vision which is ultimately a contradiction in terms. Cassie knows it. Josie knows it, and this is why the culture expiated me out. I refuse to accept the paradigm and see it as a low grade genocide metastasized to such a degree on the east coast, west coast, American rust belt, that it is nearly impossible for a body to extricate out of it.

The other was Ingrid Bunton who wore her dead newborn as a decal and slept with one of the security guards who came banging on my door. She impregnated herself on the job and the scandal made me a laughing stock.

I do not have an answer as to why I have singled you out with this type of half way measure, a post on my blog to which you need not reply, but I am reaching out to a stranger who has had his own battles, a stranger who might understand. I intend to put my disability center out of business; their evil has to be reigned in, and no federal mandate is such a vapid excuse for criminal incompetence. It is not within your range to help me, doubtlessly, and you’d probably chastise me for insinuating such an incongruous folly. You have your isles, but your work has struck a chord in me. Sincerely.

Lactose Cappuccino Shin Splints

John Schnatter, chairman and CEO of Papa John's, posted his own apology on Facebook Monday. He revealed the two employees involved in the "reprehensible" message were immediately fired, as they "defy both my personal and the company's values."-- Cavan Sieczkowski

Given what I learned later on, I suppose it was an honor that Lydia, from my Speakeasy days, emailed me. She was a black attorney from San Francisco who had roots in Philadelphia, and the admirable ability to change her environment. She was raped by a white man but had the ability to differentiate that experience from such suppositions as "all white men like it rough with jig poon" and there I am ripping off Ellroy and his more extensive slang vocabulary. Lydia was trying to help me understand that not all blacks will necessarily victimize me, and I do understand that, but many African Americans have victimized me, and in the one case violently at nearly the cost of my life. I can juxtapose that with the young upwardly mobile kid who hugged me on New Years at Drinkers West, or Claudie and my conversation with him about cats, dead cats, the ashes of dead cats, Haiti. I have Graham Greene's fascination with this impoverished colony of the United States, and told Claudie about my work in that direction.

It is not enough. I am traumatized, even by Tim's inability to manage his time without nearly always giving me short shrift. I needed a new broom and dust pan; he indicated to me he would price it and pick it up, and this is the systems failure that attendant care represents. I am out forty five dollars for a vacuumed carpet and basically a three week argument with a fucking simpleton who considers my intelligence and acuity to be an insult to his entitled minority identity. Caucasian women are little better, but there the stigma is different. Monica Carr did not want to do the time and called the police to intimidate me. Susan McNally insisted that I comply with her terms, and I wouldn't. It is never going to end, and I am going to die in misery and frustration, if not physical anguish.

Sure, I have a side that once believed that civic decency was noble, and a passion for interpretation that still draws me to Jerry's output. I'd enjoy analyzing his work for you, how at his strongest Jerry can defy expectations, but his work that is online is not the work he shared in workshop, and taking all that out of the closet and going through that to apply my best sympathies to make you love me takes time, a luxury I no longer have, and will not have the more I have to depend on paraprofessionals, and if the indignities of infirmity get much worse, my options seem fairly stark. My meal today was a hot half and half powdered cappuccino and a carrot. This morning I had a pork roll and do not really feel like preparing a meal. I invited Lydia to lunch when her mother passed away. Perhaps out of duty. She declined. Then again, how can a hard black lawyer and a precocious spastic with their denigrating war wounds actually see past the labels each other carries. Thanks to the Jamesians I am now on Linked In. I avoided it because of my supervisor. All I wanted was a contact number for Senator Toomey. His staff telephoned. Uh huh. And I have to handle any expectation behind that euphemism.

What Toomey's staff learns contextually is different in framework than my mere EEOC grievance: I mean what I say about changing systems management around disability and sustaining matriculation.