Evacuation on the wind

"To most observers, my grandfather had been as elated to hear of Japan's decision to surrender as had the next man." John McCain's Faith of My Fathers

Mmm. Reiteration of the fact that I do not submit a great deal of my work to small press journals anymore. I have three pages of contributor copies of small press journals, mostly stashed in my closet shelf with the other journals in which I do not appear. From the time I began my post renovation recovery in 2008, through today, I have written nearly a thousand blog posts, had one non fiction essay accepted in a special Appalachian issue which I need to dig out of kitchen drawer, and fewer friendly rejections than I used to receive. People who do litzines are basically leftists who make fun of creative inanity for the most part. Intimate with the culture, I'm nonetheless no longer a fresh voice,

Like Charles Krauthammer. It may surprise you to learn I do not often agree with political conservatives on much of what they espouse. Homosexuality is more of a moral issue on which I've soured because of my past intimacy with homosexuals and my own insecurity about women who indulge in lewd pleasuring making passes at me. If this ever happens to me again I will attempt to kill the woman who does it, and I'll stand trial claiming self defense-- but I will engage the liberal censure of auto erotic threat postures another day. Trauma doesn't make these issues less complex-- and I cannot deny a voyeuristic examination of gay sexuality. Recovered enough that I can separate curiosity from what would make me happy-- and a happy embattled spastic flea bitten poet-- that is a tall order.

What interests me about the aging, uptight psychiatrist, and the fresher Texan AG is their successful refusal to allow paraplegia to define them. I am interested in the silences, as it is obvious to my viewers that cerebral palsy is still a badge which I assert, though I could be fraudulent. None of you know for sure. The poet Robert Thomas, his wife Cheryl, whom I have psychologically adopted as the female friend I might have had if I did not have to flee for the bus with a thieving Jehovah's Witness who only furthered my convictions about race and black theology, they know. It is interesting that two white moderately progressive writers met me at read promotions, and with knowledge of my intemperate sins between them, one cut me. The other sends me his collections. I occasionally do the same, but, god forbid if I had their telephone number. Cheryl might then buy my former supervisor a decent civilian attorney. I could talk God out of Judgement Day given half the chance. Griot as an insulating shield. Griot as an outcry, a need. 

Perhaps Kathleen Parker's name recognition would not heighten my profile as much as Jennifer Rubin's would, but Jennifer is not yet quite Parker. She's savvier and actually the type of conservative female a better metamorphosis might have molded me into; when Rubin is on she is as sharp as a tack. My foreign policy is more ruthless, more frightening, hopefully not sentiments that would gain Mossad's attention. The state of Israel is a failure and its eventual dissolution is inevitable. More stable powers need to declare certain territories as ungovernable and turn them into protectorates until issues of autonomy can be resolved. This includes Pakistan, North Korea, Israel, Iraq, Yemen, Somalia, Sudan (why does South and North Sudan exist?) Libya, Chad, Haiti, the San Dominican Republic, Syria, unfortunately. We all have lists. 

Hollow Log

Billowing tirade, I splintered on my ex today, unfairly, hissing at the glamorization of Michael Sam's sex life, then roaring I would nuke the entire eastern seaboard if I could, then disconnected the 5c in tears. Nuking the entire eastern seaboard implies that anguish has that degree of magnitude: I cannot break what binds my future asceticism, and my pissant student loan debt which is going to crush me, with or without putting myself back on Medicaid.

If I find Frank and his bulk on his hospital bed and his Hoya lift repugnant, with a running price tag he has cost Pennsylvania well over 100, 000 dollars, I should have the decency to leave him alone, regardless of my nerves. My rage was about the sand pit sucking me under. My landlord repeatedly broke the law, letting seniors harass me freely for years, and yet because I then roar at Trudy, who is just trying to be a good matriarchal black nanny, I have to let all that go. Vulnerable cripple with target right smack on her back. My disability center breaks state and federal law so often that they are a running joke, and I have to let all that go, poets and writers in a unified front regrettably parked my digital ass out the door because I had an insurrectionist rage in relation to all this, and they are about selling craft to refine talent. If I want to be Henry Miller with jugs, then hey. P&W has to vacuum in writing students. Go staple your brain, spastic.

George has MS. He doesn't rave. He writes well crafted short stories with a mildly sinister aspect. I met him and his wife at an Abington bookstore in my little manual chair, bored out of my mind. "I talk just like I post on Speakeasy don't I?"
"Yes," he nodded.

"I think it is enough," this is what he posted on the boards as Dana, the moderator, and Gretchen, the melodramatic southern novelist, closed ranks and banned my account. Whatever the inflammatory nature of my rhetoric, I had residents of Riverside throwing bars of soap at me, while this man, writing with the hope of saving troubled teens, ostracized me after having met me and I purchased First Tiger, his early YA novel. I wonder if my neighbor and follower Ed knows that about my history with this building, that I was physically pelted. Doubtlessly not. He suffers too and doesn't let it throb where dialysis evidently disfigured him. The horror of such group stigmatization doesn't go away with a snap of the fingers.

Weigh this. Weigh this against a history of medical disfigurement, life long sexual victimization, then come back at me with Atwood's salutary apologia for Toni Morrison's embodiment of dignity in endurance. Language signifies the reality of the flesh, but it isn't tangible. There is no reason to run into similar troubles at Linked In. It is simply a career resource site, and I do not have the time, but this is why I fear mass aggregation.

I forgot to add, with economic contests such as this, the voices of the dead recounting Sunset Blvd seems charmed, indeed.