Junk Food Gas

We have no housing suggestions at this time.--Toomey's regional offices

I was a little more unkind to Jayne Anne's legacy than I had intended to be here, was mildly surprised Niume allowed me the ventilation, and shall perhaps make up for it at a later date. I cannot remember much about Fast Lanes or Black Tickets, and have yet to restart the earlier vignettes which earned the studiously silent professor her acclaim; no, I am not pouting that she will not respond to me; I simply thought emailing her would be the fastest method to get a copy of my poem back. I may even no longer have a draft, and murderous contempt for vacant Christian idiots doesn't solve the problem, does it now?

I know the alt.right doesn't give a fig leaf for my liberal brown nosing, blow upon blow. The state GOP, Toomey. They seek my loyalty, my monetary support, and if I have committed nearly irrevocable acts against black monolithic bull dykes, as long as the lava vein doesn't lead to property damage, who cares? So why have I switched sides? Because Toomey would have evicted me by now; there may have been some humiliation involved, but not this slithering nigger poison on its daily saline drip, and I like straight forward talk, think the man got the CIL to declaw my supervisor. The most cognizant rationale I've read about McConnell's breach of Beltway decorum, allowing the Garland nomination to expire, was that the party wanted to keep Scalia's seat solidly conservative: I've enough independence of mind left to be critical of "unicarmelizing" the federal legislature. It only gives libertarians more fuel, as we all grow more suspicious.


Sure, Obama disillusioned me, and his policies did jack to help me, as quads are always dismissed, third class humans, at best, if we require too much mending, but he was still the president. Trump wants the same respect, and in that light, Garland should have had a hearing. Gorsuch gets in, yes, but after I am dead, does Scotus become a dog and pony show off Broadway? If I can be nearing 55-- just barely, and be cynically disgusted, it is quite an erosion. Mr. Delvechio's history student, 36 years ago, was a patriot. She believed in her country. Philadelphia, as a chronic condition, destroyed that by the time the broken half-wit from the Bronx proposed to me. I think I was 42, thinking I'd stay well built for a while. Now I am ejecting myself from the inglorious projects which consumed health, virility. We'll see if JFK security shoos me off, like a mad woman, if I present myself to the Senator's staff, in the interim.

Arc of Nitrate Decomposition

Let us return to Professor Phillips momentarily, as the representative teacher novelist and vignette author. My first exposure to Jayne Anne was in an 1983 anthology, Matters of Life and Death. I believe this exposure presented before Jerry sent me trotting after Black Tickets, of which I can recall virtually nothing. "Home" is a strong short story and made a strong impression, but it embodies all of Jayne Anne's weaknesses, a penchant for abstraction, emotional coolness, the clipped mildly vicious bite of women in her social class. It points to her lack of sustaining power as a novelist. I blinded myself to it out of sexual frustration and envy, dangerous enough to be generative of bisexual anxiety, despite the fact I never had a sexual fantasy where oral orgasm involved a lithe and more biologically attractive woman making me the masochistic bitch begging in submission, all games, no glory. Deep enough for you? If so, why am I pushing this?

I may not literally die leaving Riverside section 202 after 24 years of hostility and fear. As a practical matter, whatever I do, first responders would be forced to remove me if I get stranded: I am cognizant this expedites what I've seen Presby do to residents for years, and years, since I was 23, but I just can't take it anymore, and I am hoping I am just clever enough to evade the barbarity Inglis House represents. My online voice, however, will not be what it was, so I'm pulling the knives, pressing the most dangerous triggers which usually ends lives of lesbian suckling gluttony, and am capable of a rather close distinction between a feminine sexual threat which would not lead to positive satiation, because the stark existential reality is, I could never be the Jayne Anne whose chic reticence appeals to a man of breeding, the cosmopolitan urbanite I always longed for: her so so achievements as the modern southern female will fade, because it is the standard, literary milk weed that passes for expression. She is more teacher than writer who makes the blood vibrate, and it is the women who reject teaching whose legacy is the most powerful in literary endeavor.

Despite the catastrophe before me, I am putting the strongest parts of my voice together, the Joanne poet who closed the issue of Oxford Magazine Jayne Anne opened. She aspired to the voice of angels. I intimated Custer's Last Stand can be attributable to the modern consumer economy of appliances like microwaves, much more complex in condemnation. I regret my letter to her publisher, forget what the fizz amounted to, but don't regret the torsion of my own self-deception. The cry that I too wanted a lithe eroticism, that I too wanted the power of God's creation in my vibrant woman's vessel, and was denied. Let's see who shall stand the test of time. The visiting professor or spastic survivor of American genocide.

Indelible Banana Peels

I really have you going, don't I? Well, bemusement may be a small consolation for beggars, but what I was straining to remember in Stardust is why I would not offer Jayne Anne any further appreciative missive, or need the mentorship somewhat glazed over by her meritorious caste. She and I appear together in Oxford Magazine, some years ago now. She is transcribed addressing the freshman class, in a rhetorical tropism with angels, why I don't know. Her address opens the issue. My byline closes the issue because the graduate department telephoned me, appreciated my acid pouring forth against the Iraq war, shredding American materialism, and to the extent that this creates a dialogue with a financially secure feminine has been from the south, and a feminine has been who was a has been arriving for departure since she started, it is enough. Perhaps she is a catty embrace your inner bitch type, or has a fragility I cannot hear in my ringing ears. I no longer have praise to offer, nor the power to be moved by her output, nor anyone with which to share. I told myself to stop engaging with my aunt Marie, but I am worried she is going to die, and so returned her call yesterday; the sheer inanity of provincialism never ceases to amaze me. This is why I want to go home to Rome, I ask myself, to listen to histrionic crows screeching in sound and fury?

I cannot live with her again. I can't stay here. Adoption along Rittenhouse Square seems unlikely, and all I wanted to do was watch a movie.

As to the letter I mailed to Ms. Phillips, all I remember is an exuberant gush of the sort I have received from bush babies-- the strange psychology of fandom which may not have reached her, as I sent it in care of a publisher. The only thing I remember about experiencing Black Tickets was the edginess of the authorial voice had its appeal.