Combat With Maggot Larva

A nozzle shot of bleach corrodes the exoskeleton of flies as effectively as insecticides, without posing harm to kitty-- the home and garden journalist I am never going to be.

The dowager was formerly able to locate Louis Dinapoli on LinkedIn, with his sharp wizened Italian face pinched like many faces beset with osteogenesis imperfecta and the romance of fracturing our skeletal engineering to get to the marrow, but not anymore. It may or may not mean he is dead, my former neighbor, colleague, classmate. He handled brittle bone disease by always pissing me off talking dirty over the phone. Louis and the dowager attended the same segregated grade school, closed long ago, and meeting him again at Liberty in the nineties was at first a surprise side benefit, but fatal confidence misplaced in Linda took care of that. I did not want to sleep with Louis. I broke his nose playing Stratego in his living room, and remorse only takes you so far when no conscious malevolence is involved in the mishap, but Louie haunted me a long time, and I started dreaming about his cast binding breaks, and the Jewish princess may have claimed she was too busy to read my conversations (sometimes overanxious due to economic desperation, which, to go against me, helped no one), but enough seeped in that she made sure he would wind up making fun of me. In confidence, I told brass bitch he would have been a useful Safe Male, as once endearingly categorized by Cybill, whose diminished appearances in public are felt, when dowager pauses to compare the Willis rocket to Shepherd's gin fizz. Louie's deliberate willingness to ostracize me in public hurt like a mother, and this was on Linda, not me, regardless of what she told him. I wanted to approach Louis about occasionally doing the social scene au pair, and instead, once Linda and I fell out, I literally took death by a thousand cuts by my peers, then indifferent abuse at the hands of Liberty's coordinators and attendants, exceedingly difficult to stand up to when in a state of shock for as long as I was, institutional disparagement. Where else would my vitriol have sprouted roots?

Though I may not know where to find him now, you all know his face, impish, wicked, something like Nabil, grey toothed, barbed, vicious.

Poster Child Left

I am counting on your support.-- every political email transmission in the country

Some of the international members of the disabled community have found my accounts through social media and attempted to offer support, but let me explain something: No matter how many documentaries on public television Hockenberry appears in, what is rarely discussed is the incalculable damage the disabled community does to itself. I cannot access legal assistance for my trauma in part because that very assistance is tied to Liberty Resources. Thomas Earle, the legally blind variation of the sissy caricature created by the studio system, had not applied to be the center's director when I was the pawn eliminated in the Queen's opening, but he was shocked when I met with him about it, and did he act in any capacity to help me heal from what was the duress of a criminally toxic social shaming? No. No one associated with independent living in Philadelphia has lifted a finger for me, and this is what prominent figures like Hockenberry never touch. The mechanics of his sexual performance? Those can be discussed, under the lid of the magic pill debate. He uses injections; this is common knowledge in the culture, and this is what the Limda Dezenski of 18 years ago would assert: I was asking questions, so she wasn't trying to hurt me by going off on her orgasms in her marital bed. She was trying to help me assert myself. I have already discussed this, but haven't really conveyed the humiliation I suffered under her subordinates. Louis DiNapoli. There is a name. He was an observer, and saw that Linda was betraying me that day at the picnic. Dozens of people watched Linda do her thing, at my expense, and Louis, who was the center's account controller, made things rather ugly, taunting me with epithets, which is why he saw the writing on the wall, and resigned. He beat the great recession. And with all that's been said, been done, where am I supposed to go? I have absolutely no resources to get myself away, for the sake of my health, none: I have to watch an incomplete transsexual unravel, dying on his criminal activities which hurt many other vulnerable players. Steve Gold? He's a patronizing Jewish pig who runs the disabled in action branch in one of the center's side offices, and stopped Presby from bleeding me dry for their dining service in 2005, which, since the building renovations in 07, have been nearly eliminated. Stick a prayer in the Temple Wall for Philadelphia Jewish lawyers. For those of you across the pond, or up north, in my favorite commonwealth, perhaps you have different systems, a reconciliation process, not here.
If I end up taking my life, it isn't because I want to play finger games with my former supervisor's vagina. Of late, I found my way back to my memories of the 24 year old who wanted to get it on, and she had no inclination for cherries. It is simply some experiences are too much to carry, after so much time. I need to vacate my landlord that badly, over the realization that true desegregation is impossible for certain classes, and cruelty from within is worse than any gamesmanship from celebrity moguls. It isn't that I don't appreciate your outreach, but if you really want to help me, I need representation, one skilled enough to get me admissions of liability, as well as a new place to live. Fixed doesn't shrink away from the debate, but it also doesn't go far enough. It is too difficult to accept that a life long sterile environment in senior living is the best I can do, the brunt of pecking order mockery.

If I am going to groom to go trolling for Pat Toomey this week, I have to make it an early morning, and now believe it was the Australian disabled man who blocked me. I warned him. He made me a job offer in message, probably felt badly about it, or his proposal didn't go through.

Cross Stations

"He is one of the very greatest English poets, and his greatness has never been fully acknowledged or described, in part at least because his prolific writing and his huge and idiosyncratic erudition make him hard to come to terms with all at once--" AS Byatt, "Robert Browning: Fact, Fiction, Lies, Incarnation and Art"

I haven't made an effort to meet any more divorced or widowed males, and at my age, single men might be slightly suspicious, since the lesbian Josie Byzek conveniently disrupted mine and Cecil Morales prospective interest in each other, difficult to dwell on,(excluding my infantile glutton driven ex) but even if I stuck my neck out of my tortoise shell and fortune surprised me with an alternate ending, a good man would have to compete with Linda's shrill enthusiasm in my head, "Oh come on Joanne, we all know that spastic..." It will always make me feel small, her voice, in email, crowing about Bruce's performance. I can ask myself why they divorced, and their split had reverberations within the CIL community, and immediately understand that divorce at the same time, though she never discussed her marital life, other than throwing her gratification in my face, and I can hear her with her most confidential sympathizers calling me a mawkish asshole.

She'd be right. I was a mawkish asshole, but desperation not to have sanctuary and order implode, not to be abused, under intense harassment by Riverside, which is as about terrible as you can imagine without an employer, and the racism of case managers, however veiled or overt, this is why I was so emotionally vulnerable with Linda. Marcia Ian tried to offer me a psychoanalytic perspective, that Linda was, subconsciously or otherwise, uncoupling my infantile need to return to the nest, and buttress those forked tongue assurances that I wasn't abandoned, but Marcia's admirable theorizing doesn't begin to heal the wounds of being scapegoated, victimized on one end by ineffectual case management, re: Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, Jenelle Dost, and every defensive den mother at Liberty I've dealt with since, and exploited by black dysfunction, attendant neglect, on the other.

I pounded out a regressive rhyming verse for Linda, which I should not have done, simplistic and childish in stridency, which took me fourteen years to rewrite. I sent the esteemed Sheldon Novick a draft as a summary apologia for my social inappropriate familiarity when he was just a blank on whom my libations seeped in their wounds, and Robert liked it. American Poetry Review has remained silent, and I assume I am in the slush pile, if hard drives have one. I do not know, especially since  my mortality is close at hand, if I can ever resurface, scythed, but back on my feet.
*******

My Patron Saint

                             --for Linda C Dezenski

Gold filigree molded to the cast  by the armature will boil
you alive in a molten vat, crisp the epidermis, heaven of a bacon 
back, the needle sting of rosemary, little pitch of thyme,
silken filaments of liposome accumulate the pupils;
accelerate the blind exhaust in idolatry, her moans: their
satisfaction leave you biting fugal dust, serrated blade in puncture.  
Aerophagia onsets beneath the pressured ribs so rapidly,  ebbing away and scrub,
the wounded climax but a moment, these the later Hebrew saints a
prelude to St. Anne, sort of, in the name of transitional gentile
Hannah was barren like Sarah, ailing tadpoles in an acid slink, writhe
and writhe again old woman, forth your issue a womb to hold the uncontainable
Incarnate, supposed to feel good, it is, within Blume's exploratory wash 
cloth, or Toni's mad black bitch.  Liberate it to the boast, pubic spasms an 
end onto themselves, with vocal mandibles they speak, they're old stridency,
Helen Reddy on the LP, brass decor fit for flamenco, if barely in sync.

Empowered with a roar, intimations for the pedestrians on those autonomic
chilly roads, impregnable with so many episodes, turning points. Franciscan 
orders create ascetics impervious to anything but pleasure in humility, one
dimension fresco with its halo most certain as an object, zealotry feared, good
reasons for it amid the lawyering medical class, those who shifted the axis.
Francis de Sales peddled something in commerce mind, not as padre might
envision, running with the bulls, ripped to a weight lifter's stance; better
yet, a green man so full of rage the canopy trembles beneath his tread.
The blessed meek anticipate the end we've reached, the end not of aggression,
eco-colony collapse, nor the whimpers of irresolute despair.

Sissy primate with its tartly bitter taste, the wanderer has a lesion on its
mind, circuits that scramble to ever greater depth, spastics brag,
appalling, sugar cubes of suffering carved into the metastasis, fettered
beyond benign, conscience felled the breast of Joan d'Arc.
Never to suckle, rear her own. Where is this freedom of the broken body?
Bundled into the derivatives, convulsing credit to a standstill?
Compliance gives us more within the fortress built to hide.
Urine bags burst the blush to purple, humiliated by the smell.

--Revised from 4/27/2000