Tuesday, February 3, 2009


it's not about me, it's about us. i mean this in all honesty.

altrusim was defeated long ago. now, it's just a game we play. we can link it most closely to utilitarianism, i think. the motive is self interest, is what ayn rand said. i heard she was a dumb bitch, but if you deny this, you're acting in bad faith. aren't we all just actors, anyway? i ain't not actor. or maybe i am. where did this mask come from? oh yeah, southern gentry racism old money new money colonialism white flight buildings burned downtown in the sixties after our perfect leader was shot at the lorainne motel, oh fuck. i always's liked malcom x better anyway. we share the same birthday. no joke!

i'm white as hell, and i was born with too much money.

actually, i'm not white. that whole color thing is a construct. if you want to make my skin color, start with white, add yellow ochre, pink, and a tinge of brown. i'm somewhere in there.

arguing, arguing, arguing. but what for?

i like to think of myself as a runaway, but not from anything that's real. nothing that is impending, or closing in fast behind me. nothing wearing a white hood, or a civil war military uniform.

when nothin's real, i just can deal with it, i'm not afraid to be here. the hounds of love are haunting me. i never know what's good for me. i've always been a coward. well, here i go! it's coming for me through the trees! help me darling help me please! take your shoes off, and throw them in the lake!

just two hours away, two hours, two hours away!

put this into your own words. your own poetic ciphers for articulating your own civil injustice. this is really for the best. clear, concise language will never touch reality. language is incapable, in general. i'll preach this until the day i die.

our histories will never repeat. that's a silly lie you've been told since grade school.

it doesn't matter anyway, so let's just make our own.

when was the last time you looked in a mirror? why? because you've changed. you look so healthy!

i'm recycling. can you tell?

here, now:

i leave don juan, for the present. safe--
not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded
yet could his corporal pangs amount to half?
of those with which haidee's bosom bonded!
she was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe
and then give away; subdued because surrounded
her mother was a moorish maid, from fez
where all is eden. a wilderness.

-not me

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