U. S. Politics
#1
                                                                                                                          U. S. Politics
 


I don't like the effrontery of the police. I don't like the self-righteousness of the protestors. I don't like the snobbish feigning of the politicians. I don't like the vapid certainty of the voters. I tell people not to vote. I say cast out the ballot with the decadent obsolete two party system.
     I'm not you and so I wouldn't want you to be me, should you glibly want to. Vaguely, strangely, vainly want to. Who am I to govern you? How are the people you choose to govern you to govern me? How do you govern a multicultural society that wants to be one society living in multiple societies that are culturally different and irresponsible to the others? If you are different, why do you want to be the same?
     Sure it can work. It looks good in commercials and among your friends at school. But just get into the workplace and see what happens. Run for office and see what people ask of you. Families are divisive enough; now you want to add other religions, other realities? One reality. It's all one reality, it can all work together in love. But who wants to share somebody else's love? Are you not jealous for the love you've hard-earned? Free-love? I'm for free-love. Don't leave me alone with your wife. I'm for syncretism and synergy, for religious and cultural unity and assimilation and diversity, I've been accused of satanism my whole life; now I'll be accused of appropriation.
     Racism and antiracism are demons in me. Sexism and ubersexual adoration and respect for all are demons in me. I'm lousy and demoniac with love and empathy and devotion. I'm wrought with angelic and atheistic wrath. 
     We can make it work. But we don't want to. Even if we really want to, we don't. We don't want to try. We being the magnum opus that'll actually work, and work for it, and keep the work up. Keep it going and evolving and progressing, not toward extinction or a Brave New World or Catch-22, but in style, free-style, the only liberty that matters. People don't all want the same thing, and to say that is to incite violence. I don't want peace but I don't want violence.
     Conscientious nonviolent nonmorality is my call to arms. The only liberty that matters. If you want peace you must leave your culture and your creed and your ancestors living and dead and follow the democratic code of nobility. You must allow each his and her own Christ of the boss at work, Christ of the neighbor's opinion, Christ the good lamb, Christ the ferocious lion, Christ the Mohammed, Christ the Dawkins, Christ the dominatrix, Christ the laisses faire, Christ the Hawking, Christ the L. Ron Hubbard, and dance together and apart, but always together for all that.
     All that lives is holy, and all that is dead. The dead Jesus, the Ascending Dove, Mammon; and their battle is a holy war; a mark of integrity, of Cain and antichrist and intelligence and genius. Of brilliance. 
     The social economy is a moloch economy, the monetary economy is a mammon economy; values of nationalism are nazi values, the values of revolution are bolsevik values, and we could reduce and regress and generalize further.
    Retro always retro. The rights of man. Documentary culture . . . Interwedded culture.  . . . Our heroes and models and guides. Our role models and enemies. Our agendas and affiliations. Possessions. Decadence and possession. I don't mind being, living a cliche; but I won't have it forced on me. Sam Harris says I don't have free will. I'd tell Sam Harris to go fuck himself, but he'd just get his wife involved, and my demonic jealousy would nettle my retrogressive ego, . . . and mostly my lust.
     The fools' ship has landed. But so long ago. The madmen running the asylum? America is an outlaw nation. I cheer the violent protests and jeer the peaceful jingling of awkward, mawk-angry bells. I fiercely oppose violence in the streets and stew in my own erotic fierceness. Don't prune my trees, I like the leaves. Set it on fire, but don't pull up the roots. Walk away and don't forget to write sweet songs or angry curses back to me on paper of my beloved forest.
     We are fools! Why can't we enjoy that? Why has political satire become so mawkish? so morose? so malnutritioned? so humorless?
     Don't we have any pride? Forget respect—if you have it you don't need it. Why reactive? Why not step back and be responsive? And if reactive, why not gleefully, enjoying the adventure, the crusade. Is it so hard to believe everything is holy, even the brokenness of our rivals and the grief of our victims?
     I don't want violence, I don't want to see the killed and killing. But I add to it every day simply by the way I'm living. And almost every person does. We live off each other, parasites. Self-righteous parasites. Parasites of our own psyches and of our bodies. We kill to live. We kill ourselves.
     When there are social problems, we point the finger. We know who's at fault. We make the wrong-doers more spiteful, more likely to worsen their wrongness. We make ourselves into petty and bitter monstrosities. The world is being destroyed, drained of its wonders and health by ugly monsters, bitter reactionaries and revolutionists, and passive and petty complacency and mostly cowardice, moral and immoral and amoral and nonmoral cowardice.  
     Perhaps my bitterness is holy; perhaps I can aestheticize a Genetian cowardice, and turn evil into gold after I've completed conjuring evil from the lazy minds and hearts of judgmental, disgraceful persons. I won't. My anxiety and fear grow in me at each beat of my heart. Less than demons, less than insects, less than worms, less than stomach scouging fever dream excrement are my petty pathetic fears, and yet they grow in me like a cancer afraid of its own shadow. You can sternly ask why I bring myself into the matter; but I am all I have, and I am born and shipwrecked and landlocked an American. I am the prison, not in the prison, of my American psyche. As an American, I see cannibalism. I feel fear and outrage and mob mentality and manipulation and confusion and misadventure to all sides. I feel more than see these walls everywhere. I feel them closing in. . . . Our food is poisoning us, our media is smothering us, our government is confusing us, our fellows are betraying us, I am betraying myself every moment, and every attempt at rectifying even my own personal situation is an affront and an offense to all that the various belief-systems call decency.
     I feel that to try to tell the truth would be dishonest.
     So I throw the truth overboard. I go back in time; long before the ship reached shore, I tossed it into the big roar of the deep. And there it drowns sleeping, dead and waiting. I will be sure of nothing. I believe nothing you tell me. Even when you genuinely tell the truth you're lying.
     For some of us, anxiety is no longer possessing, but has taken over completely. Anxiety is living in our bodies with our memories. We hate what we fear and we fear what we hate; and we need to be assured and reassured. And after we've become reassured so many times, we need to blame what reassures us: fear may be rational, anxiety isn't.
     I despise self-righteous and bitter anxiety holding sway in the world. I despise myself for despising it. Despise despising. 
     It sickens me, this sickness. It enrages me and excites me, it feels me with glorious sensations and deathly murmurings.
     I catch the vitriol like a virus, it swarms about me and all around the walls around me like flies, like locusts, like big juicy maggots with wings and proboscises. My blood is thick with it. My skin burns and itches, and when I scratch it it shouts and screams in obnoxious scathing, shrill voices, voices becoming subanimal and worse with anger and anxious determinism. 
     I feel it from the right, from the left. From the apathetic, the ignorant, the shrewd, the intellectual, the redneck and from my friend's drug dealers. I hear it and feel it all around. All without and within me. I am it. It won't loosen its grip. 
     A grand blob, like sickly peeling sunburn in the mind, spreading over my bones. Eating me alive. And yet I don't care. I stand aside and watch it pass by. Like a lurid, moribund parade passing. Marching and slouching eastwards away from the setting sun into obsolescence and beyond. Good-bye, vicious cycle, I'll have no more of you. Your gripes and your demands are fodder for my work, and I'll take no part in your civil politics. 
     I'm not betrayed, because I was never truly a part of it. I allowed myself to be fooled by one side and by the other. I see through you and know that there is nothing on the other side. You are finished, crude, hateful, insipid rhetoric. The future is the volunteers. Getting things done is the way of the future. No more spitting in the wind and in the faces of your enemies. That world is over. Burn the country to the ground, just don't hurt anyone. We don't have enough fingers to point at all the damage we each individually have caused, equally.
     Turn the other cheek and I'll kiss your ass. 
     But first, kiss mine.


      
                                                                                                                                    2nd Foolish Day of Summer 2020
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