Fascist poetry

When you live in isolation, free time is a burden. The leaden, listless seconds press down on your chest.

It’s a rare saturday off so I’m strolling and lolling around. The bland, grey skies merge with my mood. The weather is humid, brothy. People are out because it’s the first warm weekend of spring. And by people I mean loud blacks and prostitutes.

Out of habit I say it’s my neighborhood but it’s not really my neighborhood at all. I sleep on an ikea couch and store some stuff in a closet. No one I know lives here and I’ll be leaving in a few months.

Many of the other people that live here will also leave soon. The development tornado is sweeping through the area and in another five years the remaining poor blacks will be blown out of their shanties.

This neighborhood is a recovering hellhole. Only a few years ago it was a sweltering cesspit of dysfunction and crime. Wealthier whites didn’t live here or have any reason to visit; there were no whole foods or yoga studios. No fast casual healthful restaurants or specialty coffee shops.

But the planners, bankers and investors couldn’t stop dreaming of shekels and rubbing their hands together in backrooms. So they started building luxury condos, which brought the organic grocery stores with the yoga studios following behind like wagging dog tails. The higher class whites, jews, and asians are now settling in and rents are rising.

And in the middle of this process, individuals with wildly different group backgrounds and histories are thrown together.

Living among people that don’t look or sound like you is depressing, even if you have genuine empathy for their problems or appreciation for their differences. Maybe some people draw strength and creativity from transplanted alienation, but I’m wearing down.

Diversity is draining me because I’m a bigot. A more open minded person hums with delight while walking past tranced out trannies. True citizens of the world feel right at home on the streets where deranged hobos scream obscenities at no one.

The educated humanoid of today celebrates cultural differences, such as packs of able bodied black men hooting and hollering at each other and idling in the streets all day without ever working.

I think black people are loud and lazy because I’m a racist. So not only do I walk down the street and feel irritated by the loud lazy blacks, I also feel bad for being a racist, because even racists get tired of having their racist sensibilities rankled day after day.

Nothing in my past life conditioned me for the stresses of my current environment. The traffic, the noise, the population and pace of life here are intensely different and disorienting. I never lived among large numbers of blacks or saw the kind of grit and poverty I see everyday now.

And rural or small town poverty isn’t city poverty. I knew poor people back home; I grew up with them. They’re still closer to me than the poor people around me now. Impressions dull as we age, and I’ve already lived long enough to feel less love for the new.

Early experiences lay the foundation of the familiar.

You can’t make up for formative, shared years. You can’t throw a heap of severed limbs together and call it a body.

Generations of related people with a common past build communities, not faggot urban planners. Not deregulated flows of capitol and foreign investments. Money and schemes don’t make up for blood and soil. The infrastructure can be remade but the lives can’t be relived. If we haven’t shared time then it will be impossible to stay connected.

I’m going to get some korean tacos. One of the perks of alien invasion and globo anarcho tyranny is the exotic and spicy food.

Rehashing a reverie

I remember my old early mornings. Waking up at 5, brewing coffee, reading and writing as light slivered the sky. Then going to the gym and working out before the day dragged me down, when I was still fresh and alert. Before noisy bus trips and long shifts on my feet. Answering a million mundane questions, where is the bathroom, what’s your wifi and where are the lids.

Exercising early instead of locking my body into a mechanical rhythm for the needs of the industrial service industry. And then disconnecting from that machine to work out my contorted frame. The new natural posture is a torturous realignment of bone and muscle. We are not made to sit or stand but that’s what we do now most of the time.

Our bodies are made to walk, run, climb, clasp, and lay. Wake up with the sun and fall asleep with heavy arms and legs in the deepening dusk. Organic life is a set of interlocking rhythms playing off each other. A movement in the environment calls for a movement in the organism that inhabits it. It’s life in time as a cycle, as alternation, complimentary rhythm. Day and night, life and death, a beating heart.

But we now live on a timeline, an electric grid, where moments are just divisible, discrete units to be filled and rearranged. And our movements don’t match our surrounding rhythms. Order is top down, imposed from above. Cognitive command centers flatten and compress time and space for efficient engineering. Mutant frontal lobs carve up the body of the earth and the span of a life.

There is no night down here on the ground. In the cities the skies are darker than the streets at midnight. A universe of stars shine in the windows of the cityscape and radiating screens cook bloodshot eyes. Anything can happen whenever we want. Anything can also happen when we don’t want it to. And we’re often doing things we don’t want to do at times it makes no sense to do them.

You can work third shift, because 24 hours can be divided up into three solid shifts. You have to work at least one of those and just because third shift happens to fall on a time you’d normally be asleep, well, it’s a shift and someone has to work it.

Someone has to stand behind the counter and ring in funyuns and TGIF loaded baked potato skins at gas stations set along winding highways. Truckers are hauling theater sized flat screen plasma high definition televisions down the road at all hours; what happens when they get hungry and no one is awake to sell them slim jims and mountain dew?

The lightning paced shipping of goods and services needs its own support system of goods and services. Populations must be rapidly raised and settled in newly forming markets. When the space is cleared, people are brought in and buildings are brought up. The goal is to always have an excess population because it keeps wages low. More human mass equals less individual human value, and that’s a deal no reptilian corporate overlord can resist.

People become depressed not when their lives are too easy, but rather when their lives are too cheap. And they sense this from the inside, sometimes dully, sometimes acutely like shattering glass. I am worthless, says the redundant individual in an overcrowded physical and conceptual space, cut off from a meaningful role in an organic community of genetically similar people.

But we can’t pull ourselves out of the high tension comfort of the always on call service economy. We’ll remain cocooned in convenience until the day when the delicate threads of the finely woven social fabric come undone, exposing our nakedness, dependance and hunger. And then we’ll eat each other.

I write all this to say that I don’t like working in the evening, being awake after midnight or sleeping late into the morning. I need to get back to a more natural sleeping and waking cycle.

Some call it a crisis, others call it an opportunity

Today is a new day, they say. Forget about the mistakes of yesterday. This is sound advice for overcoming regret, but it has a dark side.

When you wake up in the morning, you’re back to zero on all of your achievements. And you have to renew the effort that brought you the success that’s now slipping out of your grasp. Nothing sticks to a blank slate; life is long enough for failing past the point where failure has anything left to teach you.

You ate well yesterday. Made good choices. Did all the things you needed to do. And now you have to do it all over again. Sometimes it’s what you don’t do that counts. You didn’t drink a jug of moonshine and ram your Dodge ram into a daycare center, shoot up or snort lines or blow a paycheck on hookers. Sometimes it’s doing one thing rather than another. You volunteered at the homeless shelter instead of posting on anti semitic message boards.

But that was one day of holding the hounds of vice at bay. Now it’s a new day and they’re chomping and snarling and ready to tear you apart again. Do you have the energy, the will, the heart to keep resisting? You’re ready to leave your mistakes behind, but what about everything you did well, can you take that with you?

You need the support of knowing that you’ve made it this far and can do it all over again. Longstanding experience conditions us to remember pain and forget happiness. We have to tell people to move on because for most of our history, survival depending on remembering what hurts. You have to make a special, evolutionarily novel effort to hold on to everything that isn’t deadly and threatening. Grudges are adaptive and suffering is definitive.

What have you done for me lately? The devils of frustrated ambition are always asking. Matter disintegrates. Love fades. Memory warps the fabric of the past. You’re free from your failures but you can’t keep the victories either. Everything good and bad from the far gone to the just passed is forever unreachable once it passes through the sieve of the present.

You have talent but how reliable is that? Maybe one day your fingers don’t move the way they used to and you can’t play the guitar anymore. You have strength but it wanes without constant testing and upkeep. One day you’re benching a mobile home and then a few days later you can’t lift a bag of flour without groaning, sweating, and shaking.

Maybe one day your wit leaves you and your speech stumbles in the middle of a conversation. You always had something to say and your mind brimmed with ideas, but now it’s nothing but tumbleweeds rolling across an arid expanse.

It doesn’t have to be a mechanical failure. Even if your body is healthy and your mind is sharp, the soul grows weary. The internal critic muffles the external praise and you lose the love for what you do. When you fight complacency you might destroy contentment. There’s always collateral damage in a war and there’s always a war.

But we have to keep going, keep fighting. A grim outcome might seem certain but what do we really know? We’re in this together and we can’t give up on each other. You never know who you’re influencing and who’s hanging around because of what you do.

I’m a sociologist

Inconsistency rules the world. Last night I ate a medium pizza and then took a multivitamin. Followed that up with fish oil because I don’t want to miss out on vital nutrients and omegas after eating a small family’s worth of processed meats and cheeses. Gluttony getting chummy with prudence. You can go overboard with excess but then pull back with a half measure of restraint.

Instagram meme culture expresses this in its own shallow, idiotic way. Girls will suck a strangers dick but they won’t drink tap water. Yoga and kale sitting alongside emotionally deadening, dysfunctional relationships. Promoting promiscuity while despairing about love and loyalty. Not just the ladies, though. Men don’t know how to act either. Incoherence cuts across gender lines. Imbalance is the second greatest equalizer after death.

Whatever side you’re on, you’ll make exceptions for your own. We can do this because the history of oppression… The other side doesn’t get a break. And pointing out inconsistency isn’t persuasive. No one changes their mind because some of their beliefs conflict with others. If I know this then why do I write about it? Because the point of writing isn’t always persuasion. Sometimes there is no point to writing other than the writing itself. I hope I can someday convince people of this.

(As an aside, I wish more people would evaluate writing for its own sake. More appreciation for form and less quibbling over content.)

The way things are depends on who’s talking. Society is a repressive power that crushes individual expression and spontaneity. It’s also a permissive, wandering carnival of buttfucking and bastard children. There are too many rules and regulations over here while there isn’t enough structure and institutional support over there. Families breed bigotry and backwards thinking and they’re also the character forming backbone of stable, productive citizens. We grow up in dens of abuse and havens of love.

Religious prudes ruin sex by controlling what two people do behind closed doors. At the same time, debauched hedonists ruin sex by diluting its power and cheapening its sacred value. They trash society for the sake of abundant orgasms. One man’s spiritual degradation is another man’s enlightened self interest. We are just individuals trying to maximize our tingles and minimize our tortures. Unless you like pain, in which case no one should stop you from hurting yourself.

Do what you like unless you like doing what you don’t like. Society is judgmental and intolerant. It’s also not judgmental enough. We need to mind our own business and we need stronger, more involved communities. Mass culture steamrolls differences while niche marketing stratifies and strips down consumers. Capitalism breaks the bonds of birth and it shackles us to the profit motive.

People want recognition for rebellion. Misfits must fit in. We obsess over health and eat packaged creme pies in front of radioactive screens as our limbs and organs atrophy. Fuck you for telling me what to do. And fuck you for not telling me what to do at the right time in the right way. These kids over here were coddled and micromanaged, had their personalities parented away. But these other kids grew up without fathers in broken homes of booze and meth fueled breakdown.

More social services. Less social services. The government is too big. Banks are too big. So is your ego. Maybe it’s everything all at once depending on who you are and when you think about it. Maybe you’re tired, hungry and lonely. You’re riding the metro among people plucked from the four corners of the world and they all have their heads down, staring at their smartphones. They’re speaking languages you don’t understand and in that moment you think society is pure chaos, disconnection and isolation in a sea of strangers.

Then your mom calls and burdens you with troubles at home. You visit the small town where you grew up and everyone looks and sounds the same. They all hate gays and foreigners and they want you to stay with them forever. Your parents are getting older and you might have to take care of them. People are christians here. Now the world is all archaic order, crushing conformity and obligation. How could people be so complacent and narrow minded. You hurl yourself back into the electrifying arms of urban anonymity.

There’s no one way to characterize or define contemporary society because it’s made up of so many disparate parts and divergent strands. People are going in a million different directions and they all have variable ideas about what they’re doing and why they’re doing it. I’m the only one who seems to grasp this with any gravity, so what I say is exempt from the preceding rule.

It’s a beautiful life

Currently at odds with a roommate over an alarm clock. This is life in homo hub, DC. He tried to chide me for banging on his door to wake him up when his alarm has been ringing for ten to fifteen solid minutes. At 6 in the morning.

Every morning this degenerate, inconsiderate creep sleeps through his alarm. An alarm which he sets hours in advance of when he needs to wake up. But I don’t sleep through it. I get home from work around 1 in the morning. Strangely enough, after hours of working in an ultra contrived high pressure environment, I’m unable to fall immediately into the arms of sweet slumber. So I don’t get to bed until around 2 or later.

Then, 4 hour hours later, his alarm rings. And it doesn’t stop until I do something about it, which makes me an unbearable asshole. I understand that we all have to wake up at different hours of the day. Division of labor and complexity entail a fragmented social body made up of increasingly incompatible and begrudging people. But the purpose of an alarm is to wake up the person who needs to wake up at that time. Not torment someone else trying to enjoy the profound joy of deep, dark sleep.

It would be one thing if I were momentarily disturbed and could then get back to sleep. It would be far from ideal but also far from enraging. But this is impossible because the alarm just rings and rings. Occasionally he hits the snooze and then five minutes later it’s ringing again. But I’m the piece of shit for knocking on his door to make it stop.

I should be more polite. I should send a delicately worded text message diffidently suggesting a possible change in early morning alarm clock policy. Let me begin by offering my sincerest, sloppiest ass sucking apology. You have every right to feel offended and inconvenienced. But would it be possible to not be a piece of human wreckage, if only for a few hours in the morning when a quiet home is critical?

I know that as a gay man you face many challenges. Living with the underlying awareness that you’re a genetic dead end is surely stressful. It’s probably why you’re atomically self absorbed and compulsively engage in high risk, hedonic behavior. I know that you can’t do most things like normal people with healthy, functioning procreative instincts, but would it be possible to at least sleep and wake up like an adjusted adult?

It’s surely too much to ask. So I’m looking for a way out. Sub leasing is an option but who wants to live here? It’s going to be a hard sell. Then again, DC is full of striving queers who’d feel right at home among other gays, trannies, and poor blacks. Sleeping fitfully through ringing alarms and piss poor piano playing would be a small price to pay for a chance to live cheaply in our collapsing nation’s capital.

In a different time I would have met a grisly but heroic end. Gutted by the scimitar of a mussulman defending the kingdom of Christendom. Now I’m going to slowly rot until my heart finally gives out after years of low level stressors and simmering resentments. Worn down by pseudo comfortable years of being constantly accused of having power I’d be pilloried for ever using. I won’t be fighting for these freaks when the barbarians come.

The pen is flightier

I write to forget, to kill time. Philosophers are often extravagantly incorrect, but every now and then they get something right. And Plato was right once or twice, even though he never wrote in his own voice so it’s inaccurate to say that he ever said anything at all. A fictional Socrates spoke the truth through a myth: writing destroys memory. And I agree.

Give a man a memory and he’ll remember his day. Give a man a pen and paper and he’ll forget his whole life. The more you read the less you think. The more you write the more you forget. You can always go back to what you’ve written to remember, but what kind of memory is that? You’ve only remembered that what you’ve forgotten is written somewhere. And you must return again and again to what you’ve written until you’re dead.

If old boy Plato already saw a problem with writing when few people were doing it, just think of where we are today. Everyone writes all the time. Writing had a corrosive effect on memory when elite, educated humans had to carve figures into clay and stone. What happens when ill bred rubes can barf up their every semi churned sentiment by lightly tapping a few keys whenever they want?

The flood of books. Articles. And then the comments to those articles. Message boards. Status updates. And the responses to those updates. The swirling phantasmagoria of controversy rising up and dying down at a pace faster than comprehension allows. Now is actually a great time to say something stupid and offensive. This is the moment to proudly proclaim your idiocy because no one will remember it.

Before you’ve even put a period on your last uninformed, hurtful statement, someone else will have come along and said something even more uninformed and hurtful. I’m not sure if people even feel genuine offense anymore or if it’s just conditioned reflexes.

Where pavlov’s dog salivated every time he heard a bell, modern justice mobs cry tears of anguish every time they hear the word faggot. Then their knees predictably jerk on cue and they pepper spray a child or punch an elderly man and it’s on to the next installment of outrage.

From the scroll to the screen. From the epic exploits of fearless warriors to the deluded ramblings of genetic castaways. The downhill slide from old greeks reciting a poem that solidified communal ties to isolated retards masturbating in the dark to erotic fan fiction.

Writing is the father of forgetting and illegitimacy. When you write you spill your seed and run. What did you mean when you wrote that? I don’t know, I’m not there anymore, I’ve moved on. Now it’s someone else’s problem. Other people can worry about what I meant while I’m off writing again.

I’m not sure if time drags or flies but I know that writing is the best way to idle. I’ll be leaving a trail of triviality until the end.

Spring is in the air

It’s snowing and sleeting. In DC, in mid march. A month ago there were days of 75 degree weather. Shining sun, balmy breeze. Now the husky corpse of winter is rotting on our doorsteps. Returned like a revenant, here to pay us back for months of eerily warm and mild weather.

The seasons are melting into each other. I remember a childhood of clearly defined seasons and periods of transition between them. Late summer held hints of autumn. You could hear the whisper of winter in the biting winds of late october or early november. Frost would cover the ground and massacre the insect population. I don’t think we even had frost this year.

Flowers would bloom and birds would chirp, announcing spring right on schedule. The arrival of warmer spring weather is usually so predictable that festivals can be reliably held at the same time every year. But this year the cherished cherry blossoms in DC budded early and are now in danger of dying from the return of colder temperatures.

The goddamn cherry blossoms are vulnerable. Bees are dying in droves, portending the doom of humanity. Heat waves will torch delicate plant and animal life. Water levels will rise, cutting off formerly continuous land masses. The ground will crack and split and shake. Volcanoes will vomit incinerating lava. Those who aren’t swept away by tidal waves of molten rock will choke on dense ash.

We will eat each other. Naked, cowering, and ravenous, we’ll tear at each other’s desiccated flesh. Delirious feasting on friends and family as the sun rains hellfire and the moon weeps blood. And then the many headed serpent will rise up out of the sea, a crown atop each head. A bedazzling whore riding on its back. A  deafening trumpet blast will herald the apocalypse.

The end of the earth. The last men annihilated in a blaze of cannibalism and sodomy. Every last record of greatness, of beauty and truth wrested from the dank pit of nothingness forever lost. Cold, desolate space expanding without purpose or direction. Transdimensional demons cackling in the void, relishing the reign of senselessness and extinction.

And then, after millenia of crushing darkness, a brilliant light shines. Atoms emerge and lock arms. Matter takes form. The unfolding of creation like it never happened before. The slow, dogged march of life from bubbling plasma to conscious thought.

I might have lifted parts of that scenario from the bible. Not sure how copyright laws work with major religions.

The banality of being yourself

Now that I only have one job, I have much more time to contemplate my pointless existence. I wandered the city all weekend, idled in cafes and scouted out new places to work. Because one job isn’t enough. Because I no longer use free time to pretend that I’m a scholar or artist or decadent sex fiend. I used to read Marx and think that if I were free of capitalist exploitation, I’d be fishing and reading philosophy and fucking like a good, fully realized human.

But I hate fishing. And I can’t read philosophy anymore. Also, I don’t care about fucking. It’s boring and repetitive and I have little interest in exploring it outside of a relationship.

I don’t care about what I might like if I tried it. Who knows what’s swirling around down there in the depths. Maybe what I like is repulsive and life consuming. I’d rather not find out. Or it could be trivial and tedious. And what if I couldn’t do it well or get it easily without making my life in general much worse?

As long as you have passion. As long as you love what you do. 

What if I’m tired of trying to love what I do and want to love something else?

We slide into peculiar fixations and obsessive, idiosyncratic behavior because we’re losing touch with the fundamental elements of who we are. Like family, community, and religion. We’re not supposed to love what’s near and familiar, what’s natural, intimate and given.

In our system it’s healthy to handicap yourself and develop alienating interests. When it comes to organic identity, you deny and dismember. When it comes to bizarre sexual fetishes and goony obsessions, you celebrate and explore. You should be free to cut yourself off from your history and disappear down the fathomless anal cavity of self discovery.

Everything can be trans now, except for the one thing that’s traditionally transcendent. You can transcend being a man or a woman, this or that race or ethnicity, a member of a collective or nation, and even your humanity.

But the transcendence of an all powerful creator? Don’t be an ignorant bigot. We have the science and medical technology to lop off dicks and graft artificial vaginas now, we don’t need people believing in the possibility of casting off their mortal coils and living forever with the source of all creation.

That would just be fucking ridiculous.

Waging bull

I got fired yesterday by my fat, hideous ogre of a boss. He scheduled me to work on a night I was already working at my other job. I spent a week trying to find someone to cover me. I put the shift up on the scheduling app and no one took it. Texts were sent, phone calls were made. I went on a dizzying, modernist nightmare journey through a bureaucratic labyrinth of redirection and futility.

I even showed up to work the first half of my shift with the hope that I could find someone to cover the rest. What a mistake that was. The swollen toad who owns the bullshit business showed up just to fire me. He could have helped me out, but then again, in my brief stint working for this miserable swamp monster none of my needs were ever addressed or taken seriously. I don’t know why I expected anything else.

They hired me and gave me one or two shifts a week. They payed beneath minimum wage because the tips were supposed to be substantial. The tips turned out to be shit. Nonexistent. I asked for more shifts, even offered to work at their other shop and they gave me nothing. Then they told me I could be a manager and get a raise. That didn’t happen.

I lost everything I had saved up helping them open a new store. When the new shop opened I got a few more hours but they were mostly closing shifts. And nothing is more dull than closing a slow coffee shop a few nights a week. You’re a dishwasher and cleaner. You make nothing and interact with no one.

In addition, the shop has a soulless atmosphere. It’s a cold, contrived environment because it’s in a luxury apartment complex on the edge of a gentrifying neighborhood. And they won’t find enough trust fund recipients to pay 2000 dollars a month to drink single origin coffee among cracked out hobos.

I also watched as they failed to train new employees. They try to make specialty coffee seem like an artistic, passionate pursuit of excellence. A career for professional and serious minded people. In reality it’s below subsistence level low skilled labor. And everyone in the “industry” is expendable and replaceable.  They don’t hire illegal aliens for barista jobs because the aliens don’t speak english. Otherwise I’d be competing with Manuel and his seven brothers for bargain basement under the table wages.

So I work in an industry with a veneer of artistry and respectability concealing an underworld of poverty and stultifying repetition. But that description could be applied to most jobs so I guess we’re all in the same shit sink gasping for breath. Someday soon all jobs will be automated and the human race will achieve peak uselessness. 99 percent of us will be ground up into corn meal and jet fuel.

From africa we emerged, and back to africa we will return as sex slaves and diamond miners. In the meantime I need to figure out my next step.