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.

Author: The Empty Subject

Born curmudgeon

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