Last Serial Installment of “On Rainy Days The Monk Ryokan Feels Sorry For Himself”, Pages 324-349


If you buy the book, I promise not to serialize the other 11 stacked on my table.

This last stretch is rated somewhere between PG-13 and R.

I want to write this down while the fear is still fresh.
I live along the windy shores of Lake Ontario. We have nothing of any value to bomb besides a nuclear power plant and my home. It’s dark just before dawn. Moments ago I heard a large plane flying low in the sky. I stepped outside my front door into the frosty air and felt the plane crashing into the power plant. I imagined the split second and the overwhelming power of explosion liquefy my body, my house, my family. We blew into space. We melted into nothing.
Fear is crazy. Being a man unable to defend against an explosion larger than a firecracker is insanity. How can I protect my body? What strength has a single man against the machine that pretends to ask his opinion before taking its revenge upon the world? Nobody has asked me for my yea or nay on the subject of war. Nor have I personally put my representative into a seat in the Federal government. There is no one whom I would want to represent me other than my close, personal friend Pat. Yet he has no intention of running for office.
So I am unrepresented.
Who is?
Dangerous question.
In a nation of 300 million, I would probably be close to the mark to say that about five thousand are represented. If it’s a hundred thousand, it’s still not enough. Even a hundred million counted for is not America—at least not the ideal which the present king and queenies pay such horseshit lip service to.
We have three branches of government. Let us attempt to find one honest soul.
The Executive
No. Every one knows that the President is a spoiled rich kid, playing with toys, and a partisan boobie who can only hire other partisan boobies if he’s not going to be contradicted while telling lies. So the President, his cabinet, and all secretarial and janitorial positions made at the White House are partisan liars, and brutal too if they assist in the murder of a single human being. They will become honest citizens the day the President publicly admits that he is the leader of a mass murdering, profiteering organization of clean-shaven, blood-thirsty baboons.
The Judicial
Appointed by presidents. They get to pick the cases that they want to hear. Almost madness. Doesn’t that say enough? There are nine of them, in addition to an army of secretaries and janitors.
The Legislative
The Senate. Two people to represent a state. There are eighteen million people in my state. If we all ate the exact same dinner last night, I would be satisfied with my representative. Impossible. And he shall be a immoral thief to boot the moment he steps into a car not bought and paid for by his own sweat and struggle.
The House. Opportunistic thieves who don’t dare campaign for the secretarial and janitorial vote. Tend to wait for the local union leader, or big business representative to give a donation.
This is why America is not free. It says that we are free to voice an opinion. But in a life or death situation, which cannot be a more final and necessary situation to voice an opinion, we can speak up, but it won’t do a bit of good, and it might even kill us. If the king and queenies of America want to kill, they most certainly will. We have the freedom to talk and the shackles to stay put, but for the sake of our lives, never raise a threatening finger.
I think the American government acting as a blind, ravenous cancer is going to kill as many civilians as Hitler, Stalin, and the man most responsible for the Armenian genocide. I am certain of this because our President has already used the word “evil” and “crusade” on public television. Wow! Those are pretty strong words! The king and queenies of America are going to kill every single one of us eventually. Of that I am certain too.
It’s bound to happen. If it isn’t America, it will be China. If not China, Jamaica… Nowhere are people free. If America is the freest nation, and it can wreck total destruction upon the weaker nation of its choice, how are we to trust other nations with equally destructive powers, yet leaders who admittedly crack the whip to keep their people down?
My god, I say trust China first. Where do we see their government presently spending billions of dollars dropping bombs on children? A billion people, who will admit that they are subjugated by a minuscule few, and yet I bet that they are more loyal to their repressive government than Mr. Patriotic American waving his fifty dollar plastic flag, simply because the simple Chinaman knows damn well that he is not free. The wise Chinese is lied to, admits he is lied to, and lives his unfree life while regularly filtering truth out of lies. But he knows that alone he cannot defeat a government of nuclear weapons. So why for the life of self and family would he even try?
Same in America. Here is propaganda. Here they hang flags on the front porch, and then sit down on the steps to drink their delicious gourmet coffees. Why organize to fight the monster? It’s gourmet coffee!
The fear we need to save our souls is enemy planes enjoying cruising altitudes in our airspace. We need to be humbled. We need to be bombed daily so that we can feel again. Never have we been so needful of a forced occupation of our lands. Hasn’t happened yet in United States history, although I am sure it would do a great deal of good for American and especially world preservation.
A revolution in America will never come from within. We are a nation of spoiled puppies driving cars to and from our overflowing food bowls. A million people could not rise up against the government its forefathers created. We praise the latter and then ourselves for realizing the success of their experiment. Madness. They made a monster. They nurtured the monster. Guilty from the start, they fed their hideous creation with money pies wrought from slavery. Only white men with property enjoyed personal, ridiculous ideas of freedom. A woman lived and died beside her husband, to be named in the end “His Wife” on her tombstone. There was no freedom then for the majority. Some freedoms today, but even the smallest freedom must be paid for. By blood? No. More money! Today the greatest freedom Americans wish to uphold is the freedom to make money. There is no freedom guaranteed to not make money, hence all men enslaved to a life of not creating their own lives. Hence, hence, NO FREEDOM!
How easy for our leaders to put down a revolt! America has engorged itself way beyond the most imaginative idea of God’s wrath thought up by the typical eighteenth century human brain. There might be a judgment day, but the leaders of nuclear nations are the only ones currently in power to initiate it. In America the President has the nuclear power to prevent any threat of civil war. There is no target too small or too big. A hundred million might organize by telephone. But they’re dead before a manifesto can be written up. More than anything the President fears his own head getting hung on a post. Each night while in bed, he peruses his personal survival itinerary with crackers and tea, tucked snugly beside Mrs. President under a fluffy down comforter. Fellow Americans, how many nuclear warheads does it take to wipe out life in North America? You don’t know? I promise you the general knows. Which general? Pick any one of those mini-satans having brunch with the President this morning. How can we be certain that the two of them have not already constructed a special, secret plan to murder every single one of us?
All of this distrust is brushed off as paranoia. Of course it is! It must be paranoia because there is no day left to debate after the morning of “ouch, my face is melting off my skull…” There can be no proof of it not being paranoia until after everyone is dead.
Ambition is dangerous. There does not exist one world leader who has inwardly freed himself from maniacal ambition. America, in its present, pretend democracy, cannot stray too far away from its idea of the worst evil in the universe. Our President does not meet my standard of manhood. Nor does Prime Minister Gumbai ruling the little known African nation that America nukes tomorrow because Gumbai is evil and the American president wants to go on crusade and kill people.
When a leader starts talking about God, evil, crusade, and bombing missions all in one breath, it’s time for a people to welcome the forceful footprint of another culture onto their lands.
God, would it be that bad for us to lose? How bad was it in France during the German occupation? Was there music? Was there dancing? Was there wine flowing? There weren’t nuclear weapons. That’s some good times, eh? What would be left for the occupation to occupy after a nuclear drop-off? Hitler, a French family, eleven million unfortunate Europeans, and all the people in the world would have disintegrated. It takes a lot less pent-up evil to press a button and annihilate whole populations. It’s impersonal. Which makes such a terror that much more likely. Now that it is easier to kill, it’s easier to kill, understand?
I think that I might be patriotic enough to volunteer my body to the resistance if there ever was an occupation of America. Just for something to do besides “obey and pay,” until I’m dead and even buried in money. Although first I would need to convince myself that after the war this government would be much improved. That is to say, just a touch less embarrassing and hypocritical. Oh yes, and I should expect that all the nation’s top dogs be rounded up and brought to the newly instated World Children’s Court. There they would be tried and convicted by the universal judge which existed before the dinosaurs, and hasn’t left since. All leaders guilty of just one violent crime against any human being would be publicly tickled to death, disemboweled, stuffed, and put on perpetual parade around the earth.
Wow. What are the chances? In such a world, I would become 100% patriotic American.
We, the fearful parents of America, force-feed fear into our children first, before ever stumbling upon the bright realization that fear kills freedom. It’s called wisdom, folks. And it used to be something that grew with age. Right from wrong? The children know it. They always have. All legacy after 1945 is meaningless horseshit. What insane child gives a pisspot about your good deeds, professional acumen, loving demeanor, or whatever lie it is that you pretend all day long while knowing, Jesus Christ, knowing that man’s world is a push button away from extinction? You think little Charlie will ever get anything finished properly when tomorrow his tiny face will be smashed in, and his skull cracked, because you, yes you, only you, you sick, twisted ghoul allowed for this demonocracy to break into your home and take your children, without so much as a murmur of complaint. COWARD! Name all the armaments stockpiled in the United States Armed Forces. Do it now you imbecile, you shit father, you embarrassing human being! I want the exact number and names of every baby killer that you buy with tax money. Do it now! Find out! Do it, you dog! I want the name of the soldier who would walk into my home, by rule of the President… I keep a list now, on my refrigerator. I intend to scribble out each name until the last baby killer is dead and buried. My God why has our power to protect the children vanished? The amount of fear each of us possess in one brain cell, is so tightly wound and compact, that if unraveled, would stretch 600 miles all the way to the White House with a “Please don’t kill me” sign hanging at the end. You are a taker. You do not give what the universe gave to parents of all species. Instinct of self-perpetuation. Here you are at the end of your life leaving the children little notes of death signed by you and your lawyer. Money, a house, maybe a stamp collection for junior and his bride. But never, ever, never, ever never wisdom. Priceless wisdom. The only needful protection to pass on to loved ones.
And now, seated in your cozy house chair, you think that you’re protecting the family. You little piece of nothing. You fearful little pig in space. I am so sick of what you make humanity. Every man loves his child. You want a little chink-face, honky, nigger, dot-head? Is that what you want? You want that I too am as hateful of living as you? Respect one man today and protect your own child’s life. How do you respect man? You give him this hate of yourself as your last expression of divine love.
Meanwhile, acquiesce while your brutal leaders bully ten conventionally armed Arab nations united against us. Play with the kids on the floor that you just washed and waxed while the U.S. Kingdom of Madmen piss off another Chinese nation, or rub the wrong way a volatile despotically armed Russia. I promise there will be nothing to look forward to besides a tiny state-of-the-art nuclear warhead seeking out your child’s left eyeball. Tomorrow Pakistan will have one of those. Our trigger-happy leaders already have a hundred. If just one exists, God’s law of inevitability says it most certainly will get used.
The end of the world?
A sure bet.
We can try to organize and revitalize a nation of strong-backed mothers and fathers. But first one strong man must make a beginning. It would be a miracle coming. Just one man to protect his child. Not God, not nation. One Man! He alone would make a beginning. The miracle is that if and when he made his move, he would actually be supported by enough neighbors to make even a dent of difference. Without the name Mr. WalMart, or Mr. Fordcar, or Mr. Dollar store, it would take more than a miracle to jumpstart a nation of deadbeats tucking their fear in at night. Who would be so foolish to invest time and money in a man who has nothing but a beginning? What if to begin, he hijacks a plane with feather pillows and a loud threat, and flies the plane into a building of nuclear missile engineers? What if that was his beginning? I think it could be a very rational beginning. The irrationality of it all, the miracle transcending rational thought is that there even exists one man left in America to make a beginning.
Progress is so slow.
Geez, maybe it might be smart for America to lead in the fight for a one world nation. It has the power now. Why not use it wisely? Make each nation an equal entity with equal vote. If they don’t like it, nuke them off the map. What is America, Italy, Iraq, Taiwan, besides a constant reminder to humanity that it still has not aspired to human? What is the vision for humanity anyway? Is our evolution to be so slow that we will have run out of time before ever realizing our true potential?
Yes it is. Painfully slow. Retarded. Almost brought to a complete halt.
Look what damage America presently inflicts on the world, and it cannot even get to one man! It bombs an entire nation looking for one man. It bombs from above and is afraid. It bombs undercover of night. It cannot get to the one man. Americans at home are afraid. Yet swear that they felt anger after their buildings burned.
When a man is truly angry and seething with vengeful thoughts, he does not wait for the government to clear a path for his wrath to walk down. A man would leave today for Afghanistan. If I was the father of a daughter who was slain in the World Trade Center collapse, I would see to it myself that anyone connected to her murderers was tortured and burned before my eyes. At least I know I would die trying. Avenging the death of a loved one. I believe Americans have forgotten all of their god-given rights. I know they have forgotten their god. As I write this some families of the dead are suing the government for a bigger compensation check. Consumer cannibalism.
I dare one man to be successful at anger. I dare myself more and more each day.
It is futile. Nothing could be more hopeless and self-destructive.
Just hearing a plane buzz overhead in the sky brings constant reminder to the American man of how small, how little, how tiny, how weak in mind and spirit and heart he is, and always will be until the end, which will be a very bitter story, I’m afraid.

A day later…
There are zombies in the midst. There are slow-walking, groaning cadavers everywhere. The city streets our mobbed with death. The countryside breeds zombies on the farm.
I am almost to the edge. I’ve been running and hiding and running. I know the end is near—for me and the zombies. Still, they follow me day after day, and into some nights. What is the matter with us? We must escape. We have to find safe hiding. The river jungles of the Amazon? A frozen cave at the top of the Mount Marcy?
I live in the central Middle Class Mountains, where the zombies have their strongest hold. I have begun several daily routines over the last fifteen years to disguise my life from them. I’ve finally found one that works, but in the end I must throw my live body to the zombies in order to save my daughters. At night I go out looking for trouble. I feel the need to be different, but it’s like a human siren sounding off, and they rush at me from every angle. I can tear the head off one or two, to give myself a narrow escape. What good is that? Ten more leap into view. All night I run without any place to run to.
I think that I might be alone. Perhaps the zombies have at this moment begun chewing up my friends and family. If I don’t see life exhibiting itself immediately, if in a whole day I cannot differentiate between cold death and a lively action, then I think I might end life myself, before the zombies can take their first nibble of my flesh. So far it’s a narrow escape. But be careful. I might sign my next letter in zombie.

Dear Middle Classes,

In New York City about seven years ago I spent an entire month of autumn nights lying down in my friend Beth’s loft dreaming, hiding out, refusing to come down until I could be coaxed with coffee or food. The safest pattern—with the least possible human interaction. One evening in particular I lay awake flipping through pages of The Wandering Jew when Beth came home with her gay older brother, Sam. She knew I wouldn’t come down from my high bed to socialize, so my true whereabouts were not revealed.
“Where’s Ron?” Sam asked, as if he was wondering about the cat.
“Probably out walking.”
“That guy is weird,” he said. “He has such a strange sense of being.”
“That’s Ron. So, what do you want to get Mom for her birthday?”
For my sake she changed the subject. Then climbed into the loft to get her money, winked at me, and left with her brother to go shopping. Maybe mom got a cookbook or a pretty candle stand. Three years earlier she got a gay son out of the closet. Which was fine provided he didn’t hide in people’s lofts or do peculiar and freakish things like read wisdom books, or walk for the pleasure of walking. No. A few years back she was forced to contend with a new outlook on life. Her son was queer. Not strange. Not weird. In fact he made a lot of money despite his queer condition. He bought furniture for his condo. He bought a stereo, a plane ticket, a wardrobe. He bought the Sunday paper, and actually read most of it too! And he played a very good game of tennis, even for a man with his man-loving desires.
Anyway, their mom loved Sam. After all, he was still her only son. Truly, it didn’t matter what he had sex with as long as he kept quiet about it whenever she brought Dad along for a visit. Not necessary to have frequent reminders that their son was gay. What business was it of theirs? He drove a nice car. He dressed nice. He was a high paid accountant with an established firm in New York—the grayest, most dismal exciting city in the world. Soon she came to think that her son’s life was actually quite exotic, not at all immoral, indecent, or degenerate, like she used to think. She loved her son. So what if he was gay? He was an upstanding member of the community. And he always remembered her birthday on time.
Up in the loft, I lay back on the pillow and let his careless words play over and over again in my mind. I was crushed. I got the impression that everyone thought of me in this light. The village idiot. The eccentric loafer. The poor dreamer. Maybe I had the wrong idea. Maybe I was strange. Maybe I was weird to the point of being judged asylum ready by my peers. I hadn’t a penny to my name. I had a child to support. I was living off the kindness of my friends. I was high over the thought of a free egg breakfast with coffee. I was euphoric and then deeply depressed. I felt free, yet at the same time a prisoner of my own quietness. How long would my welcome last? Was I going too far down?
Then it occurred to me in a flash, thank God, that, like Beth’s mom, I too was being put on. I was part of the problem. I let the gay brother Sam put me on. I recalled that not long ago, Beth brought me over to his apartment to watch one of his gay movies. It starred a man with a thick mustache dressed in a blue and white striped, fuzzy bathrobe, playing with himself. The doorbell rang. A thirty-year-old man pretending to be a fifteen year old paper boy handed the paper to the man. The mustached man asked the boy what he expected for a tip. The boy said that he would very much like to suck on the mustached man’s penis. And then, as expected, the two men acted out their parts while all our children’s dreams and fairy tales burst into flames and died.
Middle class morality. A complaint of Eliza Doolittle’s father. My sole complaint of humanity from up in the loft on those terrifying fall nights, and to this very day. Sam is not alone. We are all liars to the soul. Sam dressed up like his heterosexual good provider Dad. But with all the apparent smart looks of money, he could not disguise his screaming desire to blow the man with the mustache. He was gay, everyone knew that for sure. But only his sister and I knew now that he was a gay pervert. A minor reality, but a huge realization which set me back on the path soon enough. My sanity was saved once again by juxtaposing the secret life of a degenerate dreg from the middle classes with my wide open desire to be in the class of no class.
Liars to the soul.
Liars to each other.
Beth’s poor gay brother Sam. My poor friend Beth. My poor self, barely able to make out the truth wandering around among dreams in clouds behind the transparent jiggling jelly I won’t dare leap into and squeeze myself through. I pretend to try. But I am just another bona fide member of the middle classes. We are the world’s spiritual losers. Count on us to always put a million dollars to good use. I would buy more useless books to read, and perhaps a small lake to read them by. Sam would buy a new and improved video collection—some with actual fifteen year old boys sucking and fucking. One would buy a car, a business, a summer camp… One would put it in the bank. But which one would take the million dollars and blow his nose into it? Who exactly would break this newly acquired fortune down into a million separate dollar bills and side his house with the money pile? Who would roast a marshmallow sandwich over the coals of the bonfire made of a million dollars and some sticks of wood?
Millions, maybe billions of us, so similar, so forever the same. One life of mass similarity. Degenerate dregs. We’ve come to think perversion is freedom. The sensors allow “mother-fa-er” over the radio waves, because freedom sings rap songs about “big black asses.” Rape is the middle class. Race is the middle class. The middle class is ninety percent sad and masturbation, and always a different movie about new and improved ways to murder and rape. The middle class immoral? The middle class degenerate? Sure, the middle class goes poopy and smells its fingers. The middle class flosses and feels clean. It is home for the homeless soul, the helpless, always careful, and cheerfully idiotic. Sure its children are insane, and the parents are children, two times nuts over. Pretending freedom out of a plastic shopping bag. Steel pipes beat against our heads, an order for prescription drugs, and waiting in line without complaint. No complaints. Don’t ever complain! Always wonder what they will think of you. Be polite, mock your neighbor politely behind his back, love until you’re bored of loving, and buy an exercise bike to heat up loins that aren’t used unless walking to and from your parked car.
Here’s a question for you—
How many pairs of shoes does it take to protect the delicate feet of the middle classes? I don’t know how the hell they wear them out without walking! They don’t walk. Nothing ever gets worn out before the next purchase! It’s all about a little bit of more money, isn’t it? Aren’t we dumb like death as soon as we open up our mouths? What do we have to say? What important news is there to relate? Do we even know what it is we are talking about? Who remembers getting through our last conversation? Steel pipes beating our heads into the ground, and we still try to fix our hair with bloody fingers. I cannot stand the moral degeneracy of our no-culture! I’ve spent too much time alone with the precious words of the life-givers. The few who pointed to the light, died, and then left me the legacy of “hate for a change”.
I do not respect any living creature that accepts money. I love those that need it. Love them enough to swing a steel bat against their skulls. We need a good movie. Tonight in the city, there are four or five more gay paper boys getting home from school, laying down on the carpet and blowing their male dogs. Gay is middle class. Not gay is middle class. Black and white can share or not share their cookies in the middle class. The rich and the poor are non-existent in the middle class. Channel seven is the all-class channel. Still, in three seconds exactly, every person in America in front of a television will laugh a careful middle class laugh. Not one middle class cat or dog will laugh until a steel bat splits their master’s skull. And then it’s a wild dog and cat dance of death to the middle class.
City, country, farm, or any life medium which includes the electronic cash register, to never pull an egg out of a chicken’s vent, to believe that two cars are better than one, to get a damn good job, to think about a raise in your check and a rise in your pants while watching the handsome people on the screen, in your own private living room, doing it perfectly together while you and the misses and the kids who are old enough sneak into a room alone and play alone, with yourselves alone, to not rate your holidays “S” for “Sad, middle class audiences only”, to swear you only live once, and make sure there’s never more than two piles of laundry on the floor…
God dammit, I want my rightful place in society! You should see my shoes! I can’t afford another pair. America wants to shove both of these worn-torn things up my ass. I am alone now. Poverty is not glorious when you’re alone, smothered to near death by the middle classes. What do I have to do? Stop at the little store after work in my sharp suit and galoshes to pick up cat food? Is that it? Oh I know my wife hates me. My daughters ridicule me. I know what I look like to a young MAN, before my position in life rallies up to mash his spirit. I am picking up cat food. Oh and when I get home you just see how almost wealthy I can get! I got the newspaper right here, and on my lap there’s my best friend the dog who gets people food overflowing in his silver bowl thank you very much. My socks cost more than Ron Throop’s last seven dinners, and I got twelve more pair clean and folded in the closet.
I make 56 a year, and I live in a house with 2200 square feet of internal weeping space. My buddy at work has three kids and one bathroom. That’s an idiot for you. Hell you’re all idiots! I think I haven’t had an honest conversation since I was eighteen years old. But that didn’t come easy either, even with a joint and six pack of beer. You’re afraid of me and I’m simply terrified of you. I won’t help anyone. I love money, although I pretend to love my wife. Neither of us will move a god damn muscle to make our children proud. They’re in control anyway. My fifteen year old is on the pill and laughs at my hair. She lost her innocence the day I stopped loving her, which was any day I thought about the 56 a year. I like to peek inside the fridge when I’m not hungry. Sometimes I pick up a book just to put it back down. The sun comes up. I don’t see it. And I don’t give a shit about the moon. The whole earth is when I wake up and turn in frantic circles around and around a pretend sun, and I got nothing to show of my existence—not even a real, honest to good, fruit or vegetable I grew and preserved myself.
I got the cat food. I don’t care about the night. Truthfully and honestly I have never in my life wondered out loud. I see the young girls on the TV and I want to do to my wife what I did to the young girls on the TV. But I don’t plan to do it with love because the only thing I love and revere is money and I worship it in ungodly repetition. Every Tuesday and Friday night I walk through the door with a bag of cat food. That’s it, and that’s easy.
I’m tired. I am always so tired. I am going to bed tired and waking up tired. The world is turning closer to Christmas. But sit on the moon and see if you can guess what crap the middle class sets under the tree this year.

I have to keep hate alive. Although I can’t stand for it any longer. I stink of hate. I wallow in it. I acquire more strength from it. Sometimes I get the desire to join the other side or die. To know and understand, but most importantly, believe in quiet, non-eruptive emotions as long as everything seems okay. I pretend to want to be through hating things that were never good enough to love in the first place. I imagine that patience will get me to my essence, eventually, and show me who or what it is I truly am. I always thought hate was a good path to be on for this type of mental excursion. And it is, if you can handle the sometimes fantastic condition hate puts you in. For anyone who has ever hated as well as I do must know it is himself, his lying, sick and dying self, whom he hates the most, the utmost most.
Am I capable of finding love in this deep, blinding darkness? Love of myself, of me, mine? Love of me? I should ask myself this instead… Is hate a negativity that must be avoided in order to love?
No! Absolutely not. Hate is a needful and necessary form of expression. Moreso than ever in the age of monster technology and aggressive fearyourownneighbor-ism. You must first understand that hate is not the opposite of love. It works beside love. For example, one hates to show how much one loves. Don’t get confused. Hate is not racism. Hate is not genocide. Hate is not hunger. Serious problems do not arise because of hate, (besides poverty). No, bad things happen because stupidity brazenly squatted on love’s territory the morning love woke up weak and radiant, and forgetting to defend herself.
Yet stupidity is only partly responsible for what hate gets blamed for. Power is the brains and stupidity is its strong arm. Power protects and perpetuates stupidity. It uses stupidity to get what it wants. The powerful want you to think that hate is the cause of evil. No. Power fooled love into thinking that stupidity was a-okay, even kinda cute, harmless. Then stupidity usurped love’s fertile ground to plant the seeds of evil. Stupidity takes evil for nourishment. Stupidity needs evil to live. Power and stupidity are the reasons for evil. Hate needs God, even if hate wants to open up God with a knife for being such a complete failure to humanity. Why did God fail to maintain a world where hate could protect its love? Hate hates genocide. Hate hates nuclear weapons. Hate hates Hitler, Stalin, American presidents 1 through 79. But what hate hates most is an apathetic, loveless, and hateless America. Hate promised love that it would expose the power behind a stupidity nourished by evil. Too many billions of people have not expressed the hate needed to check power’s seemingly endless rise. There’s too much talk about Jesus’s love, but nothing about his hate. Sure Jesus turned the other cheek. He’d do it again and again, for quite some time too. But then one day he’d have to become a man. People without hate. They call it love. They mean Jesus. Clumps of stupid people. Ignorant cows, chewing, and allowing power the open gate freedom to feed, clothe and shelter stupidity. Contrary to the belief code set by power, hate wants to feed the world. Hate would wash our faces clean of racism. Hate would want to stuff the potential beauty of mankind down the nation’s throat. Hate would demand that a fair God reign in our hearts and in our children’s hearts. Hate would not want to kill, but needs to clearly show power that hate is prepared to die for its cause. This makes hate a very dangerous threat to power’s domains. Hate knows that without hate, humanity can kiss its ass goodbye! Hate knows this hate is a stronger love for mankind. No matter how stupid hate believes most of us are, hate has hope that one man, one woman can believe in a beginning.
It will be a very long winter of hate. I could set myself free and join up in the ranks of the powerful and stupid. I could hire myself out to the action news team and with a smile give nightly accounts of murder and death-by-mishap. No. I prefer my lonely, self-appointed role as hate’s philosopher, prophet, and artist. The people’s living concerns will not be mine. Besides, I hate the people. They do not aspire to my ideal of man: to hate for love to reign. I want freedom for every human being. I desire to persevere with hate. I can hate a man because a badger will never be as stupid as a man. This is the philosopher writing. Obviously we are doomed, but not because a family of squirrels are nestled together tonight in a warm bed of dead leaves… This is the prophet calling out to deaf ears. And I shall paint the whole bloody picture of humanities’ annihilation by power and stupidity! This is the elusive, struggling artist whose life I will give my own life to nurture.
This morning my visiting stepfather tossed me the want-ads. I reached for the front page instead. There was a picture taken at the India-Pakistan border where the routine changing of the guard continues at a time when all life might end. Another awakening. These bearded, colorful men, soldiers dressed in traditional attire, traditionally preparing to eliminate the planet earth, but not one of them thinking that tonight, whether he acts or not, a starving, innocent child will get traditionally stabbed until dead. There was a huge crowd sitting on a hill overlooking the demonstration. Beyond them was a sky stuffed with a hundred gray clouds, heavy, pregnant, and ready to break water. I concentrated on the fantastic changing colors of the sky. I did not think about the impending human doom, nor did I recall the empty feeling doom brings while doing some usual chore like brushing my teeth. No picture came to mind showing what happens to a child’s face after picking up a live grenade. The sky was snow gray and the trees behind the soldiers were going darker green with the setting sun. To hell with human beings I thought. Straight to hell with them. They cannot represent true life any longer. They only get in the way. I saw beauty in the background of a picture fraught with human animals. It was sent over the wire for the world’s editors to print as shock material, yet I saw nothing that they wanted me to see. I saw stark green living, breathing trees. I saw an old, wise sky going to sleep day after day for a billion years, with or without the changing of the guard, the mass of humanity, or myself.
Tonight, in this chilled twilight, while the winter sun sets over my frozen backyard, I have made a very big decision. The sun will continue to rise everyday to the ax-wielding stupidity of mankind. That same sun sets on my small, hopeful intentions, and I know that I am as right as I will ever be. Because I desire to give this piece of my thoughts to you, the invisible reader, I know that I must be a loving human being. I might write angrily and carelessly. That cannot be helped. It is the way my machine works when it is pushed up against a wall. It fights back screaming. And I know the chances are better for victory if you hate your enemy, and aren’t goaded to fight by cowardice and fear, like the typical soldier. I will die first by hate, because it’s good to make the attempt to clear out all that you hate. And then I will die for love. Because after your best shot of hate, that is all there is left.
Philosopher, prophet, artist? Yes. But also father, husband, friend, teacher, student, wanderer, homebody, and divinity. What do I really care what you or posterity thinks? This is my fight. I shall not let my love be bullied by the brutal, careless whims of a stupid mankind. I understand death. I accept it whenever it happens to me. The knowledge of its inevitable finality is responsible for the howl while I write. I am one man who launches hates’ minor attack on the human world. I am also a fool who knows that he must attempt to preserve the reality of the universe, the unmanned part of the universe, all by his lonesome…
Tonight I became an insect watching from a green tree getting darker with the setting sun. I am only a very small thing. But I hold the fight of many unrecognized nations. I represent the non-human world of poets, most women, animals, insects, fish, all trees, all plants, all life that does not line up each new sunrise prepared to kill, without also being damn well ready to eat their kill. I cannot go the rest of my life ignoring stupidity. Even as a lowly insect, I know that I am smarter than all of man’s nations. And I know it would behoove quite a few species that I became just as dangerous as all of man’s nations.

Two thousand-thirty-five years ago Christ was born in the land without snow. He was a dark baby who didn’t wear diapers. Christ was a baby and all babies live peace. Besides hitting his mother when he wanted her to play with him, he was very peaceful. Kings brought the divine child presents, not one of them a small plastic toy phone. A variety of presents, but not one that a child would want to play with. Frankincense and myrrh? Don’t ask. Just receive and smile, smile and receive, and make sure the gifts are big enough not to get lodged in your new savior’s throat.
This Christmas more than one person will drive forty miles to purchase a popular candle holder. When my oldest daughter was very young, she was taught to give nothing besides love and attention, and occasional crayon drawings of devotion. Slowly, gradually, over the past couple years, Santa Claus has left her heart. It is only a matter of time before Christmas makes her deeply and hopelessly frazzled like the rest of us.
This Christmas I am depressed. I am out of the kind of work that writes you a check for the holidays. Joy has left my body. I have no way of knowing if I will ever be able to help support this family financially. And because of the money problem, I start to wonder if I am husband or father, or anything good at all. Money is the sickness of our hearts. It is the sole cause of any depression that exists where no tragedy has occurred. Because of money I did something yesterday that I thought I would never do. I went out peddling my books all over three counties. I took a day to do it. I had to ask my wife to take off from work. I had to borrow a car. It had an American flag attached to the back window, and anyone who knows me at all, knows it would take a miracle to get me to drive about town waving that red, white and blue blasphemy.
I drove it. To every bookstore and library in Central New York. By the end of the day I sold to three stores and involuntarily donated one set to a library. I walked up to the head librarian embracing my precious books. He received me quite cordially. Of course then I expected him to escort me over to the money box and pay me for my efforts. No way. Patiently I waited while he talked about the lack of arts and culture in the Mohawk Valley. “One bookstore,” he complained, “in a county of 250,000. Can you believe it?” Yes I thought, but here, let me put my hand out again, palm up, and hope that you get the hint. Nothing. Instead he stepped into his office and came out grasping the local swap sheet, suggesting that I advertise my books with the used cars. Then he offered me a book signing, but recanted, saying that in the past those only worked well with children’s book authors. Then I imagined that he would prefer to ram the heel of his boot against my skull rather than pay me the paltry sum necessary to justify my existence as a writer. Culture or no culture. I should have killed him on the spot and fished through the petty cash box myself.
Now the thought of peddling my own books was and is a personal nightmare. Total desperation made me do it. Man will succumb to anything when the money is tight enough to almost starve. Except work at a dollar store. No. I won’t do that. So what if an offer has already been made…? No. I will very calmly open up an artery before dehumanizing my existence at a dollar store.
After a day driving in and around Syracuse New York, I discovered the worst hole in all of the world to raise a sane family. You drive around for a full morning in it, penniless, in a borrowed car and see for yourself what an incurably sick and twisted, groaning hell of a city it is. Two of the bookstores on my list of ten were abandoned. Two more sold only pornography. Two were consignment, and the second one of these wouldn’t take my books unless he could get the whole set for fifteen cents.
Yesterday I lived the life of a traveling salesman in America. Except I was selling a product which I made myself. Of course one couldn’t eat my product—strike one. Nor was it something quite like holly leaf wrapping paper sold at a huge profit for charity. Strike two. Encyclopedias might have brought better luck, if I went door-to-door with the volumes I researched,  wrote and published myself. Strike three and out. Actually lying prone in a basement beside a gassed Willy Loman.
A few years ago my chef left the restaurant business to peddle oyster crackers for an upstart company. Up before dawn, he drove his car over two hundred miles every day except Sunday. Boxes of light, airy oyster crackers stacked to the ceiling in the back seat. He peddled throughout a business world that he convinced himself was in sufficient need of better oyster crackers. The best oyster crackers. In fact, over time, he couldn’t understand how restaurants stayed in business without his delicious oyster crackers in stock.
Once he got me to chew them, while he stood at my side waiting for affirmation. Holy God, the ironic, blind arrogance of despair! Every time he said “oyster cracker” I envisioned spiraling rounds of slow-motion bullets bursting out the back of my skull. His behavior was beyond delusional. It was insane, maniacal—an oyster cracker…Jesus Christ! Yet I played along, chewing for his benefit, although at the time I felt like striking him down and stuffing his mouth full of oyster crackers. He wanted to sell them to everyone. He was preaching the Word about oyster crackers. Each book that I wrote and got published, no matter what value its content, was written with the dreams that appear while walking alone at night in fear of death. I collaborated and created with the body which houses my soul. It was all that I had then, and all I have now. For $12.95 I will share its story with you. That’s all the Word I know.
You say sure? As long as it’s told over a bowl of steaming hot seafood chowder? Fine. Just try to ignore the steady stream of bullets drilling holes into my head. Promise me you’ll crush those crackers quickly and take the soup onto your lap. I’m spilling blood.
Why this staunch, masochistic refusal to become equally excited over my own creations? How can man live a whole life never to stand up and lustily sing his own praises? Even if he foolishly sings to some greater power beyond him… It has got to be more stimulating than worshiping oyster crackers, right? I mean, how could my old boss become the apostle of a dry cracker company without having committed suicide yet? Has he not already gone way beyond the point of just considering it? Unless the crackers are laced with enough extra preservatives to fool the rest of us into thinking that he lives, I tell you that he must be dead already. A soul must die each moment an oyster cracker gets believed in.
To tell the truth, I hate my books. I despise them. I hate the product that I wanted to sell yesterday, during a weak moment when I thought my children needed toys for Christmas.
I intend to sing my praises while the rest of mankind watches me bleed. But I won’t be singing for your money. I will sing, but know that I know it’s not what I write into books that makes me praise-worthy. I am 100% man. I am a man. My blood heats up my wonder and desire. I can be squeezed until warm blood spurts out of my pours. But I will continue to sing while bleeding. I believe that every man’s blood is my own blood. And every man should sing the song of watching it flow. I am singing for me and for you, even if I know that you, if given the choice, would choose a low-sodium oyster cracker over the intactness of my blood and its systems. Translated into easy, easy easy…
You suck
my blood.
But would rather have an oyster cracker.

Now tonight I am a hack. This is the end of the book, and the fifth time I promised myself openly in a book to bury the anger in a deep hole and write something beautiful for once. I lied. It is impossible for me to concentrate on the beautiful. I know where I live. These are my own eyes and I cannot play “pretty picture” with them, no matter how perfectly glorious the world would be if I could lie to myself more frequently.
There is a young man named Gangsta Williams being tried tonight for the murder of a seventeen-year-old girl. He shot her in the face and blood poured out. She died while the blood flowed out of her skull. I live forty miles away from the murder scene. I live a million miles away from humanity.
I appreciate your human murder. It is necessary and good for me this evening. It makes me right. It makes me feel good to remember, without much effort, that America is just a smelly hole I drop my garbage into.
Yes of course Gangsta is a piece of human ca-ca. I would like to watch his face clawed apart, eyeball to eyeball, by the mother of the child who was slain. But I was thinking about Germany today. I asked my daughter to imagine what a German Christmas was like. We were thinking of warm strudel and kugen, a hundred mountain villages each with its token butcher and steeple, Heidi and her Grandfather on skies… I thought about the glorious humanity thriving in a German village before Jesus and  the Nazis. Sure it was imaginary, but so was the hydrogen bomb, once. Nothing will ever become something without first imagination, and then belief. The former is a healthy recreation for a childlike mind. But belief is the reckless preservation-in-motion of both angels and devils.
Life in the village was busy and wonderful. It looked best during a heavy snowfall. There was a bakery, a butcher’s block, and wooden toys for sale in every shop window. Now I’ve decided to place Gangsta in the village I dream about. Presently he’s pointing a pistol in the face of one of Hans Friedaflach’s daughters. She’s more astonished than frightened. “Dis koonnnot hopin’ heera.” She’s right. Here comes Hans skiing down the mountain just in time to catch Gangsta before he pulls the trigger. Hans takes a second to survey the scene, then he takes Gangsta by the eyeballs and kills him.
I want to take Gangsta by the eyeballs and kill him too. Don’t you? Won’t you?
Liars! Wasted sperm! Rotten eggs! You allow for it. You let this happen. Now lay back in your easy chair and whistle “live and let live,” while Gangsta plans and executes the murder of your little girl.
Today I picked up my daughter’s book about German Americans. There was a picture of a man who was tarred and feathered for not supporting the war bond drive of 1917. The caption underneath the picture also told about another man who was beaten to death in prison for not wanting to volunteer with the Allied cause, to cross the ocean, to butcher his cousins, aunts, and uncles in Germany. On the page opposite there was a short article about the German internment during World War II. All proof of American criminal behavior that I had no previous knowledge of. In America the lies are hitting us the moment we are born. The truth is more fluff to stuff into our pillow cases. In America truth makes for very comfortable and cozy drool catchers.
I told my daughter that we should start looking at the world as if living in an imaginary time before Bismarck and the Holocaust. In the village of forest fairy tales, fear of God and trembling desires, the bright white nights of lighter living with moonbeams…
1862. Now that’s a year to be alive in Germany! Especially at Christmas, and in the mountains, where the snow falls heavy without a sound, where the cholera and poison gas can’t get in by airplane or autotrain. It’s Christmas, 1862, and tonight is the one night out of the year for all Christians to feel safe and nearly immortal. They are in the safekeeping of their savior Jesus Christ keeping watch over his domains.
The family stands around the piano singing carols. Nobody is faking. All are rosy-cheeked and glad, and actually faithfully believing in their god.
Tonight back home in America, Gangsta William’s got talked about on the TV News. Gangsta was a bad boy. A very bad boy. Yet Gangsta, on his worst day, could not hold a loaded automatic weapon to the anchorman who covered the story from a downtown courtroom.
Gangsta was smiling. The anchorman was serious. Gangsta looked into the camera and snickered. The anchorman kept to the story, looking very grave. I am no longer human because the anchorman did not laugh an uproarious laugh in the face of a man named “Gangsta.” I have ascended into the blue azure beyond human because the anchorman got paid by other human beings to tell the murderer’s story. I am seated beside lord god our savior, I might even suggest the two of us play cards tonight, because I don’t dare look to mankind for any cheering up.
He’ll play. I’m told that if I win, I get to choose how we punish
I won. Lord god our savior let me win I think. So I have decided to push a serrated knife into Gangsta’s belly, and probably his mother and father’s belly too, for the bigger crime of stupidity, which they have obviously committed. Actually, any hurtful crime brought before lord god our savior and myself, from this day forward, is inexcusable, and punishable by a thousand screaming deaths. Who dares to carry stupidity and its murder so pretentiously into our kingdoms?
Tonight, just a few hours before Christmas I realize that a huge mistake has been made. I was accidentally born a human. I don’t know what I was supposed to be, but it was not human. Maybe hyena. I am always laughing in the face of man. Anyway, I have become ferule. I am almost wild. Look at me. I forgo all my human rights and expect to be hunted, tortured, and killed for my meat by midnight. But this smarter, more wild animal already knows that you fearful bedwetters will make a legal season first, to give me a sporting good chance to escape.
I look human. I smell human. I may even act a bit human, sometimes. But I am not human. I am a semi-wild animal. Once, long ago, my pack defended itself to preserve itself. There wasn’t any evil. Only hunger. But that was a time before I was born, a life which I had no control over. Now the pack is not related in any way other than by species. Pack became country soon after the survival instinct became unnecessary. Small packs need not roam, hunt, nor play anymore. Leadership is dead. True leadership. The kind which defends without question the lives of its individual members. My country does not assume responsibility for me, my wife, my daughters, my dog. No pack leader. Hence, Gangsta. His own mother would let him fry. But the state protects him. Gangsta blew the face off of a young girl. He doesn’t know what a man is. So he must die, right now. No questions. No arguments. All life outside of man agrees with me. Gangsta must die immediately. Immediately I tell you. No justice. No court. No humane treatment. The moment the young girl’s face was blown away, a rock should have been picked up by the nearest pack member and used to pound a hole into Gangsta’s head.
Here is the end. I promise. It is time to finish up the hate letters to my fellow man. I have to play Santa tonight.
Listen. Gangsta is evil but the anchorman was serious. He refused to laugh out loud, while silently watching his imagination cut up Gangsta into thirty smaller pieces.
Gangsta. And now I am over the edge. I prefer to make myself wild. There is my mountain cave, a pine forest, bright star lit skies, and a moon to laugh out loud to. I stalk the mountains high above the village, always on the lookout for a sour piece of human flesh.
The end.
Gangsta will go to prison where life is insane, and he will be fed well, with other jolly thieves and rapists. The anchorman will drive home to his children with lots of money for presents and popcorn. He wants the wife to watch him on TV at eleven. She knows his routine. No voice of protest. No video shot of his declaring, “Stop please, I can’t do this anymore.” She already knows, by repetition, that her anchorman husband will not provide one honest opinion. It’s the news. It can lie anytime, but it cannot have an opinion. She knows this. Once there existed the faint hope in her heart that she would watch her husband behead a Gangsta with the point of his fountain pen. No. That hope and pride died together the same night, during his first assignment of a hit and run. He got good at keeping a straight face anytime evil bent him over to shove a truncheon up his ass. Now she waits for sleep. At eleven-thirty she can go to sleep. Though presently she expects to frown the perpetual frown that she’s been frowning behind her sad heart for years. He will say “Gangsta” without laughing an uproarious laugh. He will say, “shooting death,” and then it’s possibly three more decades of heavy sobs into her pillow. He will say, “Gangsta” again, and if her mood doesn’t improve tonight, then surely she’ll be dead by morning. He says “downtown courtroom,” and quite unexpectedly she livens up. Suddenly, she and I, and everyone else who’s feeling a little bit wild these days, are out roaming the earth together again, in packs, tearing the flesh off any beast who stalks our territory with the intent, just the intent, of doing harm to our children. On the third and final “Gangsta,” she bursts out laughing, leaps up from the couch, and in a giggling frenzy, runs into the kitchen, out the back door, around and around the house, and then back into the living room, doubled-over, laughing and laughing while the anchorman scolds her for not being the least bit sensitive to such an important issue. She’s laughing in his face, screaming “coward” and “Gangsta” in between breaths of hysterical laughter.
Now I am laughing.
Tonight began as a German Christmas in my mind. I turned on the TV to see a thing that amused me very much. I laughed an uproarious laugh at the infinity of life which happens every second all around me, and although I did not give one bit of it permission to be so wrong, by it I can recognize the absurdity of a life not lived on my own condition. This life is absurd. I don’t think humanity can survive another minute without becoming ferule. Not here in America anyway. I live here. I should know. Tonight I escaped out the side door, and ran across the street into the woods. I think it might be a good thing to stay here until everyone goes away. Far, far away. But who really knows? Tomorrow I might sneak back into the house expecting dinner, a bed, or maybe just a stomach wrenching laughter at the face of a Gangsta, a TV anchorman, or you. Personally I think humanity should be ousted from the pack. Gangsta doesn’t matter. Neither do you. Not to time. Not to dogs. Never to God. Do you think that I think you’re one to decide, pisseltit?



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