Bus Route 270

                                                 

            The mind is a vast sea, her turbulent waters formless, yet there is form. The road passing by, Clive’s large brown hands there on the huge bus steering wheel, the twelve people sitting behind him on this lonely-ever ride from East Taylor Avenue all the way to Stearns Mall and back. Clive was only 33, but he felt 40. He was too fat for 33. He had found solace in food, and the sitting, of course, led to 150 pounds too many. The solace he sometimes found was a gift, seeping in from the edges of life. Then there were his nightly bus dreams, so random. Half the time he was at ease and then he would flit into a tense and shaky world.

            Had there not been a plastic barrier between he and those four million people he knew that he would have lost it long ago. No way would he have been able to control yelling at the masses that do the stupidest things: bring lighted cigarettes on to the bus, become the essence of belligerence or exhibit the utterly inane, do things like talk uncontrollably while hordes wait to board. Stupidity was so prevalent among his riders that he gave thanks to the Almighty for the barrier.

        Clive was just too much aware of his interior life to take on any sort of closeness with his riders. His thoughts were his burden. He could not pull himself from feeling the wracking yet silent storm that doctors call the unconscious. While others go through their lives in basic, gladly outward ways, Clive lived as a true introvert there behind his partition. He made friends with moments. Unlike others who looked forward to the future while holding tightly to the present moment, those heroes, Clive’s present moments were always things that grabbed him, or perhaps he them, and he was whirled upwards, this way or that or all the way down. Grappling with moments was exhausting.

            Perhaps he was bi-polar. An ex-girlfriend had told him that, but she had been angry with him. He didn’t think so. He was a man who felt as deeply as any woman. He just couldn’t stop feeling the show, the movement of the inner realms. He never made a show of his inward confusions or expansions. Never rambled or raised an eyebrow. He betrayed nothing, but he traced and remembered every colored mood, often perplexed by how things he didn’t even know he was thinking about made him feel.

            “You’re too sensitive, Clive. Why don’t you be a man about it,” once said Nancy. Nobody had ever instructed him on navigating this unseen ocean inside. He had never sought help. He was simply its chained perceiver, living in an unlikely way, dismissed by most as emotionally void as day traded day. He didn’t like it, didn’t like living what he once thought to himself, driving the bus down 12th, as in a “poetic” fashion. If he could communicate what he felt people might sympathize with him for the death of his upward mobility, his petrified potential, but they wouldn’t understand him. No way would they understand him. It would be like a foreign language to them, nothing but symbol and fateful, invisible causes; hurts and answers all wrapped up in a cloud.

             He couldn’t help attempting to follow the logic of his personal chaos. Sometimes the unconscious river would rise and he would feel a certain emotion that would hint at an explanation, one pointing at actual forms, reasons for his existence and state, like a bottle suddenly visible bobbing on top of the placid movement of a lake.  These realizations could carry him if only briefly. It would perhaps be a discovery concerning something somebody had said, a relative in the past, perhaps an injustice recently survived. He chased down these threads because they appeared to have the potential to give him peace, a sense of forward movement, anything that might possibly lead him away from the black hole of hopelessness, which was the main thing that kept him driving the bus and not taking chances.

            To live in dream, to bathe in fantasy, with its smooth edges and lifting truths, was the only thing that would budge him out of his chair into a better future. Non-interruption of the dreaming flow could provide the initiative to find more practical truths, things you can take to the bank, like finding that first bit of gold in a giant previously undiscovered vein beneath you. To live in dream would be to live easily without first having to wade through those fetid emotions that Clive ducked like incoming fire. This state meant putting the past behind him.

            He turned on 7th again and then scratched himself ferociously under his thigh. The itch was a spike, as though his body had suddenly revolted. When he turned he noticed the woman sitting there. She sat on the side seat reserved for the elderly. When he turned he found that she was staring at him. He smiled faintly and then turned back to his job. The feeling of the woman stayed with him. She was also an African-American, 30-ish just like he was, but pretty, much too pretty for him, although plain enough that he entertained the idea of halving the window down and speaking with her, just for the hell of it.

            He felt her presence almost painfully even while he avoided her gaze.  Once again the notions of choice were too many, questions pertaining to the known past and the unseen future. The feeling led him directly to all of his issues, the whole morass, neccessary to deal with first in order to attain some better present. The process, so only his, frustrated him. He hated himself. He thought of Nancy and her way of being that was so other than his, then he thought of the way that she looked when he first met her at the bar on Tally Way back in Swiss Township, Maryland, where he grew up. Always Nancy, at first, then at last, for Nancy loved him and then ceased to love him but not before giving him one child who was born completely dead, a failed conception.

            Already this woman was painted with the color of Nancy so that she was really only half woman to Clive, half stranger and half Nancy, and therefore the mere idea of her was already polluted by the million thoughts that he knew he would have to endure if he were to actually pursue her. He pushed the dream of a new beginning away by snorting out through his nose, a push of air that he tried to cover up by wiping his nose as though he had had a natural impulse, a little sneeze. Aware of his odd reaction, his head naturally turned to the side and back at the woman. He was already tagged when their eyes met. She was still staring directly at him.

            Perhaps she wasn’t staring at him but was only looking in his direction. Of course this could be the case. He turned nonchalantly and looked, this time straight on, just to answer the question for himself. She smiled at him and then lowered her eyes. My god, he thought, she likes me. She likes Me! But then he clammed up. The engine roared as ever. Of course, she doesn’t like Me! He quickly reasoned it away. When he looked again, she was no longer looking, but staring out the window just like all the others, watching the city go by, probably feeling the same dullness that he felt every hour of his day. Of course she had disappeared. He wasn’t sure, but he had perhaps furrowed his brow. Or she had adopted the same type of distance that he could put between himself and another in a millisecond without even wanting to.   She was probably just like him, he thought. Life was here and now and if we cannot get away from the ugly and dull realities by making our lives better, then we are simply left with ourselves. But he doubted that she had ever gone as far as he could with this notion. He couldn’t conceive of such a thing by another, for Clive felt that he alone was left hanging by an unexplainably strong thread over a million-foot drop. What act can keep you safe from the unseen world that wants to take you as its own, use you as its sustenance, yet lives unmolested inside like a monster in a hole? We fear the silent monster of who we are behind our eyes, under our skins.  In that space that made up Clive’s monster there were too many variable truths swirling and floating and begging for release. We humans, Clive felt, were here to provide that release, but the release is not for us, it is for it, the monster, the sleeping monster whose body is thought buried and pain unrealized yet fully anticipated and expected to show. It is a ghastly thing, but Clive danced with it anyway, like dancing with a smiling skeleton.

            He had no other choice but to abandon her immediately. Nobody but he knew about the battle and, to be honest, he didn’t either, for he didn’t have the words. He felt it, always felt it, and his belly grew fat in an attempt to appease it, his belief in it ever going away diminished with each passing day. For this reason, Clive had the feeling that he was on the way down. Although still relatively young, he was going down and away from the sweet oblivion of innocence and would soon be saddled with a knowledge that was not knowledge, but only ferocious reality, pointing only to the death of things, the end of things, the reality of hard social stratifications, the idea that there truly is nowhere to lay your head. He could not do harm to such a pretty woman through his presence and he bided his time, knowing that he would never talk to her.

            The woman got off of the bus without looking at Clive. She hadn’t liked him. He knew he had made sure of that. He did not have the energy to take on such a thing. Why would you go out there and find someone else not down here, the monster inside seemed to ask. Why would you try and escape the world that is more real than any other real because it is a part of you and the other is not? Why do you think that you could escape your interaction with me? You must come back down and rest. You will be pleased to be with me because I am what you would call “no more.” More added complexity and confusion. No more gave hope that things would simplify, that Clive’s sensitivities would shrink. He would man up. It was this shrinking that he actually sought, but its effect was to feed the monster and why he had packed on the pounds. With the daily giving over of himself to the monster he had tried to replace himself with food. Unconsciousness seemed too much like death and he filled in this gap by eating as much as he could.

            The incidence of food was perpetual. He ate a big breakfast, a bigger lunch and, of course, a huge dinner, a buffet if possible; The King’s Corner or Madame LaWang’s on 17th street. In food there was once again color and relief, lightness and substance that seemed to foster forgetting. It was a tangible act that reminded him that there was more inside than just a dark, swirling cloud of need. Hopelessness was briefly stayed. It was a clear marker of where the future actually lay, a real truth, physical. The future became the moment the food hit his tongue. The chewing sent the pleasurable real form into a pleasant real place that allowed him to revel in his last source of bodily pleasure. He ate fast, he ate hard, like a man. He ate with style. It was always good form. But he also only ate alone, ever.

            The thought of Madame LaWangs was pulsating inside of him now. It was 4:53, the end of another long day.  In seven minutes he would wrap up his work and someone else would get on the bus and drive the world in circles. There was 9th to 15th left and he had a pretty full bus. The thought of Madame LaWangs eased him. He always got a little bit anxious towards the end of the day as the bus filled with people going home from their long days of work. There was more stupidity on the other side of the barrier toward the end of the day too, maybe because he had less tolerance for it, but still he believed it to be true.  He would hold the angst inside of him and try to contain it at this late hour, but he knew it would only exit once his feet hit the pavement and he was on his way to Madame LaWang’s Buffet.

            This day was like most others. There had been a few problems where he had to open the window and speak to someone in a tone he despised. He would slam the window shut and it would be gone, but it would have been an extra something to add to the swirling world inside that owned him. Clive knew that he would have a heart attack after awhile if he kept on this job. He understood about stress and its deleterious effects on the human body, but he had no choice. He was a bus driver, fat and too old to do much else anymore. There was 13th Street, eight off, six on.  Of course, he wasn’t too old, but he had accepted the notion that he was.

            Two well-dressed couples around his own age hopped lightly on to the bus laughing. Confronted by the sight of Clive they tamped their humor down to match something they saw in his eyes. Nobody knew how much Clive felt relegated to what he did, how he himself insisted upon his career without wanting to, how the monster inside insisted upon it. Nobody was going to cut him a break anymore. He had lost his beauty and his personality, given them up willingly for a paycheck until he perceived himself as everybody else did who got on the bus, as one of the unfortunates in the world, someone whose existence was doomed to going round and round and round on the same track day in and day out.  Clive knew he was an object of pity, not scorn, he didn’t warrant that, but pity was just as bad as scorn. It is something that you cannot address with your fellow man. It is one of those things that people live with silently until they break down and cry silently to themselves, usually with different excuses. Tears are for when the monster gets too big and in order not to kill its host allows a venting of steam. A dead host equaled a dead monster. The pity of others was one of the things that made Clive want to disappear.

            He saw the last stop. He would get off here and take the system to the restaurant and then back home. He didn’t have to pay, of course. He just got on across the street, transferred once, and the next thing he knew he would be outside Madame LaWang’s, and then, after that, his apartment complex at 28th and Fairfield.

            He pulled up to the last stop and there was Rachel, also African-American, who once opened her window and threw her shoe at somebody. She was aiming for someone far at the back of the bus, but instead hit an old man sitting in the third row. She had lost it, gone crazy, been suspended for six months, but returned because she was really a charmer, a really nice girl, and the bosses liked her. That’s Rachel, they all said, but that man in the third row wasn’t thinking that when that shoe hit him in the face. Clive made the stop, but did not open the door. He then motioned to the customers who wanted to get on that there would be a change of drivers. When Rachel was at the front of the row Clive opened the door and she got on. He quickly closed it.

Hey, Clive, the demon-children out today for ya?

Nah, not too bad today. How you doin’ Rachel?

I’d rather be on the French Riviera right about now, but I think I’ll do this instead. God, I hope they’re nice tonight.

They’re okay today. The full moon of the last few nights not got them riled up about anything too much.

The moon don’t know how to act during the day. You got the sun. Them people sing songs to themselves in the daytime. That moon you talking about is on my shift, the moon and a bottle of Jack.

You deserve a medal then. Remind me to get you one for tomorrow.

A medal? Shit, I need a shrink. Once Robert’s settlement comes in I’m cutting back. Waaay back.

Maybe I should try and get a settlement.

You wanna have a bad back for the rest of your life? Shit, I’d still take this crummy job. He cries out in the night sometimes. He’s earned that money coming to him.

Keep her light, Rachel.

You too, Clive.

       Clive stepped out of the bus and waded through the people, all the while saying “excuse me.” There was only one thing on his mind and that was Madame LaWang’s. Being on a bus all day is like living in a rolling cage. Once Clive got on the ground things changed. The monster inside of the cage with him shrank a little bit, disappeared a little bit with the power of its host suddenly surging forth. That’s why they named these buffets fancy names about Kings and Madams, because when you’ve decided to go there you are in a position of power, you are tossing caution to the wind since too many instances of eating at buffets can kill you, and you, for a brief moment in time, stand up for what you want and go out and get it anyway. After a hard days work there was no hesitation. It’s the poor man’s simulation of a  rags to riches story.

            He got on Route 62 and made it to Madame LaWang’s in fifteen minutes. It was different as a passenger on the bus even though he was still in his uniform. People see you more as a person than an unfortunate automaton. There was a nice elderly couple sitting side by side in the elderly seats in front of him. They smiled at Clive briefly. A quick smile to someone on the bus was like a pot of gold. You would think that it would happen more, but it was really a rarity. Most smiles on the bus were defensive, but then again, you never know who you’re smiling at and Clive was no different than anybody else. This was a different plane and Clive relished it. To sit in the drivers seat is to sink into a vortex and do all that you can from going all the way down. Here was calm flight that made him know that the day’s battle was over. He had won another day’s pay. It was a small victory, the only kind he knew.

            He got off of the bus a block from the restaurant and walked the rest of the way, passing a motel and a Circle K. The place was hopping. Clive forgot it was a Saturday evening, which brought him down a notch, because he used to plan every Saturday night by the middle of the week. Now Saturday had all the panache of a Tuesday. He went inside and the young girl just inside the door, Chinese, smiled and took him to a table. He didn’t wait. He went to the buffet line and grabbed a plate. First it was a little salad, a little thousand island, egg. Beside it was the Jello, which seemed wrong, but he knew he would come back for it. He moved on and went straight for the meats: chicken and noodles, beef and broccoli, chicken on a spear, beef on a spear. He piled it up on his plate beside some rice and then smothered the entire plate with sweet and sour sauce until he had to wipe the edges with his fingers and then embarrassedly lick them there in line.

            He went back to his table and ordered a soda from the waiter. The waiter was good and quick and Clive didn’t wait for it before digging in to his pile. It felt good. It was right and good. There was a God. When he finished the first plate he went back and got some of the things he had neglected the first time, the pot stickers, a little cheap sushi and some more barbecued pork, chow mein and rice. This would be it except for the Jello. He devoured the second plate almost as fast as the first. By the time it was clean he knew that he was done. He wouldn’t go back for more although he wished he could.  The eyes are bigger than the stomach they say. After sitting there silently for a while, nursing his soda, he got up and went for the Jello. They had green and red, as always, and he grabbed the red for the hell of it, no other reason. He went back to the table and sat down and that’s when he felt the first pain.

      He thought it was from sitting down too hard, but there was a dull yet distinct pain just underneath the rib cage on the right side of his body. He pressed his fingers into his belly right there and tried to relieve the pain by diverting his attention from it more than anything, but it did not go away. It was dull, but it was real. He couldn’t figure it out. He’d never gotten food poisoning before, ever.  He put the Jello aside. He wouldn’t eat it. He’d had enough. He stared down at the remnants of his feast. Both plates still lay on the table. He studied the outlines of the plates and even the knit weave of the white tablecloth, something, anything, because this pain was growing stronger and stronger. After ten minutes he knew he was in trouble and he got up and paid the check and left. Outside, he went to the bus stop again and waited for the 270 to come and take him home. He would get in bed or take a bath and then watch TV in bed.

            “Goddamn,” he said to himself, pressing down into his side, feeling for what was going wrong inside of him, not knowing anything really except that he also sort of wanted to vomit now, too. Two minutes later after making this realization he did just that, sending a healthy Chinese dinner into a monstrosity that somebody working for the city would have to clean up with curses on their breath.  Nobody was at the bus stop but Clive. For this he was grateful, but soon a young girl, about seventeen, white, walked up to the bus stop, also waiting for 270. Clive was in obvious pain now, but the girl said nothing. They stood there for a few minutes when she spoke up.

“Are you alright?” she asked him.

“No, yes, well, no, I’ve got the worst side-ache of my life. I just ate Chinese at Madame LaWang’s and I think they were trying to kill me.”

“Where is it at? Your stomach?”

“Yeah, sort of right here,” he pointed at the spot.

“Yeah, that’s your gallbladder. You got gallstones. My dad’s got gallstones and when he has an attack he’s curled up on the couch for hours. He says that taking a hot shower sort of helps, but really the only thing that works for him is pot. You got any pot?”

“No, I can’t smoke pot because they test me. I drive a bus.”

“Oh. Then take a hot shower. I don’t know if the gallbladder can bust or anything. I don’t think so. I think it’s your gallbladder.”

“Okay, thanks, my gallbladder. Jesus…”

            They stood there quietly for a while as Clive moved from here to there, anything to keep the pain away. The girl said nothing more, fully comprehending the severity of the pain, her father after all. All Clive could think as he looked for places to press on his body that he hoped would trigger some sort of pain relief was “why?” Why me? Why now? Why not some other way that wouldn’t have led to a defective gallbladder, gallstones, whatever this girl thought it was? Why would God put all this fat on my body? Why wouldn’t God just tell me to stop it all, to stop the torture, the permanent ruminating over things that are real only if you allow them to be so? Why would God be invisible so that we all think that invisible things are good things, powerful things, things worth listening to? Why? Why? Why?

            The bus came for the crowd that had accumulated. There were eight or nine of them. Clive got on last, gave a brief hello to Shari who was driving, but nothing more, and went and got a seat in the back to be alone with his pain. Everything was luckier than him. All of these people lived their day to day lives so sweetly. They lived in another world entirely because they did not have the pain that he felt. They were rich and didn’t know it. The pain had escalated to twice what it was when he first felt it. It grew steadily, getting worse and worse even when he thought that it could get no worse. He considered going to the hospital, but he hated hospitals. It didn’t sound like it was life-threatening according to the girl whose dad gets rid of it with hot water and a bong hit or two. He’d ride it out. Besides, something inside of him was taking a whipping and the feeling, akin to anger, was actually somewhat delicious.

            The monster that lived inside of him, lived on him, feasted on him, was screaming in pain just as Clive wanted to but didn’t because of the people on the bus. Lost questions were instantaneously proffered, sudden deeply embedded angers were thought of and expressed through quick movements disguised as pain. His hatred of the inner world that had come to control him was gaining an upper hand through this painful episode and if he could, he would have killed it completely. He would have made it so that he never thought about his thoughts ever again. Then he would walk through the world proud and strong, and do only things that he was called upon to do, things that only had their place in the outside world, and he would gain traction and be bolstered where it counted and he would be a hero because his enemy would not be inside of him anymore, but out there, a simple place really, a place where the eye can see the situation and the brain can tackle it. No more full-body angst, wordless questioning, wordless answering, eye movements that are furtive because totally uninformed. He was sensing just how he was controlled by a million past experiences that had all sunk down deep into him and formed a coalition to resist ever having to face the open day ever again. These were Clive’s failures. Clive’s alone. And Clive knew it now.

            The dialogue within was a one-sided conversation about every failure that Clive had ever known. School, where he dropped out. He was going to be a doctor, yeah right; Nancy, a failure because she loved him and yet he wanted to go out on Saturday nights and bag a few blondes while he was still filled with his youthful vim and vigor; work, where he was afraid that the corporations he could have joined at one or two junctures would never let him become what he wanted to be, one, because he was black, and two, because he was uneducated, although everybody told him that he showed real aptitude at what it was that he had the opportunity to do; to be a psychological aide. Who knows, he might have become a psychologist. Instead he called it poetry and it almost killed him, but no more.

            This poetry was being confronted with a steely gaze now by Clive as he sat in the back of the bus quietly boiling over with anger. It was all self-directed, an acknowledgement of his pitiful state, the monster he was realizing that he just perceived as “God.” He had never really done that before. Had he been wrestling with God every day in his cage of the bus? Could it have been that it was God that hated him so much, needed him so much, that he had lost any semblance of his former self? Once again, why? Why would God do that to me? What did I do? Then, where will I go? He knew it now. There was no way for him to stay. The pain was getting unbearable. He decided that he would go to the hospital. He screamed out.

            “Hurry up! Hurry the fuck up!”

            Shari looked crossly at him through her mirror.

            “I’m not going to hurry up and you, of all people, should not be yelling at me from way back there. I’ll come back there and kick you off the bus and report you. You’re an asshole, Clive, I never liked you!”

            “Yeah, why don’t you shut the hell up, man. Leave the lady alone.”

            It was a long-haired hippie type sitting just in front of him wearing ear buds and reading a book. He was standing up for something. Here he was, in pain, dying possibly, not really, but it might as well have been since he had been dying slowly these last six years anyway, and this college kid was telling him to shut the hell up.

            “You don’t know who I fucking am, do you?” said Clive.

            He relished the way he said it. It was unlike any way that he had ever spoken anything before.

            “No, I don’t know who the fuck you are and I don’t care. That lady didn’t deserve your shit. You’re just drunk anyway.”

            Clive stood up and immediately started hitting the kid on the back of the head with his fist, just his right fist, over and over, a clumsy punch from an overweight man who wasn’t anything near to being a fighter.

            “You don’t know nothing! You don’t know nothing! You don’t know what I got in me! You got nothing! With your book and your white lucky skin! You know what I got in me! I got God in me! God! God!”

            Upon this realization, coupled with the fact that he was watching his hand hit the curled up young man’s covered head over and over, Clive began to melt. He sat back down. The pain was just about gone or he’d forgotten about it. He knew he was crying in front of everybody now.

            “I got God in me. That’s what it is.”

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Published in: on December 8, 2025 at 12:31 am  Leave a Comment  
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the 734th the fargo kantrowitz’z literary campsite

This is the 734th the fargo Kantrowitz’z literary campsite. Today I would like to talk about the “outer” world. The outer world is there for you to embrace, to enjoy, to love with, to seek out its solitudes. There is no way in there to embrace the outer world. It is only too much in there. We are all psychological beings. We are all monsters and writers and potheads and drunks and lost causes and you named it from Bukowski all on the way down to Jim E. Brown. We’re all sunk costs, too lates, also rans, verklempt (I’m trying to illustrate my time to the world, how I could consider verklempt a word to use to describe it, like I was a product, also, of the 90s. We called ourselves the Grunge Generation and, since a literati (f*ck yo(methemountainrange)and in the cutoff on the Boomer Sided which makes me a wise soul even if I could be sold to. Our generations didn’t die. We just matured and we can tell the younger people what to do: don’t follow the junk that you see going on on the internet. You have to think for yourself. You can do it. You’ve got good brains. Burt it is time to know that it wasn’t your fault when you were brainwashed by the internet. There are ways to do the internet and one of them is to use it for organizing fun things to do in the world, making it so that people get to know their neighbors, especially Americans right now since they have been so brainwashed by well-monied men and women who don’t necesarrily want the world to end, but don’t know how to stop it. The corporation must grow. Really? This man made entity, the corporation must always grow? Well, I beg to differ.

So, anyway, there are a few of us left old enough to remember when we didn’tall have to be our own James Bonds or Blaze. We are all in it together. We are all members of the human race. It is okay to not be manic if you are not manic. That shouldn’t kick you out of the humans club. You should be able to put other people first even as you provide for yourself for your company. Companies can be kind too.

So, the outer world. What to do when there is no outer world. How much “outer world” do you or people in general really want? How much? Don’t we all just want to go to the inner world and that is what the computer gords are all about, replacing human thought with synthetic thought even if it confuses us. No problem. Leave their domain. Let them nave it. Invent a new internet somewhere else that they would have to act decent at and not suck every penny from the populace and give none of it back, none of it, ever, except for the former wife of Bill Gates.

It is time that billionaires build funds that help communities and make them major makers and shakers of local economy, wny? You were just the collectors! You had your money spout out there catching all of the money from the talent of those who reached for the golden stars, the golden rings, hope, the stars and landing on the moon. You are the ones that matter, people, not the ones who catch all of the falling golden matter as it sifts through their internet machines. Smart boy. Good lad. Learned to catch all the money, but, but, but, you remove all the best gold for yourself. Sounds like a good plan, but you, for instance, need a yach that they will have to disassemble a bridge to remove from it’s alcove. I forget what they had to do. Amazon’s founder, I forget his name.

That’ doesn’t make me stupid, forgetting his name, maybe I just don’t want to say it and I have that right. Garrison Keillor said to find the words, just keep going and that is what I think that I have to do. I have to start thinking for myself again so I get my personality back, mingle and who knows, maybe I could put out a book and not have to sit in the existential aisle with Camus and Sartre and Bukowski and others, no, I could live for me, not like some cartoon character like Fargo Kantrowitz, he’s at the Literary Campsite, you see, always marketing: here at the fargo kantrowitz’z literary campsite, it’s the best in the land, bak bak bak!

Anyway, I’ll interview this mess later. I am trying to loosen up again towards expression since I have been away from the actual expression dealing with the outer world, wondering if the outer world is worth it, sitting with the existentialist philosophers in the bookstore and Steinbeck is there, and Campbell.

I like thinking about the angels too. Like Gabriel. Michael, some say, was the greatest of them all. My best friend from childhood, Mike Skurow, was named Michael. I think it helped him get through his life unscathed. His archangel was Michael. A very wise mother and father there.

I had a professor at myth school who I remember as David more so than his last name. I’m so weird. Miller. Famous mythologist from the east, He said about teaching “you just have to look at it, you don’t have to marry it” about esoteric subject matter, about things that American evangelical Christians find difficult to do, to have permission to study Hinduism and Buddhism and even Judaism, the angel stories are some of the best and !Moloch! Give me a break.

But still, the outer world. It doesn’t matter in the end if the poetry was worthwhile. True things don’t need a lot of words. We all have short words, short thoughts, finished things within us and if we call it poetry maybe we can break a mould among our peoples, let them know and manifest poetic thought, not showboat although that’s true too but art, real art and poetry and plays and the like, expression, the outer world. That’s my outer world as the owner of the Katherine gianaclis park for the arts in las vegas Nevada, who wants to do something called mouseion gianaclis, an arts club. The outer world. Takes me away from the inner world. Hiding out. Wanting to be alone.

So, I went and wrote a sign on another page so I’m back. This is the 932nd the fklc as far as I know, never mind the prior number. Anyway, I wrote a sign: mouseion gianaclis, an arts club. Donate. Mouseiongianaclis.fracturedatlas.com , thekgpa.com.

That was it. The outer world over which I sit and sit and wait and wait and ponder and give up for weeks and months, sometimes years. I’ve had mouseion gianaclis in the old pouch for a eight years now. I have it down as a concept and now, suddenly, it is a part of the real world? Suppose so: mouseion gianaclis, an arts club. There you have it. The real world. Donate. Doesn’t get any realer than that. Welcome me back to the where, the somewhere, that going back inward is. Who knows? Maybe the real world is everything. Ah, people start to think that hedonism and pleasure at the greatest end all and be alls and they lose respect for themselves and make us all pay as they forget to cry on National Cry Day January 4th every year. They all just need a good cry day because they bought into the notion that getting ahead in life is a game and anything goes, including make it so that other people feel pain and pressure on a daily level. They don’t care, they got theirs. Get yours, was the NBC motto during the Trump years historically and miraculously.

I think that the world needs to be good right now, it is simple, like Chief Joseph said, the truth is simple, doesn’t need a lot of words, but just think, what if you got so simple that you started again around the hemisphere, in another sort of cylindrical and spherical rotation. What world would you know again if you became a part of yourself, became a think for yourself person again, if steeped in American evangelical culture, then step off of the game show ride, it may feel like you’re going too fast, but sometimes you go too fast, there you go, one foot two foot three and stop, the ride is over. Burp, you saved the day. It is okay to stop doing something that may be harmful to others in its tracks. If your people are behaving badly, you don’t have to stand by idly. You can speak up, but even better, act up. Cultivate all of your talents and muster up a good smile and a hearty laugh and hint, mind you, hint if you must, that love is better than any of this old sort of being mean to our brothers and sisters thing no matter what the color of your skin, your sexual orientation or whether you like to wear a shoe on head, who cares! We all deserve to be dummies. Maybe then life will once again become a little more fun, like back in the day, back in the good old days. That all comes on insisting that your brothers and sisters are being nice to the “least of us.” At least that. At least that.

Published in: on November 24, 2025 at 12:39 am  Leave a Comment  
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HAM, EGGS, PAPER, COFFEE, TOAST, GRASS

      Bob Dano ate at Mama’s everyday, it being on his way to work and, while never too busy, usually very good.  The ham and eggs were about as good as he’d found.  He’d tried the others: International House of Pancakes, Denny’s, Carrows.  He’d eaten at those places his whole life, but Mama’s seemed his own, old yet sanitary with big green booths and semi-scuffed, black and white linoleum flooring.  You could see the faces of the cooks behind the ticket wheel cooking the orders, not really seeming to care whether or not they threw a little more egg onto the griddle or slathered extra butter onto the toast.  Mama’s was loose and that’s why he liked it.

      The ham slab was thick and grilled right, filling half the plate.  It was always charred on both sides.  The scrambled eggs were always firm.  The sourdough toast was rarely over-toasted, and the butter was soaked in with only a little bit of the actual pat still remaining by the time it got to the table.  This was fine as long as the toast remained warm as it usually did.  If not, Bob Dano didn’t bother with it.  It was still pretty good.  He would always get a glass of juice and, of course, coffee with lots of cream and sugar.

      He would get to Mama’s around 7 a.m. and easily make it to work by nine at State Farm, where he worked as an insurance agent.  He always made sure to give himself plenty of time.  He read the paper ritually, starting with the front page and working his way inside.  Sometimes he’d skip over the sports page and go directly to the Arts and Entertainment section because he still had a bit left of a childhood dream of becoming an actor and liked to keep up with the business.  He dressed quite well as his job dictated he should.  Because of it, he was aware that the girls at Mama’s thought him attractive.  He never let on that he was pleased with this, however, and went about his business among them as a solitary man, a secure man, an important and busy man.

      Upon entering, he would always take off his jacket, showing off one of numerous high quality ties he owned.  He took care to make sure his shoes were always shined.  His shoes were very good, alligator, the brown ones, or fine leather, the black ones.  His one push into what could be misconstrued as ostentation or gaudiness consisted of a Texas A&M belt buckle, his alma mater.  He parted his hair in the middle the same way he did in high school back in 1978.  He was 37 but looked 33 and knew it, attributing his very good complexion to a hard aerobic regimen out of doors.  His breakfasts were his little treat to himself.  His dinners were always nutritionally sound, consisting of a small dab of meat, a potato of some kind, a vegetable, and always a dinner salad.  Dessert was usually skipped.  It was through this routine that he justified his ham and eggs.

      Bob Dano knew he wouldn’t always be just an agent.  In fact, he was working on his MBA at night at Cal State Northridge.  He would have it before his 39th birthday.  He would then spend a few more years at the agency and then, finally, branch off with his own office or maybe even break away from the insurance racket completely, perhaps by becoming a consultant specializing in investments.  This is what he really loved.  He already dabbled a little bit in the stock market and had even made a little money at it, so his confidence in that area was high.  He sometimes daydreamed that he would be a broker by the age of 40 and have to move his family into a brownstone in New York City, perhaps Greenwich Village.  Yet that was all a long way off, and he hated thinking too far ahead, for it made him a little sad.

      He watched the girls bustle around with their food orders, their tired feet moving as quickly as they were able, their slowly widening ankles satelliting to the world the message: old or soon to be.  None of the girls were aware of any of Dano’s plans since he never really spoke to any of them beyond the normal meaningless chit chat that accompanied placing his order.  A few of the girls were young enough to betray an interest in him, but none had ever dared approach him in that manner, fearing him out of their league.  Dano was not unaware of this interest.  He knew he was a good looking man, and handled it simply by doing absolutely nothing whatever whenever such moments flared.  Looks that lasted too long were left laying flat and ignored by Dano until the young waitress had to skitter away, usually embarrassedly avoiding eye contact with a smile at first and then by force of will the rest of the time.  Dano justified leaving these girls spread out in the open like this, left without even a joke to temper the awkwardness, by remembering that he was a married man and he owed no allegiance to the hyperactive hormones of serving girls.  There was only one waitress who had ever pricked his interest in the slightest degree, but she was very young, too young, twenty or so, skinny and white with stringy hair that seemed to belong to a heroin addict or just someone who didn’t take care of herself.  But she was tall and he liked that, and sometimes he looked up at her when she walked by, watched her small, tight ass, the apron string tied tight around her slight waist, her legs slender.  She too would never fit into his scheme of things, and he would look away from her very easily with a sense of relief.

      It had been two years since Dano had discovered Mama’s.  He had never really had a complaint.  It was a cold, gray Tuesday when he went in for the last time.  He was dressed well as always, arrived 10 minutes before seven so he could warm himself over his coffee a little longer, and received a booth as both he and the waitresses had come to expect him to.  He ordered ham and eggs, juice and coffee, from Ann, a heavy-set waitress of about 50.  She had graying hair and visible purple veins on her cheeks, and Dano didn’t particularly enjoy having her serve him.  Ann brought his juice and coffee as he unfolded the paper before him on the table.  He kept his coffee safely to the right side of his paper just above the silverware and his juice to the right of that, since he always placed the paper to the left of and above his breakfast plate.  Ann was very busy and flustered, and was talking to the customers at the table beside Dano.  It seemed there had been a disturbance in the kitchen when the busboy, Fidel, an illegal alien from San Salvador, got very angry with Barbara, a forty-ish woman who had been a waitress at Mama’s for eight years.  This sort of rudeness was unheard of, of course, and Ann found herself in the middle of what she considered to be a ridiculous ruckus.  She had little patience with uppity busboys.  She told the customers that although Barbara scolded Fidel, that was still no excuse for him to slander her as he had, in Spanish no less, which made it much worse because Barbara couldn’t even decipher what the slander was.  She just knew she’d been insulted.

      Ann left the booth beside Dano and walked hurriedly over to the counter and talked to Dennis Wilcox, manager of eight months, about the incident.  Dano couldn’t hear what was being said and went back to his paper.  Ann then walked around the counter and got the coffee pot and started down the row of booths, filling each cup as needed, including Dano’s.  He noted her appearance this time.  She looked exasperated and weary.  She had little beads of perspiration on her forehead and upper lip and was breathing hard, her mighty chest heaving long, deep sighs as she looked towards the kitchen.  She didn’t say anything to Dano, but when she began to fill the cups of the booth next to him she revealed, under her breath, the rest of her complaint, giving the customers, an older couple, the inside scoop.  She slyly looked back and forth over her shoulder for fear that Fidel was staring at her.

      “The manager is going to have a word with him,” she told them.  “He said the B word.  I don’t care who you are; you don’t call a woman the B word, especially when she can’t even fight back.  I think he’s talking to him now.  Yeah…I’ll tell you, folks…”

      Dano thought her voice sounded ugly and the whole scene was much ado about nothing.  He hunched his shoulders inward and tried to forget the unimportant little scene wanting to simply re-dip himself into his paper.  Just a little social glitch, he reasoned.  Happens all the time.  But he knew he could expect this kind of thing to go to his stomach and such nervousness always made him quiet, but not good quiet, rather, distant quiet, far away quiet.

      It took a few moments, but he believed after a short time, that he’d completely forgotten the incident.  Those little tails of bad blood that linger in rooms where discord have been can be cut off, nipped in the bud, he reasoned.  He went in search of the comics, and upon reading them from top to bottom felt he’d accomplished just this.  He had begun reading a story about the merger between two major insurance companies when Ann returned, first placing his sourdough toast on to the table.  There were two plastic containers of strawberry jam to each side of the bread.  Dano moved his coffee cup and saucer to help her out.  She placed his ham and eggs before him without saying a word and walked quickly back to the kitchen.

      Dano did not move.  The eggs looked fine, but there was something wrong with the ham.  It was not quite its usual size, only about two-thirds its normal diameter.  After lifting it with a fork, he also saw that it was a much thinner slice than usual.  He felt an odd emotion, one akin to perplexity but which finally rested at a place inside him that felt, and yet he couldn’t name it then, like helplessness.  He felt this void deeply for a moment and tried telling himself it was just a little piece of ham.  He tried to push aside the feeling and took a bite of egg, but wasn’t altogether successful.  It was plain as day to him that this piece of ham was making him feel, not only angry, but slightly furious.

      He looked up at Ann, too fat for her own good, rushing to other tables, so worried about some busboy from Mexico, her large behind stagnant and heavy, yet steadily moving like the road-sway of a semi-truck.  She had a large swath of yellow on her thigh where she apparently had wiped her hand, probably butter.  He laughed inwardly at the sight of her, his eyes squinting as he shook his head, but he turned away from it, for it was bitter.  He pushed the plate away and, leaning back while placing his hands folded upon the top of his head, waited.  He felt a kind of pain in his chest and it made him think about, of all things, school.  He looked at his watch.  He had class at five.  He knew he’d been neglecting his readings.  He looked back down at his plate and looked at the ham, and then, for some reason, thought of his wife.  He didn’t know why he could no longer make love to her, he just knew he couldn’t.  His children, Amy and Clarissa, were bright eyed and yet they were sassy.  He didn’t know where they got that from.  Would they resent him when they got older?  Do drugs and have sex?  The little one looked wild enough to break his heart from here.

      He looked outside the window at the dirty street.  Across the street at the 76 Station there was a little man, old and probably poor as dirt, rushing around a Cadillac as though it really mattered that its windows were clean.  Thirty thousand dollars for schooling with no real promise of reward afterward, he thought.  He noticed Mama’s little lawn, lined with flowers, beside five different newspaper racks.  Grass.  Underneath was earth, brown delicious earth, life breeding and nutrient-holding earth.  Inert.  Funny how that was.

      He’d had enough.  He jerked his way over to the side of the booth and almost stood up, but instead raised his hand to Ann who was pouring coffee at a table just down his row.  She didn’t see him and then quickly walked off, banging her way through the plastic door leading to the kitchen.  Looking through the cook’s window, he watched her walk towards the back of the restaurant.  He gave her a whole minute, yet she didn’t return.  He almost stood, but kept himself down.  His leg jerked up and down nervously.  He gave her another minute, but then stood up.  He couldn’t wait.  He marched down the aisle and behind the breakfast bar itself where old, single men ate their breakfasts.  He was aware of a mess of dirty dishes and old rags underneath the counter where nobody could see.  It made him feel like an invader, but he pressed on just a little bit more and shoved the plate into the face of the little cook behind the wheel.  The cook had a nametag reading “Caesar.”  He stared at Dano with unconceiving eyes.

      “I’m sorry, but I can’t eat this ham.  It’s much too small.  I usually get a very nice piece of ham with my order.  This looks like a half-portion.  I’m sorry, but I come here everyday.”

      Then Fidel walked up to Dano and spoke to Caesar.

      “Que quiere?” he said, gesturing to Dano.

      They spoke quickly in Spanish for a moment, and then Caesar reached for the plate after rolling his eyes in disgust at Dano.  Fidel began talking loudly in Spanish about Dano, flailing his arms, his fingers flapping almost in Dano’s very face.  Dano didn’t care.  He walked away very erect, resolute in his determination not to accept anything less than what he had come to believe was his due as a steady, paying customer.

      Ann was still off somewhere.  The toast and coffee were the only things on the table now.  He nibbled a little of the toast without any jam and hoped that the ugly memory of the small ham and disrespectful employees would subside quickly.  He was happy that the plate was no longer in front of him.  He ignored the approaching coolness of his coffee simply because Ann was still nowhere to be seen.  He looked back at the cook’s window.  Caesar was talking to a different cook, one Dano had not seen.  The other cook looked out at the roomful of customers but did not make eye contact with Dano.  He then shook his head in contempt and walked to the back of the kitchen.  When Ann finally returned she immediately noticed that Dano’s plate was gone.

      “Didn’t I get your…?”

      “There was something wrong with the ham so I took it back.”

      “Oh, there was?”

      “Yes.  It wasn’t….fresh.”

      “Oh, I’m sorry.  I’ll make sure that you get a fresh slice this time.”

      Ann hurried back to the kitchen and Dano watched her as she spoke with Caesar.  She then looked briefly back at Dano.  Ann quickly looked away when she realized he was watching her.  Two minutes later she returned with the plate.

      “I hope this is better.  He put this one down fresh.  I’m sorry about that,” she said.

      Dano said nothing.  The new slice was exactly like the first only hotter.  Not only that, but Caesar had not taken into consideration the fact that by the time the ham had cooked the eggs would be cold.  The malaise produced by this new ham and old eggs settled in on him now like a fog.  He realized he didn’t want to eat any of it and yet there was nothing more he could do without making more of a scene.  He grabbed the sides of the table and looked out the window again.  His heart beat fast with that helpless feeling again and, again, he tried to figure it out, but couldn’t.  He shook his head fast only once and then grabbed his napkin and wiped his mouth hard, recognizing that to do so in the way he had that he would be wise to push aside his toast in case somebody wondered what he was doing.  He had, in fact, nibbled on the toast.

      There passed a moment that he recognized he’d known before.  He let it pass him and watched it as it filled the room with it’s fury.  The world would call it “being a little bit nuts.”  It energized him, while sending his normal state of caution howling and whipped to the pit of his stomach.  His hands would not obey, could not obey at that moment, the lessons that he had learned up to that point in his life which had kept him in good stead with society.  He seized the sharp knife that Ann had brought him and quickly cut the ham into little pieces, cutting so hard he almost scratched the plate.  He then poured a huge pool, almost half a bottle, of ketchup over everything.  He dipped his fork into the eggs and took a bite.  The eggs might as well have frozen his tongue.  He put down his fork and leaned back so hard in the booth that the old woman sitting behind him turned around and looked at him.  His heart thumped.  He turned his head and looked outside at the perfectly manicured grass and noticed a hole in the center of the thin swath of lawn.  It looked as though a dog had dug into the earth.  Nobody had even tried to fix it.  He stared at it for about a minute and then found his hand jerk back to his plate, the fingers picking up a glob of the scrambled eggs and swabbing it in the sea of ketchup before proceeding to place it in his mouth.  He finished his eggs in this manner.

      The ham and potatoes were the only things left on his plate.  The ham was very hot and steamed there in front of him.  He usually ate the ham with the eggs and now, for the first time, he would have to eat the ham alone.  He grabbed four or five pieces, ketchup all over his palm, and shoved it into his mouth.  He did it again and then all of the ham was gone.  Ann walked by and began to fill his cup and almost spilled her pot when she saw the last of the ham go into his mouth, his fingers then being licked clean, then the chewing, fast and open like a dog chewing too great a mouthful.

      After he’d finished, he stared out of the window again.  He thought hard this time about the grass.  It’s blades were clean and short and washed and probably sweet smelling, its roots going down into a place of mystery where he didn’t know why it would choose to give forth life, but did.  Every day it did.

      How old his wife had become.  How ugly she was now, bending a little more each day towards the sweet, good grass that could never help her or him for that matter.  Underneath was the secret truth about grass that everybody ignored every day.  It covered graves of the young  from every age who too had grown old and died.  This perennial grass.  Could the mystery consist of the fact, he thought, that he was going to leave them all?  That it had been simmering and now he knew it would be true?  He had failed at all duties binding him and he would release himself and watch her from afar bend closer and closer down to the grass and perhaps pick a blade and with it curse him, curse him through it, curse him forever.  But it would never bring him back.  Never.

      He loosened his tie and scooped some of the potatoes into his mouth with his fingers.  He then dipped his fingers into the ketchup as an afterthought and sucked it off.  She would hate him for leaving the girls.  He scooped the rest of the potatoes into his mouth and picked the plate up and licked it, the red ketchup streaked his tongue like blood before Dano slammed the plate back down to the table with a porcelain-high, unbreaking thump.  Maybe he wouldn’t do it. Maybe he wouldn’t do it.  Maybe he wouldn’t do it.

      He was unclear.  He contacted his options, touched them viscerally as if they were choosable daydreams.  They consisted of rivers and mud and sleep only.  Lots of sleep.  Tons of it.  He picked up his coffee cup and swallowed the hot brew that Ann had just poured.  Most of it he spilled on his shirt.  He then picked up his napkin and hopelessly dabbed the spot before emptying the napkin dispenser, pulling every one, a bunch about two inches thick, and wiping his shirt again before throwing them down in a bunch, a white missile, an angel cast down forever.

      “Fuck you!” he screamed at the table.

      Ann was right there.

      “I’m sorry, mister, you’re going to have to leave.”

      But Bob Dano didn’t care.  He threw a ten-dollar bill on the table and walked out of the restaurant, beelining to his Saturn parked in the back.  Caesar, Fidel and the other cook had rushed to the rear door to watch him.  They stood there as he rounded the corner of the building.  They each had lit up their cigarettes.  Fidel threw Dano a gang sign while Caesar and the other cook laughed.  Dano fumbled with his key as he stared at them, but then stopped, his wrist and fingers going limp and his lower back aching suddenly.  He felt weak as though he might fall.  Standing there he inspected their mouths, the whiteness of their teeth, their moustaches and their dirty hats.  He listened to his own breath leave his mouth in short, sharp shoves.  Nothing, including the time he fell off a ferris wheel, had ever frightened him more than this.  The parking lot spinned as his tires finally rolled.  He quaked as he felt Mama’s disappearing behind him slowly.  His far away nightmares had come too quickly, and he felt naked and ashamed at their arrival, but even more, at his easy acceptance of them.  As he drove faster and faster up the avenue, he pondered the images, those of grass and dirt and rotten ham and little men who laugh at you and burrow down from the top towards you like little dogs, burrow slowly but always surely, never not surely, looking for something whose nature they had no way of guessing before actually exposing it for a grave.

Published in: on August 8, 2025 at 3:09 am  Leave a Comment  
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The 9th the Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite

there ain’t no reason to go there no more. thereain’t no reason to got there no more. there ain’t no reason to go their no more. it seems all it’s a ruse, the whole question the question of where we are to lay our heads.  In Christianity, Jesus said that man will have no place to rest their heads but upon the stones. A question? Does that symbolize equally the notion that we all blah, blah, blah…

welcome to the fourth or fifth fklc. the fifth, i think, or the sixth. I don’t remember. Anyway, I think that there are problems in the world, but these problems if taken in the right way by the victims can turn into something greater. We are all a bunch of asteroids trying to cancel one another out. sometimes we succeed and we cause great harm for our own petty, selfish gains. what if we, the victims of these games, chose to turn the other cheek, to hand over our cloaks as well. What would that do to our opponent. Nothing of this world matters. Materiality does not matter except for in the pride of the individual. we all need help and we all can help. if we need help it does not mean that we can’t help, too. Man is circuitous, realm-like.  I think if we are to take action against the evils in this world it should be an action that would spread a bit of joy amongst the crowds previously hellbent upon destroying one another. I would not like to make this a cry for freedom, but a cry for release, the release from a tyranny that would not make haste toward understanding, but rush into, headlong, the mire of giving more than stolen from by choice and to make a point.

this does not mean I will not protect my family and drop all argument if need be. it does however mean that I will retain my senses and not shoot from the hip and ask questions later. sorry, cowboy, fargo don’t play that.  You can’t mention their names. They are MacBeth-like. But the reasons for their plays are complex as well and perhaps, at this point in the game, the most  complex game of all, the game for the actual preservation of our very planet.  We have more than enough resources now to give food, clothing, shelter and an allowance if necessary all in the name of helping our worldwide brothers refrain from the sins of stealing and the very real and harmful realm of anger.  Both sides are guilty of these sins. That is why they had to put down their stones when Jesus asked them to. Stones, where you lay your head and what they throw at you to make a point that cancels itself immediately.

Published in: on July 25, 2025 at 5:47 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite -2005

The world is alright today a fictive reservoir by Fargo Kantrowitz

so i was sitting on tweetle dumb way, way….then the words trailed off and up and upwards this trolling for blue among the falling stars down glowing. Neil Diamond called it the Heartlight in that song. The heartlight.

Since when did ya become a poet, Jack? Glory fame and all that. Blip*. Quick what form then this that gives such arbitrary light to darkened reasons not wanting the shine. Blip*. What form this then that gives us light? This heartlight? Plick away the soul starting from the sleeve one two three. The people are getting scared and are going to fight to the death if they have to and they’re going to start right here in my neighborhood. No matter how hard they try they will never be able to fight off the scourge that is the drug war. My neighbors are inside of the drug war grounds and because of it, yes, I live in a “war zone.” Great. Just call the whole goddamned thing off, get these people on their feet and ask God to forgive you. Then maybe your soul will be alright. The sixties dream was swept off into a corner called daily monthly weekly where it could be properly policed. But what would you do? If the drug takes all your money and you have to steal and kill ever after to attain that privelege of having continued to live at all. By this time they can’t think of anything but drugs. So we’ve got the jails for them. The jails. Now, me, being a victim of crime recently have been thinking of the jails and how I want my particular criminal to go there for a long time so I can at least have peace of mind that he isn’t going to keep robbing me blind like he has all this week. They busted him after he stole my friend’s car. They busted the idiot at a 7 eleven and took him in. In the car was a home stereo receiver and a red taped hand axe. A professional.

No, I’m not blaming Mr. Bush. No, I’m not blaming anybody in high office. There is too much at stake, however, we the people of the lower echelons of America have a right to a say as well. People need to be taken care of a lot of times. They didn’t have good parental examples, for example, and never really learned how to fend for themselves in this complex society. We are perhaps the only species that has made its society too complex for its members to participate. It is part of the industrial revolution. it is the cold hearted way of capitalism. Taking care of people is socialist, but socialism is not communism. The amount of money that could be made by people allowing a socialist attitude to prevail when it comes to social issues instead of a capitalistic attitude, would change little under either system. But the people will be saved. The victims of crimes will be saved, the crimes not even happening because somebody is being taken care of who otherwise wouldn’t be. And this idea that we are to do it among ourselves through churches and the like. A church is about as big a group as you need to accept one bad man because individuals are locking their doors and finding it solemn to keep a gun for protection. This isn’t Christianity. This is some sort of armed uprising against the people who cause you harm. But what choice do they have? What choice is there? It is either arm yourself or be eaten alive by the madmen of the world.

A woman doesn’t want a man who is not grown up in this respect. She will, in fact, spurn him for it goes against her natural reaction as a beast to fight if necessary. So men easily step up and it is tied to their manhood. The woman is always there to glare lovingly and longingly over the shoulder of the man who is going to protect her children. It is natural. Peacemakers die off.

But we have to lose that whole spectrum. There are thousands of beautiful young ladies in the west who see the larger picture and wouldn’t fuck you If you stood up like those others. But these are different centuries. The red states are living in right about 1979 and those other girls are testing the future or bobbing peaceful upon the lulling memories of the 1960s. Either way somebody’s getting laid. But then we’re talking about a war. The cowboys are married to the hippies and will always be. Now the hippies are called “liberal” but none of those people who hate liberals would be acting that way at a Dead show. And they’re not all that old so they don’t know if they like the Dead or not. All these fucking people my age and younger who are acting like they are their own grandfathers, as if bands like the Dead or the Beatles were just a Bl*p in time, and an immature bl*p at that. Their pants are full of toothpicks. Their trousers are befuddled with mud piles bulking, They are eating pudding with a spoon.

Peace was introduced as a concept and was introduced as something meant to be practiced on a larger level. Ideas sprouted up and took hold and gained adherents until technology finally caught up with them and are ready to be put into place. Theories for the structuring of the world has taken place and could be implemented if only we did not fear the choices we already made. Bending the beast is what’s needed. Taking stresses off of her breaking points. These are Americans too! The poor and downtrodden, the drug addicted and alcoholic, the slow, the weak, the fragile. Can’t we look up and away from our own misery for a moment? Can’t we be allowed to insist that our governmental entities which control these large social structures be more responsive to the poor.

It is obvious what is going on. Americans are obsessed with safety and protection. The defense budget gets bigger and bigger. An entire industry is sucking on the tit of the country going the opposite direction of helping all Americans. It is oil based. It needs weapons this war for oil. The rest of us are starting to starve while the other half starts to get fat. it’s what caused the civil war partly. The big money goes beyond north and south now. It’s all good. America is truly bonded in its love for the money that is brought to it by oil. The car industry could stop the whole show by stopping the manufacture of non hybrid engines. The government should help. This is an example where Government Can Help. It is supposed to. It is why we pledge allegiance to the flag every morning because she has promised to help. This is the view of America that I want to teach my children someday. I want them to know that America is a great and responsive country that will not allow her children to go hungry or make people so mad that they commit horrendous crimes against one another. This is the America that I insist upon.

But then I have to remember what is currently considered “proper American thinking.” This is the flip side of radical right’s “creative” propaganda play concerning the term “politically incorrect.” They ran with that one and made it politically incorrect to do the following things: you can vote democratic, but only because you’re an American and the Democratic party is older than they are. You can’t vote for abortion or same sex marriage because that’s going against God and let’s get that out of the way right now here and for all (end of conversation is a favorite tactic of the criminal), when there is discussion and you make your points all who see you are to remember that you are probably a pinko, commie, faggot and (yes, next question please).

The whole bloody mess gets mean until it is like the cowboys are crooks and the hippies are high. Suddenly there is no more common ground. The stereotypes have gotten in the way. But, the question begs, do you placate to Hitler? Gasp? A war where perhaps one hundred thousand people have died so that we can bring “democracy” (not a Republic?) to the world. Oil, oil, oil, oil, oil, oil, oil, oil, oil, oil, oil, oil, oil, oil, oil…

Placate? What does that mean? Giving in. No, can’t do that? But you must give concessions? No, i can’t do that. Then They have issues: no, we can’t do that? You are killers? No we’re not? Yes, you are. Every nation at the gut level most fearful of all of civil war. What point are we trying to force. If you kill that person will this philosophical notion somehow become truer? War is payment in stupidity for a people’s greed and fear. That greed and fear wouldn’t even be there if we set up the system truer, kinder, more socially understanding. Then, if we are to spread something, it is not police brutality but keen understanding of the fact that all people are different and each nation has deep cultural methods of doing things that we as outsiders could never really understand, especially making the decision by watching the news from our easy chair just before turning to entertainment tonight, a bong hit and that book that you keep by your bed. The people know how to take care of themselves. Ideas can be put into place that will replace pain with salve. Perhaps I would not have been a victim of crime at all had we put a few dollars where is needed instead of into bombs to back up our message that we’re the greatest country on earth. Is that right…

Published in: on July 23, 2025 at 12:45 am  Leave a Comment  
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The Wasp – a synthesis in real time of a speech given on the Senate floor about the “Big Beautiful Bill” by Senator Sheldon Whitehouse of Rhode Island by fludthezone.com editor in chief, Sol Lebinowitz.

Sheldon Whitehouse said this piece of legislation is corrupt and crooked and a rotten racket. He said the Senate felt like a crime scene. Need yellow tape and put it around the chamber. The midnight transfer of wealth is disgusting. Backdrop in country is that 1 percent had 30 percent. Bottom half 3 percent of the wealth (me). Wealth from middle class to billionaires and mega-billionaires. From children to present day billionaires by adding 5 trillion in debt. Run up debt to give tax giveaways to wealthy billionaires. How? Take away healthcare from 16 million Americans. Tax breaks to billionaires. Something about billionaires. They can’t stop. Pay no taxes, less than a firefighter. Then they want more favors. They don’t realize how much money they have. Pay taxes wouldn’t change their lives at all. Nothing would change if they had to pay taxes like a regular person but they just don’t want to. A lot of tax breaks to corporations, even to those who move jobs off shore. Tax breaks for doing that. Tax breaks for offshoring American jobs. Worlds worst tax policy. Takes corrupt code and bends it further for billionaires and corporations. Raises your costs to raise their profits. Electric bills for us will go up. People behind bill hoping you don’t know how that works. He will tell us how that works. Rules for grid about how it works. Generators who sell power to grid put in a bid. Price for their electricity. Stack of bids, the grid manager dispatches cheapest first then more expensive ones. As demand rises costs go up. Most expensive, last one, sets price for whole grid. Almost always a fossil fuel plant. As demand go up, prices go up. More generators come on line. That’s the world without clean energy. Ad renewables, almost always cheaper. Almost never the price setter. Fill in below the price of the fossil fuel plant. Grid is more efficient with renewables in the mix. 95 percent that came into grid was clean energy. Bill’s intention to kill off clean energy. Would kill off 95 percent of energy put to the grid last year. Study of the Texas grid. With renewables (texas 30 percent renewables) the average price last august was 39 dollars per megawatt hour. What if you backed out of solar? If not for solar driving price down would have been between 55 and 90 megawatt hours. Minimum $25 dollar differential. Maybe twice the cost. Punch line: prices in 24 would have been 40 percent higher. Without clean energy growth, 95 percent on the grid, electricity would have been 40 percent higher. Go to fossil fuel industry. When you see them here they will make a fortune off this. Puts you back on fossil fuel side of the curve not the clean energy part of the curve that lowers prices so dramatically. Is what actually happened in a large electricity market (Texas). Damaging competition in solar to China. Huge advantages for China with the world market for solar. We are also in that market. Fossil fuel industry desire to destroy this is about as unpatriotic as you can get. They’re like, go for it China, we’re out. Rip away subsidies. 700 billion dollars subsidy every year to compete against clean energy. Rip away investments. Tax on energy. Drive prices back up to fossil fuel model. Big losers in this big loser of a bill. 5 trillion to national debt. Big loss. Home loans. Health care. Hospitals in receivership. Taxpayers get clobbered in corruption of tax code. Tax cuts wouldn’t even be noticed they have so much money. Yet we break bank of 5 trillion dollars to take care of creepy billionaires who can’t count their wealth but insist they come to congress and seize even more. Off shore corporations. Moving away from America. America first agenda? Not when you look into the weeds of this crooked bill. Fossil fuel polluters. Massive profits. Could do their own carbon removal. They choose not too. They want to pollute. Drive up prices. They all are huge donors to the Republican Party. Now want payback. Wasp, Mr. President, that lays its larvae inside another bug. Bug can take over nervous system of that other bug. They make it go where the larvae want it to hang. Then larvite consume it, eat it, and turn into next generation of wasps. Good analogy. Polluters, offshoring corporation, took over command system of Republican Party. Bugs marching around doing as told. Doesn’t care about harms. More corrupt tax codes. Special interests are in that bug running that show.

Published in: on June 30, 2025 at 5:38 pm  Leave a Comment  
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A Petal – Thy Soul’s Immensity

Here we are now, entertain us. Welcome. We hope you are here. Probably not. Probably, if you are like me, you left somewhere a little while ago. You probably drifted over to nowheresland where nobody saw nothing of you and still liked you (a little of Sunday dreaming there)(I’ve got lots of it now and days) subtle dreaming, the kind that doesn’t feel bad and helps you get over the boredom of having gone too fast, shot too thoroughly, banged too loud to ever, ever, I mean ever, ever…I forgot what I was going to say.

Minnie Priestess-Jones – age 71

Published in: on June 16, 2025 at 9:21 pm  Leave a Comment  
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After the Fall – from Thy Soul’s Immensity

Sometimes your daddy’s just an alcoholic Jed. It don’t make no sense nohow how you’re daddy is an alcoholic and you don’t know where you gonna go next or nothing and you think it’s all gonna be over soon, but it never does, Jed, it never does. It never does go over like a good summer storm does, no, it don’t go over like it’s no great white buffallo over the hidden plains like you sing about, Jed, no, it don’t go. It don’t go. It just don’t go!

There’s a million reasons not to cry, Jed. Ones your daddy. You shouldn’t cry over your daddy anymore, Jed. I know it must have been hard and all having all that happen to you when you was a kid, but still, you can’t take it with you forever, Jed. If you do then you end up old and mean and maybe dead because you take heroin or drink too much like my daddy did. You don’t want to end up like that, Jed. That’s not the way to be.

Dink’s right, Jed. Dink’s daddy beat him real bad and then he went and did to our daddy what he did and Dink had to pay for it too. Both our families been paying for it all these years and you would have known too if you hadn’t of left like you did, I know you had to go…

Yeah. I had to go, I guess. It was too hard growing up in that house with mama. I figured I could make it better on my own. And I did. But I also took a lot of drugs and fried my brain up. Took a long time to get it back. Then Moxy took me back. That’s what saved me. I thought she would never take me back in a million years so I just started walking. I figured if I fell down cold dead all the better. But then something started happening to me, know what?

What?

I started feeling better. All those drugs had been poisoning my body and now that I was getting off them I had no choice but to try and feel better so I run.

You run?

Yeah, I run. I run through them woods like a wildman, faster than anybody you know. I would jump for tree limbs and they would break off and I would fall into the water. I did that for a good two states almost, well, maybe it was only one, but by then I couldn’t do it anymore because winter was coming on. I needed to save my heat. All the animals I caught with a special slingshot I made, I’ll show you sometime, I used to cover my body. So when the time come for me to have found Mars I was already good and covered up. I don’t know, maybe it was October by this time. I’m not sure. You lose track of time when you wander like I did.

So what happened?

What do you mean what happened?

What happened…next.

I met Tom.

Tom?

Tom ____ .   I met Tom inside Ohio and he took me in and I worked in his woodshop making desks and stuff for him and he taught me how to make my very own guitar and that’s the one I give to Moxy.

You made that fuckin’ thing?

Hell yeah I made it. Made it with my own two hands. Tom had someone paint Moxy’s name on it though because I can’t draw very good.

No, Jed can’t draw good.

So you made the guitar and you left.

Over three months.

Oh.

I left in the springtime. There was still snow on the ground, but I didn’t care. I realized that I had to go get that chair.

What chair?

Kirby’s chair.

Whose Kirby?

Kirby?

Yeah, Kirby. Who’s Kirby?

Kirby is Ken and Rose’s dad. And he’s got this chair. God, did I really do that? Jeezus H. Christ. I must have been nuts. Albert, I was nuts. Jesus. I was simply, certifiably nuts.

You’re not necessarily nuts if you think getting something will help you, Jed, no matter how stupid it might seem to other people.

A chair.

Don’t matter. I once had a marble that was so big that it fucking almost qualified for a clacker, man, this mother was the biggest actual puree you’ve ever seen. Only kid who ever challenged me had a cannon ball. What I wouldn’t have done for that cannonball, so I said, fuck it, I called him on his cannonball and he got first shot and you know what? He missed. It was my turn. I shot my shot and I missed. Then he missed and then I missed and then he missed and then it was my turn and I aimed that puree as well as a boy can humanly attempt such an aim and I said to myself that I”m getting that cannonball and I threw that puree perfect and it hit just on top of the cannonball, it went way up in the air and when it came down it hit a rock and went out on to the sidewalk and we both watched that thing fall right down into the manhole grate and down into the water that was moving. What I’m trying to say is that I got that cannonball and it was heavy and it didn’t look anything like my puree and I was sorry I ever wanted it and I never got another one again.

Published in: on May 30, 2025 at 2:18 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Eastside All-Star – from The World is Alright Today

      I lost the game. I lost the fucking game for ’em. Jim Buckley came up to me and said it best: You lost the fucking game, Chatworth, and he was right. I lost our team the championship.

      Five years later I was walking around the high school hallways all stoned like I usually was and I ran into this kid named Ripley Knox, a bigger stoner than me. He showed me what he had in his bag and I told him I had two bucks and he said that was enough to get a little buzz anyway so we went to the park, just ditched school like we did all the time anyway and sat under a tree and he lit up a joint and we passed it back and forth and when I tried to give him the two bucks he said fuck it so we enjoyed the joint together on this the first sunny day of three weeks when I finally said to him,

      “Ripley, you remember that game I lost for our team back in the majors?”

       “Yeah, what of it?” 

      “Well, it just don’t seem right that one person can lose a game for a whole team does it?”

      He looked at me all stoned and shit and just nodded and then said,

      “Yeah, why not?”

      I agreed enough with him, but I was suddenly angry that he would believe something could be so, then thought again of it, and remembered that day and how it was all my fault. There was no question about it. But I wanted to ask Ripley now that we were more grown up and shit. Ripley played right field more than me back then so he would be honest with me. His mother grew his pot. So I say to Ripley,

      “Yeah, I guess so.”

       I know so, but I say it that way. Sometimes one guy can screw it all up for everybody. He had me at second base because Ricky Tynesdale was out with the flu. Ricky was good, consistent, but he wasn’t the star of the team. Right off this kid hits me a grounder. It goes through my legs. That’s cool. Shake it off they tell me. But I could see that the coach was pissed. That kid finally made it in on a triple hit by another kid. 1-0.

      Then we got a rally and tied the score. We were doing good when I get up to the plate and take a walk. That’s good. That loads the bases and this kid named Kenny was up who wasn’t too bad, but batted seventh. There were two outs and I was leading off a little bit when I see Cindy Miller. I’ll never forget the moment. Because just as I stepped off that base there was Cindy in her little junior high cheerleading suit bopping up to the stands. I think her brother played on the other team. I just got a real quick look at her tits when all of a sudden I hear “bam!” and this kid playing first base just smacks me right in the chest with his glove and then sticks his hands up in the air and gives out the biggest “yeaaaah!” I’ve ever heard. He was like some sort of Viking warrior or something. We all trotted in and I sat down on the bench. Nobody said anything to me except for one kid. Vincent Trollo. I think his family was in the mob. I don’t remember what he said except that it included the fictitious name “Wackworth”and it was a direct allusion to my own name of Chatworth.

      I went back to second base and prayed nothing else bad would happen. But God had taken a little vacation for those two hours I would soon learn. Another ball did come to me which I fumbled. That man on base did score so that we lost our lead. The next kid up hit it to center field and he got on first. The next kid hit it to the shortstop who lobbed it directly at second base because he was unable to call it back after it left his hand. He had just assumed I would be there. 

      For some reason and to this day I still don’t know why, when he hit it to our shortstop, Randy Valasquez, I knew, I mean, I really knew where I was supposed to be at, but the trouble was that I was right in the running path of this kid going to second and I jumped back because I was scared and he passed me. The next thing I knew I was trying to beat this kid who had been running hard for a good three seconds. There was no way. When Randy threw that ball to me I wasn’t even close to the bag yet and it bounced on the ground and this kid just kept running. I couldn’t believe it. He must have thought he was like the big running guy on that team so he just kept running and finally I threw the ball to our third baseman, Vic Green, but the goddamned ball just twisted or something and I threw that thing about ten feet over his head and this kid just kept running all the way home. The kid who hit the ball made it to third and then someone knocked him in. When we got back to the bench I sat down like usual and didn’t say anything. Vincent Trollo was all belligerant then.

      “You oughtta take that glove, Wackworth, and whack with it because it ain’t doing none of us any good out here.”

      Then the coach cut in and told Trollo to shut up and sit down. I wasn’t afraid of Trollo. He could kick my ass, but first he’d have to kiss it.  It didn’t matter much. The coach took me out for a few innings. The score was five to three. I was involved in every one of their runs and every one of their runs shouldn’t have been a run. I was ready to give up sports. I was twelve and soon to be thirteen. My big brother smoked cigarettes and I would too. He told me about this girl who he made out with in the back of his Blazer. How her tits just popped out of her shirt and then just sat there bouncing around and around like a couple of water balloons. That’s what I’d do. So I sat there and waited for the game to be over and for me to be thirteen and then fourteen and then maybe fifteen and by then I’d have watched more water balloons bounce around than Trollo or anybody on my team. But sitting there thinking those thoughts, trying to rescue myself from my low opinion of myself, I knew I’d just about lost the game for us and I prayed the coach wouldn’t put me back in. Then came the fifth inning of a game of seven. 

      “Chatworth, right field.”

      I was back. I was back in right field. Nobody hit the ball to right field. They took out little Jimmy Grove, a kid whose hand was backwards so after he caught a ball he would take off his glove, place it on his backwards hand and throw it. His good hand was his left one, but I think he was a natural righty because where Jimmy would throw nobody would feign to know.  He once threw a ball behind himself, over the right field fence. Before anybody could tell him not to climb over to get it he had already done so, failing miserably yet in an original fashion because on the fall to the other side his belt got caught on the chainlink and the umpire had to unhook him. The kid who hit it to him got a home run. Our coach protested, but he lost the argument. It was just not worth pursuing really. It’s one of those arguments that because it had to become an argument at all we all stopped and thought about what we were doing out there in the first place. It was the most absurd thing we’d ever seen, any of us, except perhaps for the day when I lost the championship for us. 

      So I was in right field. The fifth went by. No problem. Then came the sixth. We got a run. They didn’t. Then came the seventh and we score two on a home run by Vincent Trollo. I was closer to being able to go home.  It’s six to five. Us. We get up again but we don’t score. It’s the last at bat for the other Tigers. My team, the Giants, hadn’t won the championship ever as far as anybody can remember. And that’s how it was, but then I saw Ripley lighting the roach and thought to myself even if it was my fault it couldn’t have been completely. We were a team. The other guys could have hit more or done more of something good but they didn’t. They just didn’t make as many errors as me.

      “You believe that, Rip?”

      “Yeah. You lost the game for us, man.”

      “And you didn’t? You only played two innings before your dad came and got you.”

      “So. At least I didn’t make any errors.”

      “You didn’t play, man!”

      “I played.”

      “Right field.”

      “Yeah, but I played.”

      “I just don’t know anymore, Ripley.”

      It’s not that I wanted to vindicate myself to Rip. Rip was always a bigger loser than I was. I was ten times better than him and there he was sitting all smug smoking the last of his joint like he was Mark McGuire or something. This little runt made me sick. But, you know, I couldn’t shake it. He was right. I made too many errors and therefore I had to take blame for the loss. I remember it differently now than it actually was. After so many years you turn events into happenings. It’s like your first kiss. You remember every moment. Every sensation. Unfortunately, that ball was like that. That ball was like a big sailboat floating over my head. I remember my hand reaching out for it and then suddenly realizing it was easily ten feet away from me. Why I reached for it I don’t know. I can imagine what I looked like as if my memory of the situation included a camera angle from the benches. I saw that thing up in the air so high and I started running in. I was running in because I was going to catch it. It was hit so high and I would get that thing so I ran and ran until I started feeling this weird something in my limbs. It was like my limbs were calling me stupid or something. I didn’t feel right. I felt like I was being torn in two because I’d run way too far in and I was suddenly aware of this ball coming back down to earth behind me. I know I should have run sideways, but I didn’t.  I started running backwards as fast as I could. By this time Tim Rowe had started running for it and he was calling me off but I couldn’t tell where he was so I just kept running backwards as fast as my waddling little legs would take me until I plowed right into Tim and our heads knocked together and I knocked him out. Swear to God.

       I remember seeing that ball rolling away from Tim and Tim’s eyes sort of rolling up in his head a little bit. I remember turning around and looking at that kid running those bases, heading for home and then back at Tim and then back at the ball which had stopped. Vincent Trollo was running out to right field from first base so I knew I was going to be in deep shit, but I still didn’t go for the ball. All I could see was Tim’s little white boy face, the nose all upturned and red and a little snotty with those eyes half open and his arms spread out to his sides and suddenly I didn’t care about that little ball standing there in the grass like it was. I understood better the absurdity of the game, why God would make a child like Grove, with that one arm, want to be equal to the Vincent Trollos of the world and I thought just for that moment that if that ball never moved again then the world would be a better place. 

      Then David Rice got it from left field and threw it to Vincent Trollo who was about two feet from me and he threw it way high over the catcher. The kid had gotten his home run already. It was a waste of time. We’d already lost. I remember Vincent Trollo then. It was like he wasn’t even aware that Tim was knocked out cold. He comes up to me and pulls me up by my shirt and looks in my face and calls me the worst thing a person can call another which I won’t repeat here. And I look at his ugly face and the next thing I know I’ve spat in it and he’s on top of me hitting me and me looking over there at Tim all knocked out as I tried to block the punches from my face and then the coach stopping Vincent Trollo and a bunch of people trying to revive Tim, including Ripley.

      “You were there,” I told Ripley.

      “I know.”

      “You know what happened.”

      “Yeah. Tim got knocked out and you got beat up and you lost the game for us.”

      “No I didn’t.”

      “Yes you did.”

      But I was through arguing with Ripley. He’s just like everybody else in this world who thinks that winning is the only thing in the world that matters.

Published in: on February 28, 2025 at 12:34 am  Leave a Comment  
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What Trump Said For Himself Today at the United States Capitol- Abbreviated with Commentary by Sol Lebinowitz of www.fludthezone.com.

(This is an encapsulation of Trump’s second inaugural address with brief commentary

   by Sol Lebinowitz, Managing Editor of http://www.fludthezone.com.) 

Donald Trump’s Second Inaugural Address Abbreviated

Donald Trump January 20, 2025

The golden age of America begins right now. 

 Be respected again. Envy of every nation. 

Not taken advantage of. 

(Every day P*ggi will put America first. Yeah right).

 Sovereignty, safety, scales of justice rebalanced. 

Believes he is a victim of the weaponization of justice department 

(Which means future weaponization of Justice Dept…)

Nation proud, prosperous and free. 

America will be greater, stronger and far more exceptional 

than ever before. Optimistic thrilling new era of national success.

Sunlight over world. America seize opportunity like never before. 

Challenges will be annihilated by the momentum all are witnessing in us. 

Confronts crisis of trust. Radical establishment. 

Pillars broken and in disrepair.  Can’t manage simple crisis. 

Continuing catalog of catastrophic events abroad. 

Sanitation and protection for criminals. Illegals by govt. 

(Biden’s) Govt. unlimited defense of foreign borders

 but not America borders or its own people. 

No basic services. North Carolina. Treated badly. 

(The Don gets claps.)

Hurricane sufferers. L.A. watching fires burn. 

Wealthiest and powerful. Some sitting there. No home. 

That’s interesting. Can’t let this happen. No change.

 Public health doesn’t deliver but more spent on it than anywhere.

 Education. To be ashamed of themselves to hate our country 

despite the love we try to provide to them. 

All change starting today and it will change very quickly. 

Reverse a betrayal from many, give people back 

faith wealth democracy and their freedom. 

From this moment on America’s decline is over.

(Clapping for the frickin’ papaya)

Glorious destiny will not be denied. Loyalty. Competency of govt. 

 Most challenged prez. Learned a lot along the way. 

The journey to reclaim our republic has not  been an easy one. 

Those who wish to stop my cause, to take my freedom, and my life.

 Assassins bullet. My life was saved for a reason. 

I was saved by God to make America great again.

 (Felonious Trump gets applause. Standing ovation. Audience shames itself. By long clapping.)

Under admin of America patriots, 

purpose and speed, hope, prosperity

all races religion color and creed. 

Jan 20 is liberation day. 

(Applause by saps for the ballerina) 

Hope that election remembered as greatest 

and most consequential. Nation unifying behind our agenda. 

Increases in support from all. Win all seven swing states.

 Popular vote millions of people win.

 Thanks Black and Hispanic communities. Love and trust for vote. 

Will not forget. Heard voices. Look forward to work with them.

 MLK mention. In his honor will strive to make his dream come true. 

(Lie before Don? Standing ovation. 

Just give the people what they want 

so they don’t have to go home and 

tell their children to kill themselves.)

Confidence and pride soaring. Administration, inspired excellence and unrelenting success.

 Not forget country, constitution, and not forget our God.

(Who is our God again? The Don! that’s right.)

Sign executive orders. Complete restoration of America and common sense. 

First, national emergency at southern border. 

(Clapping by the rubes who don’t remember history or understand economics. Dumbf*ck America.) 

All illegal entry will be halted. Returning millions of criminal aliens back. 

Reinstate Remain in Mexico policy, end Catch and Release.

 Troops to go to southern border. 

To repel disastrous invasion 

(They can play cards.) 

 Under orders, designating cartels as foreign terrorist organizations 

Invoking alien enemies act of 1798 

use full and immense power of state law enforcement.

 All gangs. Going to war against cartels. 

(The Twee One is going to get me killed.) 

At a level we have never seen before. Defeat inflation. 

Rapidly bring down costs and prices. 

Inflation crisis by massive overspending and energy prices.

 National energy emergency. 

We will drill baby drill. 

(Clapping) 

Manufacturing nation. Largest amount of oil and gas. 

We are going to use it. Bring prices down. Fill strategic reserves up again. 

Export American energy all over the world. 

Be a rich nation again. Liquid gold under our feet. 

End Green New Deal. Revoke electric vehicle mandate. 

For auto workers. 

(Bye earth. Is it hot in here?)

Buy car of your choice. Build cars again. 

Thanks auto workers for inspiring vote of confidence.

(The dummies voted for him.)

 Overhaul of trade system to protect American workers.

 Instead of taxing citizens, tax foreign countries to enrich our citizens. 

Establishing the external revenue service. Collect tariffs duties and revenues. 

(Is this how he kills the dollar for Putin?)

 Department of Government Efficiency. 

(This is how they pick our bones clean.)

 Free expression. Stop all government censorship 

and bring back free speech to America. 

(This is where we need laws against provable psychological  operations on Americans during elections)

Restore fair equal and impartial justice under constitutional rule of law.

 We will bring law and order back to our cities.

 End govt. socially engineering race and gender 

into every aspect of public and private life. 

Forge society as colorblind and merit based. 

Two genders male and female. 

Reinstate service members expelled for objecting to covid mandate with full back pay. 

Stop warriors exposed to radical social experiments while on duty. 

Armed forces free to focus on defeating America’s enemies. 

Like in 2017, build strongest military. 

Measure success by battles and wars we end and wars we never get into. 

(Don’t blame us for your party’s ever wars. None of them were ours, you lying freak.)

Peacemaker and unifier. Hostages in Middle East. 

Released one day before taking office (taking credit for it) coming home. 

Reclaim place as most powerful nation on earth. 

Changing the Gulf of Mexico to Gulf of America. 

Restoration of a great prez.  Going back to “Mt. McKinley”again. 

(F*ck the “injuns”.) McKinley through tariffs made country rich. 

Gave Roosevelt money for Panama Canal. Spent money on Panama Canal. 

38,000 lives lost building it. 

America treated badly. Panama promise has been broken. 

Spirit of treaty violated. American ships overcharged. 

Not treated fairly. Us navy. And China is operating the Panama Canal.

 We are taking it back.

( War? Probably.)

Act with courage vigor and vitality, great civilization.

 As liberate it, will lead to new heights of victory, not deterred.

 End chronic disease epidemic. Growing nation. 

Expands territory increase wealth. Flag in new horizons. 

Manifest destiny into stars. To plant Stars and Stripes on Mars. 

(This make-up school model should go to Mars.)

Ambition is life blood of great nation. Now more ambitious. 

No nation has more ambition. Spirit of the frontier is written into our hearts.

 Call of next great adventure resounds within souls. 

Ancestors turned colonies into mighty republic. 

Americans conquered west. Ended slavery (did a lot of shit).

 Humans are great. Work together and no dream we cannot achieve. 

Many thought impossible to come back 

and here he is. American people have spoken. 

(Right. You lying, psy-op bastard) 

Stand before as proof that something is impossible.

 In America, the impossible is what we do best. 

From New York  to Los Angeles.  All over. 

Forged by patriots who gave everything they had. 

Farmers and soldiers, factory (bla blah)

No obstacle defeated them. Laid down railroads. Skyscrapers. Highways.Won two world wars. Defeated fascism and communism. 

After all, together stand on verge of greatest four years in American history. One people, one family and one glorious nation under God. 

Parent dreams of child. I am with you, fight for you, and will win for you. 

Going to win like never before. 

(Yeah. Don’t win for me, pal.)

Make it greater than ever before. Compassion courage and exceptionalism. 

America will be respected again and admired by people of religion faith and goodwill.

 Prosperous proud and strong and win like never before. 

Not conquered, intimated broken, and will not fall. 

Will be free sovereign and independent nation.

 Nothing will stand in way. Americans.

 Future ours. 

The golden age has just begun. 

Thank you. 

(The O Factor glurps to a close) 

Published in: on January 20, 2025 at 8:25 pm  Comments (1)  
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