I am a communist.

We failed. We fail. We will fail again. We fail because we try. Americans are too busy buying stuff than to care about where this stuff comes from. If cigarettes are compelled to let us know that smoking them is a Bad Girl thing, what are we supposed to bring in big cans, oxygen. Let in the light. You cannot exist without me. Oxygen wins. There are no Elysian Fields to attack from. People get tired of it because the value of it has gone down consistently since the Greeks exploited slavery long before Rome Was As Big As a pair of suckling wolves.

I am here to tell you that. I am here to drive it home and suck on it. Communism is attending graduate school. Just not at UCLA. Today, I smile disingenuously. No comment. Sunglasses. Even if your eyes have blistered salt and blood, ravenous delusion hangs on a slaughterhouse hook. And away she goes. Americans refuse to know about the I Was Duplicitous Enough as to sneak inside with a weeny camera. Just like words. I am a secret agent from the futures here to report that it was infecting itself not unlike and the infection of huge bacteria the size of France. Us. Authority will watch you masturbate and you die of shame.

I do not know if it can really be called a camera. Size of a matchbox. All you need is one match to light the dangers of the way. Going rogue. Elysium and her fields. It’s all about that going to the horizon’s Elyssian fields of the drinker and the delirious I am as old as a Trojan Horse. No face lift. I am living here in Appalachia. Why I Have No Reason To AskinAppalachia in a place decidedly off beaten paths because only those of us who share and celebrated these camaraderie know all the sadness of the crumbs we get living in hollows corn liquor and the sneaks. The smells from the stills like smoke today in oak. You so keep the cash under the mattress. Like no one would think you were a victim of You Must Look Like communist cash and Color TV has yet to arrive. Promises. Everyone Everyone The NYT has no idea of what it wants to do with comments. They get a little nervous while looking over their own shoulder. On one hand, they will cut comments off on as little as three people. Others are in the thousands. They cut me off and disappear with only a little of what was the idealogical nibble down a path of discontent.  I am a communist. Who gets a lot of hate for that.

I work with adolescent boys with HIV. Hate accumulates. I go to city counsel meetings. I have things to say. Especially down here in the Blue Ridge where we are poisoning what we touch. This is Appalachia. We poison our water. Our air. From power plants in the Ohio river valley. Skies gone brown. Social media flailing at genesis. Powerlessness. Escape. Why does a coal company who poisons our mountains need a Facebook fixer. People hate me because I published books that question the ideas of what is identity. If you think I wrote a book called Genocide for money, get a clue.

The hate mail I get on my website sits in my gut like cement. Recently another attack by a guy on the street because he thought I had been writing about his sex life. I don’t even know him. Duh. I know this: I’m not worth Social media is to know who you are, not what you write. Pop culture tribalism is toxic. The whole dog and pony show creates a venomous cloud of malignant ambush. My contention that NYT has a skewed POV as to what poverty is. Stands. I said they should have a category characterized by writers – not gatekeepers – who are actually poor. Not economic graphs. Readers who hate. Now. Today. Right this minute. Not poverty from the past (like mine) but poverty. Academia will tell us what reality is. We do not need publications that censor hard what we say. The reader can make his or her own decisions. The Boogieman of contradiction.  Twitter is a bloodline.