New York Times

     I am a Marxist for a reason.

It has a center. It is just. It doesn’t care what you think because it’s not about Karl Marx. It is one thing to explain capitalism, religion, racism and poverty. It is another thing to explore moral vacuums, and corrupt criminality. The NYT has no writer who is breathing poor. I do not get how it is that the aristocracy gets to decide how much money we have to pay for the honor of being slaves who live in the back in the slave cabins. Many of them are still there. There are evil ghosts, I am here to tell you that ghosts are real. Don’t let any ghost get tangled in your mouth. There shouldn’t be anything whatsoever that is evil but there is. Exhausted now. Poor now. This civil War. This genocide. This migration not just arnarchy at the border with Mexico, This sentence of entrapment. Poor writers who can walk the walk. Who do it every day. Who know what America smells like, tastes like, feels like. Rains down upon us seas of poison. We have no voice among our lower caste ranks. Antifa is you just shut the fuck up and be there. Your blood will be thinned by gin. Flip through the NYT Twitter accounts. Not one person says I Live In Poverty. The New York Times sends its highly educated and competent writers to analyze what extreme poverty does to us. But where do we draw the cultural lines. How far can you take it. A lot of talk the talk. It’s ordinary. Americans will tell you that there is no extreme poverty in America. And there it is. Indifference.

You have to put it in their face. Timmy go batshit. Remember when the NYT refused to print the word, Lie. Get over it. I burn wood to be warm. There is the breathing in. I get hospitalized for blood clots at least twice a year. Fall. Winter’s scream. Not unlike the cycles of poverty embedded in the culture. It is who we are. Indifferent. To our core. We pretend we care because when the community agrees on standards of conduct, we can evaluate risk. Evaluating risk is a moment to moment basis because that is what we do, what we are about, because it inevitably needs to explain who and what it is.

There is a lot I would like to forget. Like reading about the rubbish in the air, but faith in government, corporate America, is the moral equivalent of Genghis Khan building villages with a burning black horizon of blood. Here in Appalachia, we breathe coal dust, sulfuric acid, methane, asbestos, escaped gas from fracking, coal slurry, burning garbage, and bulldozing dirt and leveling the denuded tops of entire mountains. All of this, environmental terrorism from the army of super-size industrial trucks light it up pound for pound hellbent for catfish with cancer in Dirt Bike Town.

keeping the mountain cold out-out creeping frost down, it does not matter, where that slow snake along you watch from above as the river of pink clouds flow like hunger’s Blueridge Blues all the way to New Orleans soothes. Asbestos. I drive my dirt bike all through America. I know tongue’s taste. It’s toxic. Indifferent. Deadly. I live in poverty. But I am alive. I survived more than you could ever know. I had wrap it like a fish I buried that fish that fish is in the ground as an offering to the rain gods which are mostly women and when they cum, you can hear it for a hundred miles. I profoundly do not understand why men are here. Why are you here. The male eyes to the sky. I am here to pose questions. I am not here to answer them. I am unsure that there are answers for them. I do not care much about any responses by readers whatsoever.