The Meat Loaf Green Bean Whiskey Diner Over On Cedar Street
Tim Barrus, New York Times
I am afraid. I am scared. I am filled with anxiety and rage. I hide. I would pound my fists against the wall. I am still agitated. I understand how other people do not react like I do. I am paranoid. I am terrified. By America. You people just love racism. You love cowering. You love dismay. You still as a culture deny that any children died during the most punishing thing Americans have ever done – with the exception of the harrowing institution of slavery – and the genocide roots of who dares to get in your evil way. As they follow hate, bile, artificial compassion, trauma, harsh bitterness, and a craving for commiting white collar crimes. Abandonment. Souls who are mainly connected to the Cosmic Background rdiation. Whose shipwreck rivers laugh, and our harrowing savageness only mirrors the official disparaging for all of us outside the aristocratic contempt, and the savage opprobrium, and abhorrence of any flesh not white while giving an evil mockery to the disabled among us who teach us compassion, and you surely need us. I see America on a dirt bike. I am writing this at the top of Mount Le Conte early in the morning when deer and coffee are at their best. He would destroy this, too, my love, this land, this land, this land. By blowing up this very mountain for the coal. Your spitting on yourself takes my breath away. It isn’t even coal and the slurry that has bleached my garden dry as a bone in the mouth of a bear. And what does it owe you. One chased me up a tree, it wanted my backpack. You in my guts again. I am amused. I spit you out. America. You. You. You. Your worshipers are confused. I just smile a lot. We won. We won. Take, take it, and run. What is the value. Of that running because if you run fast enough, the chances of finding someone you could ostensibly create a relationship witch rubs up against another piece of ass in Piece Of Ass Town Round and Round. A lot of drama in a whorehouse. A deep animosity in Mississippi. Faulkner’s home might be bright white. The bright white of in what fields are forever. Some fields are deeper than death or bird shot. Mississippi is a bitter disenchantment. A slender figure discovered with the remorse of small wounds and tiny rooms. I have seen the future, too. What is the value of the idea of morality. What is the value of the idea of greed. What is the value of the idea of corruption. What is the value of the idea of the culture war. What is the value of the idea of fairness. What is the value of the idea of justice. What is the value of the idea of equality. What is the value of the idea of humility. What is the value of the idea of class. What is the value of the idea of caste. Why are you here. What is the value.