I am a communist. I live in the Blue Ridge of Appalachia. I am not liked here much. I write about the South a lot. It feels like holding a vial of Confederate blood and dropping it. Blood is at the bottom of everything in the South. It’s gender. It’s history. It’s the boogeyman. We need to start seeing the South as another country. Tryanies. As such, we need to start seeing the South for what it is. Uneducated. Backward. Highest rates of HIV. Crime. Poor. Hungry. Addiction on a dime. No infrastructure. We need someone to blame, and in the South, that means black people. My cousin was a cop. How he got to be a cop is a complete mystery. He became deeply depressed at what he was seeing. He sat me down at the kitchen table and explained that black people were the kind of human beings who cut up their babies and ate them. This vile rhetoric just goes from house to house. We have tin cans on string we can use to talk freely to one another. What I think does not matter. Why should it. Isn’t that ironic oddity of We Spill The Hate And Contempt. We bought the China Shop. Good luck with the animal. It’s about identity. They’re bad (they eat babies therefore they are worthy of murdering) and now we can keep the streets clean via authority. Where is this idea of air freshener that looks like a Christmas tree hanging from a mirror upside down Angels And Arise. The sun is lost. All coherence incoherent. I don’t drive a car. I drive a dirt bike. I live in a tiny cabin with my dogs. The north doesn’t have tiny cabins your grandfather’s hands built on mountains your grandparents grew corn for moonshine and watching the sun set from the front porch rocker is going to be a fixer of the South tonight. Or. fixture of Do Not Go Out. They’re watching. They would love to get a photo of my face. I assume they are out there but which one is me. Only your hair dresser knows for sher. Them, and the feds. And Instagram. And those posters they use for target practice. Make them stop.