This guy sits in solitary confinement for twenty years. It would’ve been for eighty except it’s proved more enough beyond a reasonable doubt than was in the case against him that somebody else had committed the crime for which he had been sentenced. The state’s attorney — three state’s attorney’s removed from the one who’d led the prosecution — filed a plea for early release before the circuit judge, along with the request that the defendant be granted said release under special circumstances, yet not have his judgment overturned, since neither the state’s attorney’s office, the original prosecutor, nor the presiding judge in the case under review should be construed as liable for having contributed willfully or otherwise to a miscarriage of justice, which interpretation might be so enabled were the ruling to be vacated. The public defender acquiesced in the interest of expediency, having extended this recommendation to his client who had long settled that resistance was futile. It was therefore argued that it would be in the interest of the state judiciary and law enforcement if the guilty verdict remained in tact, which argument whatever it’s worth the judge interpreted as well-reasoned and so ordered.Thereby released, this newly freed man found himself in a position to reap just the kind of attention one would hope for — at least as one not affected might reckon — when a human rights lawyer applying pressure with just the right balance of ruthless tact and diplomatic expression convinced the court that it would be in the interest of the state to provide a penury allowance commensurate with the length of the term of imprisonment and successfully negotiated financial compensation for time served. It was clear to the parties when the sentence was to be suspended that the preponderance of prospect lie therein that the defendant’s ability to find gainful employment would be infringed. His lawyer was able to accentuate that fact not only with meticulous clarity, but persuasively.

One might say the settlement was handsome, but then twenty years is not something that’s easy to evaluate or — put another way, it’s hard to prove that the burden of the twenty years was equally as bad as the recompense was ameliorative. It is at any rate with great difficulty that one should consider freedom under the aforementioned circumstances on par with one’s being lucky, save for when one is speaking of the objective odds in a game of chance, all things in this case, however, being unequal. The monetary sum did afford him a roof over his head with steady meals for a lifetime, which as irony dictates was what he had before his release; it was in fact that around which his punishment was crafted. Nevertheless, one substantial distinction would be how post-incarceration he would arrange his living space and the time within it.

The first thing he did was acquire twenty years of lost history in the form of mostly out-of-print nonfiction reading material, which, nomenclature aside, was fiction insofar as the digestion of such would give its readers — amongst whom numbered the accused’s next of kin — the impression that our then not-yet newly freed lifer had been, beyond the kind of doubt maintained as reasonable, guilty of the crime for which he’d been judged: He gathered two decades of daily & weekly newspaper- and monthly & bimonthly magazine back issues and arranged them in a library of sorts that he had furnished with wall-to-wall shelves from ceiling to floor. As timing would have it, it was still just easy enough with a certain sum of money and the use of the postal service to obtain in pulp form everything he considered necessary to catch up on the past.

Adjacent to the makeshift library — to previous tenants a bedroom — was a walk-in closet that served a threesome of panels on which to pin and notate developments of interest, of which he would feed one above all. This habit eventually expanded, then relocated to the living room cum bedroom cum catchall for hanging periodical clippings and observations thereof. The bathroom remained a bathroom, the kitchen a kitchen. This aside, the living-working space diverged from its occupant’s previous quarters by an additional four hundred square feet that accommodated the aerobics that succeeded the prisoner’s calisthenics.

He didn’t subscribe to any contemporary journals. Correspondingly, he made no use of television except as a monitor to watch archival video footage of newscasts and special reports of both the local and not so local sort. His idea was explicit: He’d start every day with the morning paper, each week with a few magazines, and a recorded broadcast in & between. One’d think he might not be disinclined to skip forward, or peek to the most recent publication, which’d be the paper from the day before his release, and work backward, but he began and pressed steadily onward vacant evident temptation to deviate from the plan. Day 1 was to be the date he served his first day behind bars. He scheduled twenty years to get caught up — only to be still when he finished twenty years behind.

It was however the choice of the convicted in this case to take back the past taken from him, and in a manner befitting that of a free person unencumbered by undue haste. He had anyway no interest in the life outside, although it was exactly this life outside that was denied him by a sentence sufficient to balance the severity of the series of felonies that had been hung upon him, justly unjust as that latter rendering would have it. The time churning outside his window manifest so little in his outward bearing irrespective of his actual interest, which had been decisively tempered by the dearth of personal contact for over seven thousand three hundred and twenty-two days and nights. It shouldn’t surprise one that it turned out to be the routine outing necessary to purchase provisions for nourishment and hygiene that loomed in an increasingly burdensome manner in very short order. He had over the course of one hundred seventy-six thousand hours learned the odd, involuntary art of not breathing the abundance of outside air. With a refresher of a mere week under the broad light of the partially cloud-covered sun, and the general public he was at nerveracking odds to be around, did he manage to arrange full service of grocery and drugstore delivery and never left his apartment unit again except twice.

This was a further movement now forgone to additional irony, for in jail he was led daily from his concrete cube for a walk around the correctional complex, in lieu of which now emerged skipping rope and running in place. Another aspect diminished, human contact, went from six trips a week in the company of a prison guard to roughly one encounter with a delivery person in the same stretch of days.

In view of the ostensibly extreme approach of our recipient of off-the-books vindication, one might wonder with what temperament this ‘not getting on with his life’ would carry forward. Let alone concurrent with his backhanded deliverance, that which could be determined as justifiable embitterment towards a family who, in their absence of faith in the innocence and concomitant worthy humanity of their offspring, sibling, husband, and father, and their eventual abstinence from afforded visitation without which the prisoner in devastating degrees advanced in social petrification, it might be assumed that his days and nights would advance in anguish or hostility.

At the outset this assumption would bear out to be mistaken on the surface as our ambiguously liberated ex-con pored over his freshly funded free press articles with the enthusiasm of a dedicated historian, albeit as quasi real-time annalist. So too was the ritual that book-ended his frequent eighteen hour days disciplined. It commenced with Jane Fonda for fitness, continued through breakfast over the morning paper, made its way along with a stand & stretch break during the Lunch Hour Traffic Report, and kept itself abreast of frequent video news segments from a not quite concealed benefactor regularly delivered to the address sometimes in the nick of time for the analogous date, a day whose exercise was preceded by the marking of the calendar and which ended with the setting of the alarm clock.


Organic Gates of Matryoshki

just look at the reds
our story paints a picture
cloak over veneer

uppermost frameup
of vast southern exposure
dulles does dallas

their cover stories

disclosure gag reflexes
told in drips and drabs

always smaller shells

placeholders for misplaced dreams
limited hangouts

the cap in the hat

for each intrigue a russkie
warring commission

pointing fingerprints
modern stench revolution
preemptive pretense


Mother of All Lodes

Twenty-seven of sixty post blue pill swallow, they closed themselves together in a row to form a figure emblematic of their Nobalist agenda. The King of Kings was exposed, the King of Queens disrobed, and the cucking commemoration commenced. The cue media detailed the repellent allure for the villagers dissembled to feed their faces.

Cuckle doodle dandy easter than what kind of egg roll?



Here’s a straightforward enough analysis. It’s not plausible to me that anyone of significance is not being tapped all the time. Anywhere you read the term “vetting” to connote standard due diligence, it entails rummaging through any and all data attainable with or without a FISA court say-so.The only thing that’s new here is the tech. Let’s not forget how rogue Hoover is said to have been and the long list of people who were shadowed, tapped, blackmailed and threatened with public shaming, publically shamed, and even murdered. Is it not true that some of his spying had an uncrossed t or two?

Semantics are sometimes the lone distinction; whether or not it is civilians, per se, in control, it’s an ever more meaningless one. Private contracting and corporate espionage, and the private interests behind public policy in general come to mind, which would blend one blind in trying to connect dots, alone when it comes to pre-internet snooping.

Still, Russia could have been the source of the DNC’s leaked email, and their source could have been someone within the NSA or FBI with a personal agenda or acting in an unofficial official capacity. And/or but the entire shebang could have been pulled by a lone gunman.

The nature of the deep state is that everybody is compromised. It might make me a traitor, but the least meaningful distinction at this point is whether or not Russia was involved. I mean, it’s perfectly legal to arm the Saudis and Israelis to the teeth, and now that they got Don damning Assad, we just might get an instance where the insistence upon regime change will be led in the houses by the Democrats, with “acquiescence” from the Republicans. Another meaningless distinction.

Again, as I recorded here just days ago: Get a good idea as to their attitude, tendencies, & predilections when they say two things are exactly the same versus when they use carefully constructed qualifiers to soften supposedly scant similarities.

This time the diff might be how much popcorn people will be eating, waiting with bated breath to see how deeply Dump means it. Odd, but typical at the same time is the fact that his latest ordered “strikes” occur as if they’re a change in approach, as if he hadn’t already ordered such, or that his predecessor had not done the same. Alone this past month the United States had already killed as many Syrian women and children as this highly touted chemical attack did. The former assault received press coverage here and there, not exactly covered up, but the latter garnered the wall-to-wall, baby picture posturing style of press we get whenever somebody wants to highlight the “need to do something”.

Would-be wonks instead will stress vagaries of presidency-defining “doctrines” and subsequent divergences there-from. The reality is more than the recent US-led attack that killed Syrian civilians, quickly swept aside, if ever known, by reports of weapons with chemicals, magnified in significance for reasons that should be at least confusing. The reality is also what preceded this: admitted alliances with dubious actors in the name of opposition to Assad as President of Syria.

Helpful to the scepticism at prompt assertions that the gas attacks in Syria were deep state false flags would be a healthy dose of suspicion at the reliability of the reports of the attacks themselves, which requires revisiting recent history. Propaganda is not a one-sided, black vs. white affair. Nor is fake news. Only one married to being a simpleton should maintain such absurdity when forced to rely on the track record of those who reliably, and quite timely, call for regime changes.

It’s not exactly a clean switcho-chango we see with Rats posing as Russia paranoiacs and Cans insisting upon thaw maintenance. It’s as complex and fractious as, say, the middle east with all her shared- & cross-interested proxies, but it is a remarkable turnaround, what with the former having lol’d at Romney’s Russia rhetoric as recent as a general election ago and certain Cans having masqueraded interference of the Rama’s State Deptarment’s apparent raring to topple Damascus.

To add some of that lone gunmen flavor, certain Rats are willing to entertain the possibility that Dump and Putin staged this whole production to hide their affair. But not that bipartisan interests are shadowed & shared from the top down, and that this endless “my side – their side” shitshow lends ostensible opposition and plausible consent at the most convenient times.

Then, of course, the utility of Dump’s bombasting the Rama administration whether or not he’s doing precisely as they’d’ve done. To the Rama apologist, or more broadly the Rat loyalist, this doesn’t discredit any military action their side has made, tainting it by so obvious association,  but rather underpins its virtue by ridiculing the partisan discourse surrounding it.

Just as, for example, Dump’s claim that his predecessor “created ISIS” obfuscates that they did in fact continue weaponizing their alleged enemies, directly and by proxy, while feeding the state’s sycophantic foreign policy analysts fascinating tales about what talented tight-roping it takes to fight a war on competing fronts. Never having called out their own on this hypocrisy, they just “lol” and/or “smh” their more local opposition.

And again there’s that Dump wire-tapping claim which by now at worst appears hyperbolic yet substantially grounded.


Useful idiots know who they are. The sad news is that you don’t even rise to their level. Or good news. Sure, your consumption habits and contribution to the general function of the machine are useful, even necessary, but your meanderings to your virtual brethren, sistren, cistren & transren (side-swiping all of your sworn troll enemies) are twelve steps short of taking to the streets, which itself is not bound to bring about anything but the feeling of community. Which has it’s own value absolutely. If you do grab some of that, it will have been worth it. For you. Just like for me it’s worth it to prose about it. It’s all part of our creative urge. That so much of our creative urges converge with lamenting how much others’ are creatively destructive is just a side-effect.

‘Til my dying breath likely will I repeat, ad nauseum! ad nauseum!, my most approaching proud, certainly self-pleased, self-penned aphorism that eschatological paranoia is fueled by the knowledge that others are right this very moment suffering their own real apocalypse, and that none familiar with the cause should be immune to its effects. The irony that this longing for justice includes one’s own demise is bonus humanity, I can only reckon. Guilt is kindred as tributary of the proverbial river in Egypt, the alternative to flowing down which must mean suffering the tributary’s wrath of relative non-suffering. O, why must I be not just helpless witness to this suffering but also be made to tithe the decimation!


Spinning without Cogs

I never dream my homework is due Monday. I only know it’s due due due. If it’s one obsessive set of ideas hammering my head hard to the pillow — like how a certain punctuation mark means one thing, then a meta thing, and then two other things altogether when placed within a pair of speech signifiers, in any sense inverted commas — one of the many faces trolls by because that’s its default function whether it knows it or not. We got chemicals what wear down the cogs in nition, I think, and then he says, “I don’t know what you mean. But it moves me.”When you have no personality, you are open to all possibilities, ever nearer objectivity. The responder says, “Still, the mind can’t grasp infinity because it’s a mortal meat.”

He laughed at that because he thought an infinite number of monkeys would still be monkeys, mucking the works before they typed anything meaningful. »You don’t understand infinity«, he said. »I don’t know what you mean but it moves me«, came the responder, thinking secretly to itself, »I’m still not sure you really understand monkeys.«

They replaced the typebars with typewheels ’cause they were getting clogged in poo. »Who were they?« you ask? »People«, they said. »We’re a strand of the monkeys what morphed into people, eventually fixing the parts of the thought experiment that were holding up the works of the Bard.«


Then comes another thought not to be unpacked by the woke: »The Western Empire’s burden of criticism is a mist resulting in an assessment taken for Eastern apologia wherever weighted criticism of the East projects apologetics upon its chosen enemies.« The only thing missing is misnegation.

The stories are the same, the names only change, except for ye olde Patriot African art dealers in flesh, killing and incorporating the native with inverted commas. Still today Rats give Rubs room to move with the patriotic BS they espouse. Once maybe so’s not to come off extreme, so goes the tale anyway, then, embracing it themselves, they dance in the aisle that separates their supposed separate ideologies. That’s patriotism for ye.

Get a good idea as to their attitude, tendencies, & predilections when they say two things are exactly the same versus when they use carefully constructed qualifiers to soften supposedly scant similarities.

Bet. Do you think in this world there remains a laboratory, a system or a control, and the time wherein it would be possible to rule out pesky correlations and confirm causation and, if so, do you think the pushers or the pushed would ever accept the analysis? He said, “We got chemicals what wear down the cogs in nition.” Dunno whatcha mean but it moves me.