Psychology/Psychiatry

Triage nurse asked I’d been drinking.
“Tremendously.  A great deal,” The Bakery Girl said.
“What’s your name?” The Nurse asked me.
“Ra.”
“Okay, Ray. Let’s check your vitals,” said The Nurse.
Plantman in Egypt to save Pharaoh’s ailing Date Palm.  Papyrus.  Literature is only corrupt as its paper.  Important plant priest, celebrated immortal.  Statue myths.  Royal garden.  Scissors bucket.  Ancient days, too distant to count.  Moses in baby booties.
“His temperature is one hundred and six,” said The Nurse.
“Holy shit,” said The Bakery Girl.

“I am Plantman, keeper and protector of The City’s indoor flora,” screamed from semi-sleep.
Thirtieth birthday.
BEING, The Bakery Girl, Muse, Music.  Crowded room.  Family.  Happy home.  Not well.  Freezing.  Terrible cold. My cubicle my deathbed.

It’s that Ebeneezer and Grinch time of year. Hooverville. The great American fat crocodile tear with stories of legless troops getting a bag of groceries and free big screen TV and compact car. All those bags under our collective eyes watching brute felon sports professionals (sic) run by their brutish Mafiosa coaches and owners. We are ready for that extra 15 pounds, those romps in those wonderlands of Consumopithecus Anthropocene union-busting box stores, those nanoseconds looking at the homeless, pennies for their crimes. We will feel good about Tis the Season.

but they still believe the Sun revolves around the Earth . . . and, well, that US of Amerika is the best country since, well, Eden!

“Of all our studies, history is best qualified to reward all research.”
-Malcolm X [el-Hajj Malik el-Shabazz]

“If you don’t know history, it is as if you were born yesterday.”
-Howard Zinn

Precaution. Stop shifting the baseline. Stop mucking around because you have no common sense but plenty of computer engineering ADD-ADHD or what have you, on that autism spectrum. What have you, stop enlisting these money changers and game changers to define community.

Thanks to the East Bay Express and editor Jay Youngdahl for supporting Dissident Voice and allowing us to re-post his piece on the Bay Area. In fact, San Francisco is Seattle is Portland is Phoenix is, well, you get the picture, no?
We had it here, at DV — “Collective Stockholm Syndrome . . . “

Here it is, really – the bold-two/faced lie of the liberal class, the 19 percenters holding up their share of the pain for the rest of us. We make paltry livings and have zero benefits. We see the cuts to food assistance, see the massive funding of transfinancials through our hard-earned work. We see the dumbdowning of America, the dog-eat-dog reality of these rabid souls. You can name them in your nightmares, or see them on Charlie Rose.

Novelty Manufacturer’s son dead in The War.
I bore condolense: a spider plant, courtesy Topiary Techniques.
The Novelty Manufacturer sold jokes, baubles, erotic novelties to The Citizens of The City.
Office receptionist in black mourning.
“The Plant guy’s here. He brought a gift,” she said to the machine.
“Plantman! Yes. Of course. Please, send him in,” voice of The Manufacturer.

Dusty manual typewriter;  messy desk.  The Solitary Novelist reclined greasy on his musty couch, meandering mildew of regret.
“Who buys me?  Who reads me? What matters if I give away my work?”
Solitary eyes.
“I heard it was, after all, just talk,” he said. “Pursuit of pure talk.”
Solitary thought.
“My life missed in this room.  Women, sunlit moments, strolling The Big Park…”
Patient Novelist.
“Occasionally someone is right about something, but EVERYONE is ALWAYS wrong about EVERYTHING.”
Cigarettes, bourbon, tropes, clichés.

those who write the narrative and who win the military and marketing and financial wars . . . .
give us better living through chemistry