Pro Deo et Patria? [Flash Fiction]

I came across this on a piece of paper left on a subway car bench on a Manhattan bound N-train I caught at Pacific Street on my way to Union Square. The title above was the title at the top of page one. I have used it here as the title of this entry for you to read. The single sheet of lined paper was in long hand, pen, black ink. It was set up in the context of a story with a narrative preface and a subsequent series of very, very short paragraphs, one line paragraphs, several of them. So, in effect, we have before us an anonymous story with an unnamed narrator and an unnamed chief protagonist in what we could now name flash fiction because of its extreme brevity. I am here publishing it, but I am other than who you might imagine me to be; who I am is another unnamed person, this time, an editor–yes, an unnamed fictional editor of a fictional review, presenting a found manuscript, presumably fiction, if not simply an attempt at a fictional essay that never got written or again a short story never fulfilled, only what it is as it is how it is here. Whether the form as is presented here is the totality of the vision of its author or not, whether this is all that was intended is not significant for publishing it as it is. Whether the intention was such or not; this is how it appears and is how we read it, unless we want to add a number of what-ifs to the equation and discuss, discuss, discuss, not in themselves disgusting (hah, hah).

The piece begins here:

A man not so unlike any other man, perhaps even a lot like you, as you imagine yourself, not as others tell you you are, but then this has little to do with who he is in actuality because all the potentialities you and I could discuss about this man not so unlike any other man or a woman or a child or a chimpanzee (seeing as he is 98% identical with a chimpanzee in his DNA) . . . how is it not true that so much of what we do is monkey doing what another monkey does, monkey saying what another monkey says, monkey media images projected by media monkeys for other monkeys to receive the ways monkeys everywhere receive what they say and do? Questions breed questions the way not drying your shower stall breeds mildew–but then what does all of this here mean for this man not so unlike any other man when he speaks about what he imagines thinks believes affects him, as today so many people have become polarized, and Trump is only dividing us to conquer us for the money and power elite because do not think that the Democrats or the Republicans even imagine that they are opposed to one another anymore even in policy because we could not imagine that for however long we have deluded ourselves that there has been any ideological differences between Democrat or Republican, and they have no intention of doing anything for anybody at any time anywhere in America and are now fully in coalition, a government of the elite, by the elite and for the elite that shall not perish from their sights on how to fuck us in the ass and get us to say we like it. 

Truth. Transcendence. Knowing. Words. What are they? How are they received?

Patriotism today is a lot like sodomy in prison.

No love and bleeding assholes.

Do you really have to be an egg to know a chicken?

If I were a carpenter I’d build a guillotine and have a big Bastille Day Bar-be-cue.,


When 1 Person, 2 Persons, 3 Persons, More are Not Enough

[Flash Fiction]

I tell the story of a story told in writing of a story told in writing by someone who created a storyteller in the written text to tell the story of someone who becomes, in some minds, conflated with the storyteller; and the evidence of this is in the artifact found by a woman on a train who shows it to a friend who copies it to show and give to a friend of his who then shows it to someone who then copies it himself to publish first in his blog and then in an copy-edited version in hard copy in a literary review he publishes and edits himself (a self herein some might confuse for me, who is telling you all of this from a point of view exterior to all the tellers of their tales, himself, that is, I, a mask worn by the real writer himself, never identical with me, unless you have so degraded yourself as a reader that that confusion is as natural to your reading as pissing is to drinking beer); and, yes, as parenthetically suggested, all of this is the creation of me the writer authority of all stories herein told and retold, written, copied, edited and published; the children of my brain, if you will or wish, as Cervantes would. These words themselves are a cover for me, so they become together one just another aspect of my personality? If you wish. Persona means mask, and so every person is an amalgamation of his masks, each self to its own mask, each context to its appropriate characterization, all character, persona, thereby personality is in itself a stage, all personality, maskality, if you wish . . . we do become children again when we walk into a theater; the sky can fall on our heads.

[. . .]


“A Newer Historicism”

[A fragment of story found on a sliver of paper that had been torn from a sheet of lined paper torn out of a spiral notebook; the sliver was found by a woman on the subway to Rockefeller Center to see the Christmas tree she said she had not seen in many, many years. There has been nothing from her saying why she picked up the piece in the first place, or why she kept it after having read it, but she did put it in her bag and showed it to a friend over the dinner they had downtown after they saw the tree at Rock Center after she and he had met near Radio City. The friend of the woman copied the text of the piece of paper and carried it with him until he showed it to friend over pints in the East Village, a friend who also happened to be a friend of mine, which is how I came upon it. I decided to publish this in my blog, so I copied what I read, what then some might assume I read carefully or others assume I have read carelessly.]

Yes, he sometimes wishes he lived in the Wild West, at least the American West of his imagination, which he knows has nothing to do with the reality of the West in the West of the time of the West. It barely has anything to do with the West of legend or fiction or Hollywood. He only wishes as much when he thinks he might want to shoot someone, which he does imagine from time to time, not that he carries a gun–he is not that stupid. He knows getting away with shooting someone is not easy, and that the likelihood of getting away with it—but it can’t be impossible, to get away with shooting and killing someone, and I will not say murder because if the fucker dead deserves to be dead I cannot call it murder and must in my mind call it justice.

[. . .]

I do not see why most of you cannot get to where I am on this, but I assume that there is more in the heaven and earth of your murder my justice than can be dreamed by any one person’s philosophy. As this third person other than I and other than you would assume, say, has said in other words, not mine. To tell or not to tell; one does not—should not—kiss and tell—what then for killing—my tongue is in my cheek.

[. . .]

[I edited the piece to fit my design in the blog. I have not altered the narrative voice in any way that would distort original intent, not by any judgement of the text as found. This here is not the blog, of course you know, being a piece in the hard copy review I have published since the fall of last year. So, then, to reiterate, there was a writer who authored a bit of writing, I can say, safely assume—and what is safe or dangerous about such assumptions? This writer creates a narrative voice that tells something of an unnamed someone who believes that some homicides are justifiable, even some of those we call murder. The narrative voice switches quickly to exposition and in this narrator-expositor’s explication, we find that he too believes as the unnamed character believes, and that we might even assume that the narrator is talking about himself in the first and third persons, I and he, much the way either you or I can do in the mirror sometimes—most of the time, though, in the mirror, I am either I or I am you.  The fragment did not contain the title, if indeed there was a title on the larger text that this subsequently edited fragment was torn from and later found in the condition described herein.]

Just remember that there is nothing outside the text.

Victim, Victimize, Victimizer [Flash Fiction]

“I still believe I am capable of murder. I know at least five or six bus drivers I would have already shot if I were crazy enough to think I could get away with it. I hesitate to say fat pig brutes reading at the seventh grade, but I want to think it,” he says. What else he thinks, says to himself, is not necessary to relay; it is even difficult to say again, quotes have a way of fading, losing their form, memory has a loose grip on its own past deeds and words, let alone the ability to firmly grasp the words and deeds of another.

“To shoot someone or not to shoot someone cannot be the limits of my to be or not to be, what I become by imagining this is not exactly what some might assume I become by thinking this–we’re not talking doing here, yet,” he goes on to add as he has added words words and more words to the words he has already spoken.

“So what if his wife or his children would weep, this imaginary man–or is it man in an imaginary situation? Everybody in this culture wants to be a victim; we envy the victim, we do. We put victims on pedestals. We’re hungry for new victimhood. We make victims out victimizers, giving them excuses for why they victimize unsuspecting victims,” he tries to mean in a way appropriate to what he is imagining.

“Ah! The pseudo-confessions seeking media-absolution. Everything by popular ex-press,” he warns us. What you and I think about him is determined by our intelligence, our sensitivity as readers, mine as a writer, what I say and how, here, for you, who else is this for but you the reader. What is reading?  We would have to ask again as we have asked this before, as I have, I know, independent of what my culture asks–and cultures’s do ask as they do demand, and to demand in some cultures is not what we think of it in ours.

“Do I wish there were more to say or less to say–I knew a girl back in college who used to say more is less. I wanted to put more of my foot up her ass than I allowed myself to imagine and ask her if it were true, what she used to say all the fucking time. I never reached a time  in my life when I thought more vagina was less–and I say vagina because I know ‘pussy’ sounds too trite, and too many women are offended by the word ‘cunt.’ So, is there more to say?” He asks. “No, all has been said that needs to be said and there is need in the saying,” he says, as there is need in the writing as there is also need in the victimizing, “a certain need in victimhood,” he says he believes, cannot help but think irrespective of what others around him say write, think, he suspects.

The Sistine Chapel Tells [Flash Fiction]

Time: Evening

Place: Rome

[After an afternoon visit to the Sistine Chapel, at a caffe.]


He says what he says when he writes in his journal as he has written in one for how long now counting in the decades for sure. These are excerpts from his journal, his being whose? There is the he I am in some pieces; there is the he that someone else is when identity falls on masculine pronouns. I am; you are; he is . . . what then does it say to have this ambiguity around what I use, he uses to tell, to say, what is said by what has been written must be read to be known—do we know such things or only reach a tenuous (a tentative) understanding? 

The piece herein begins below where it does as it does but should not be assumed by you to be the beginning begninning of the piece as It had been written by the writer, I sometimes hesitate to say author because I am certainly exhibiting an authority over the text the writer no longer enjoys—how many editors impose this kind of authority? Are we going to count.

Herein is the text as I present it without alteration of the words as presented, but with complete editorial authority over the text within which they appeared:

God creates Nature. Nature runs along the course of evolution. God then intervenes in the course of the homo-sapiens to create the human.

[A moment’s pause. A sip of coffee.]

God’s finger to Adam’s is just this. Look at the panel fresco of the Sistine Chapel. Michelangelo’s God and his Adam. [ . . . ] You’ll see exactly what I am talking about, or what I am talking about is exactly what is there in that panel.

[. . .]

God’s finger to Adam’s. He intervenes in the course of nature. God sets the whole of the universe in motion then sticks his finger into the pie?

Do I need to tell you that there may have been text before or after what has been presented here. If anything came before or after I am not going to say for sure; I am not going to go on about it or say anything either way; that is, toward defending or criticizing in some mock behavioral posture we sometimes like to take to show that we are seriously critically minded, and that we can anticipate criticism and address it. No, that’s not going to happen. “God’s finger to Adam’s . . .” you know what we are referring to here, don’t you? He and I.  You need only look at any print of the panel on the Sistine Chapel Ceiling to see.




Happy Marriage; or, Praise of Folly [Flash Fiction]

Of course I believe in God. The universe is too absurd. Nature would create a universe that made more sense, he said to her, a woman he imagines listens to him as he listens to himself, talking to himself to others in himself at once. She pretends badly that she is listening to him. He pretends (better than she does what she tries to pretend, mostly half-heartedly) that she is listening.

Rain Outside a Window in a Movie [A Short Story]



. . . and it was raining and raining and raining and there was nothing anyone could do about it or in it.


It had begun to rain again.


The rain was coming down in sheets it seemed at one moment, in torrents the next, the gutters were awash, overflowing. When in sheets you could see the folds in the body of the rain like curtains in a breeze; then the skies opened and the strength of the falling rain broke the curtain and just poured like a gargantuan faucet. We had to close the window that looked out from the bedroom onto the mini courtyard below, the window facing east, as we have to make sure to close the curtains at night before sleep so the morning sun does not come blaring through like some kind of elephant trumpet flourish, yes, the morning sun like a stampede of elephants, if sight can equal sound , and not like the elephant stampedes you hear in movies, but the real ones you can hear on safari or from one of those nature shows documenting the ways of habitats far from here in New York. I am pretty sure I have heard some such flourish of elephants trumpeting their arrival or approach.


I see you reading a book I have read before. I feel as if you know something of me I haven’t wanted you to know. I don’t ask myself why you are in the room at this moment. It is unimportant why you are in the room–I want to stay, I want to remain still. The rain outside today is torrential. Rain outside a window in your life is not incidental. I read my life as I would a novel, as I do a film. I want to leave the room. I want new toast and coffee? After you finish the toast and tea I made for you after the toast and tea I had made for you.


Windows on the world, windows peering, windows looking out; I watch the people sitting below my bedroom window on the bench in the mini courtyard. I recall having written a piece about a room, my room, perhaps. I no longer remember if the piece began as a short story or an essay, whichever one does not matter now. What I am writing about is having written something I called “A Window,” a short piece I found among a collection of writings, and inasmuch as my first person narrative fiction has many of the same features of syntax, diction and voice that my essays have, it is difficult for me to discern just where this piece had its origins, in prose fiction or in expository prose non-fiction. This suggests that there might be something in writing we could call expository fiction?



I understand that these do not matter now, not for what I am focussing on herein, that is, the window I use to look out onto the world, a world, what world in what context with what populations and landscapes to fill it? The world is only what we see–what do I see? To see or not to see–what I understand is what I stand under whether or not I can see. Tiresias sees other than how I do, although I do in ways he cannot. And this is certainly not only what I see, but how much more could it be if seen the way I have been taught to see, and we have been taught to see, instructed in our seeing, grown accustomed to seeing what our eyes might tell us we do not see if we were to listen to our sight alone and apart from outside influences, every influence a kind of influenza? The world and myself are a symbiosis.



Am I to write on window-ness? This is more like it, what windows represent, and what this window in my room represents, or could represent, any window, yes; but my window, certainly; and what windows look out on, the scene, the view, the framing. What do I see when I look out my window? It is raining now. Rain outside a window in a movie is never incidental; nothing of all the images collectively adding up to something in the frame are incidental, not really, and if they are placed there without thought, without having decided before hand what their purpose will serve in the summation of the shot, then so much the worse or accidentally better for the makers of the film.



But how to, why to, when to, where to, what to. All of them not necessarily in this order–what order though? How to decide the order of the questions, we like to imagine that we must ask who, what, when, where, why and how–does how really come after why in some pre-notioned order of how to ask questions, we do though imagine that we must ask who what when where what . . . and then how and why not necessarily in that order, sub-orders within larger orders, set theory and theories of concentricity, what questions I will ask against the questions I should ask.



I made new toast. I poured more tea from freshly boiled water.



You say you have to go to the store; you don’t ask me if I want anything. I wait for you to come back. Infinite possibility is a kind of living death. One year later you still have not returned from the store. I imagine that everything I said to myself you too had said to yourself. I have begun to think of other things when I used to think of where you might be. I don’t think I will see you tomorrow; I don’t wonder anymore if I will.



I turned on the water for tea; I turned off the water for tea. I decided to make a pot of coffee instead. I put it on the stove. I looked out the kitchen window to the mid morning sun on the fire escape, shadows of the bars on the fence oblong across the platform. There was a bird’s nest atop the cable box outside on the wall that runs perpendicular to the wall my kitchen window is within, I heard the birds chirping–I hear them every morning I sit at the table in the kitchen to have my coffee. I remember the bull fights at Plaza de Torres in Madrid.



I see I will leave you in years many years from now. I don’t know when or if it will be in my lifetime. If we were together forever, you said, that would be torture, horror on horror, you said, eternally yours is better. I don’t know what this means to leave someone after one’s lifetime, my lifetime–will you leave me when we’re dead. I don’t know if I can take you after we are dead. To love someone beyond your death. Hamlet realizes too late? I think he always knew, was always in control of his method; yes, methinks there was method in my madness, all the way through, everywhere I feigned . . . to think or not to think, what seems to me, all thinking about keeping up appearances? What seems to me is what I think; thinking only ever about appearance, how to make about something more substantial is a puzzle . . . how I puzzle things out, solve one or another puzzle in my life in a magazine in a book on an exam.



I will think of you, watching the birds. I will think of you thinking of me, watching the birds . . . time future collides with time present and time present with time past, multi dimensional being, to see beginning and simultaneously is a godly vision.



I am thinking of you while I look at the birds and I am thinking of you setting your eyes on the birds, and I see you as I have before, with you are thinking, how you look while you think.



The birds are small, I see you watching birds in my mind, my mind now preoccupied with extensions, what my mind will permit me to consider, how much of what we are able to think has to have an infrastructure for the thinking to held up, we could say, matter accretes around gravitational centers, somebody once told be that gravity is the displacement of space and how bodies act and react in that warped environment–I’ve been in some pretty warped environments. I see us I imagine watching the bulls and the matadors on the sands.



I think of us. I think of how we have been, how we have acted toward each other, how we have been you and I and sometimes an entity apart from you or I, this something else, we . . . I am I and you are you and you and I are you and I but then we are we apart from yet a part of this you and I that stands differently for everyone toward everyone with everyone, no?



I think of the toast. I wonder what other visions I have held of you that I could have held for you for me, the where we are going, the where we have been, where we were going, to go or not to go, and the how long it will take us to get there when we do go. Everything seems to be taking forever to do.



Eternity is now, now is the only door onto eternity. Infinity is not eternity. You can’t get closer to the eternal by living forever, no closer than you are now. Forever is never reachable, no one can count as high as infinity. Infinite time, infinite space, either of these is not possible. The skies were clear and blue, deep blue, a jewel blue I heard me say in another incarnation I brought to the present in mind in my journal, the one I kept mostly in the mornings having coffee on Gran Via a few blocks from our hotel.



Possibilities cannot be infinite for anyone living in finite space or finite time. No. A person can, though, from his limited finite world, reach the eternal. Eternity is a transcendental reality that uncovers its pathway here, now, in this place at this moment where I am . . . I am here and I am there, here and there are mutual, reciprocal, interchangeable, connected.



I remember having left the room. I remember having gone to the kitchen. I remember having sat at the table. I remember having attended my toast and tea, your toast and tea, the toast I had made for you with the tea now lukewarm, and the toast cold and hard. I don’t like lukewarm tea. I hate lukewarm coffee. The cold toast I give to the birds that flock outside our window. No birds today on the fire escape platform outside the kitchen window. I think I want more coffee. I’ll go and make some with the espresso machine we bought how many years ago already has it been I cannot say at Macy’s. I remember having done all of these before having made new tea.



She liked tea, had tea often, drank tea in the afternoon or in the evening, not drinking coffee after morning . . . I never used to do this, drink coffee after the morning, but now, recently–what means recently, I mean, what is recent geologically and what is recent for the whole of a life and what is recent for this year, and what is recent for any term considered determined delineated; concentric circles reverberating into other concentric circles reverberating into yet other concentric circles, venn diagrams of concentric circles overlapping, one and another.



I am in the bedroom. I move forward from where I stand. I pause, I turn back, I walk back around to the window by your side of the bed. I remember our room this summer, a month ago almost already. I see me in position to look out the window of our room, past the balcony, out over the beach to the ocean. I watch the waves coming and going, a series of back and forth, undulant curve rising tumultuous fall to the shore then again out ocean seawater you used to say was what made you feel whole. I look to the sky gray in all directions, no rain, below the horizon I imagine it tucked. I hear you turn another page in the book I watch you reading. I look carefully to see if you see me. I remember you sitting the other day turning the pages of a fashion magazine in French. You cannot read French. You asked me to translate some passages. Some I could, others were very difficult– I couldn’t. I tried. I had moderate success. You did not seem very pleased. I said nothing more to you.



The skies gray in all directions to the horizon. I walk to the window. I want to close the window. You say, Don’t close the window. I turn away from the window. I walk to the other side of the bed, my side of the bed, the side of the bed next to the wall on the side of the building facing North-Northwest. You say you want to look out the window. I do not ask why you cannot do that with the window closed. You add to the discourse that the window is dirty and needs to be cleaned. I do not ask you why you do not clean the windows. You add without having been prompted that you plan to take the windows out of their frames and wash them this weekend. I ask you if you want me to help, and you say before I finish my offer of help that of course you want me to help.



How is it I could not understand you wanted to help me, only want to help me, you must wonder why I cannot get it, no I do not get that you only want to help and cannot help but imagine that you are either evil or not in control of some really fucked up way of thinking–evil to him who evil thinks, I remember and drop all this nonsense, as I then call it, about what it is you must be doing when you annoy the shit out of me, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.



I hear the light pitter-pat of the rain on my air-conditioner in the bedroom window. . . it was torrential just a few minutes ago. The streets were awash. I like that word, ‘awash.’



You say you do not want to finish the tea when I ask you if you want more tea from the tea that I made for you in the pot we bought together at IKEA I don’t remember when. I do not ask you why you do not want more tea, or why you did not finish the tea I brought for you with the toast you also did not finish. I usually ask you if something is wrong; I do not do so this morning. I note this to myself, thinking to myself that I have been changed by you, by your persistent desire to know why I need to know all the time what the matter is.



I think I want to go to the kitchen to make new toast, have more coffee. I am always thinking of more coffee in the morning until I cannot have any more, until I am physically unable to bring the cup to my lips. I have had coffee this morning already. I always have several cups of espresso, black, no sugar, the regular coffee cup cups you hold by the hook, filled halfway up, maybe about two espresso cup sizes.



I watched a movie the other day, sometime last week, and in the movie the rain was pouring outside torrentially and in the movie you got the impression that the rain was not incidental, that rain in movies is never incidental, that rain in movies has the same interpretive value as it does in dreams, it is a purgation image, and that when you see rain in a movie, there is something being purged or cleansed or in need of cleansing and remains an irony in the film, that there is something the characters or a character is not getting at or getting to or not saying that he should, something that would amount to a catharsis, and that that is important and that that must be understood, nd probably is understood whether we put it into words or not, and that this might be universal everywhere the same, as human as is bread, as polygenetic too.



The weather in Madrid was beautiful, even the day it reached 119 F. No rain. I did not expect rain. I don’t remember from High School Spanish how much rain Madrid would get annually.



Like I have said, rain outside a window in a movie, like rain in a dream, is not incidental.



I do not recollect if I heard the bull’s, I must have heard them snort, I imagine that I cold that I did but I do not I am not able to recollect hearing them snort as they must have snorted on the sands in the arena which is like saying I was laying on the sands on the sand on the beach, no?



What else do I have in the way of expressing the conditions for rain, how it rains when it rains and what rain represents not in nature but in the scene, the mise-en-scene of rain, in a film, on film, in a book, a story where the rain figures symbolically? How to read rain?



I used to read my life the way you would a novel.



That was something else for the people in my life, living my life with others this way.



What I see, I have seen, I then can say I saw; I could then say, as I then said , that I had seen what I had; although, what I did see then was only what I had been taught to see when seeing is was  more about closing one’s eyes than opening them.


I see you I saw you I will see again if I think of you, you are still vivid in my mind how I recollect you is still in details there will come a time I imagine when I will not be able to recollect you except vaguely, perhaps in silhouette or soft focus, so much of my life is in soft focus, out of focus photography is very close to how memory fades loses its sharpness.



The rain outside my window again today falling in torrents, sheets from the sky like sometimes I see sheets of water down the wall perpendicular to the wall with my bedroom window that used to be our bedroom window.


[. . .]



It had rained before; it was raining again.The rain continued.

Memento Mori [Flash Fiction]

Author’s Prefeace

There is a level of literacy coupled with a facility with the traditions of writing that allows a reader to do more than scrape the crumbs off a table as waiters do before the coffee and dessert. Do you have such acumen in  reading? I have argued a number of times that reading and writing were contingent enterprises, and that one will not be done at a much higher level of achievement than the other, that in this way the facility for one affects the facility for the other, and that any deficiency in one will detract considerably from one’s ability in the other no matter how many times one performs the task of either the reading or the writing. To engage both seriously to elevate them as if there were a hierarchic scale of achievement to be reached is the only way literacy advances. This, of course, cannot be served by toppling or leveling the hierarchy. 

Editor’s Preface

Another piece sent to me for my consideration. I have chosen to include it in the review because I know it says something to the current status of political affairs in America. Today, the Conservative Barbarians are at the gate and times will be harder still if we continue our disability at defending democracy, freedom, human rights, and I do not mean by parroting slogans no less insipid;y conceived because they have been formed and repeated in the name of great liberal causes.

Memento Mori

The chickens did come home to roost.

A diatribe from the fiftieth anniversary of JFK’s assassination, a day that should be commemorated by every lover of liberty, but not for the reasons you might imagine. The piece here has been revised in May of 2016 to keep with the currents of disastrous times in and for the history of democracy.

Herein lies the piece:


JFK; or, The Memento Mori of a Pig

The fiftieth anniversary of JFK’s death should also cause us to remember that his “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country” was a death knell for democracy in America.

JFK was no old New Dealer with a conscience for service, no. His Presidency marked the beginning of the end of government doing anything for the people, marked the beginning of the end of the People being central to what government is entrusted to do. This has been increasing over the last five decades until we have reached the moment in our history where government barely does anything at all for the Public who are the People in complete service of the State, let alone the People, who must remain separate from their role as a Public in order to remain the counterweight for the State. This is what Kennedy meant by his “Ask not”; he wanted a State that controlled over the People . . . and fuck most of the scum-bag charlatans (and I did have a woman once ask me if it were appropriate to use scum bag as a term of derision for a woman; can a woman be a scum bag; thus, can a man be a bitch; both can be bastards). So, what have I said, Hilary Clinton cannot be a scum bag? Donald Trump is certainly bitchy if he is not or cannot in fact be a bitch. Donald the Bitch? 

No sense of service, no dedication to Truth, only corruption and not even a remote idea of what it would mean to do anything for The People–John F. Kennedy; the grand pimp of the White House.

Do we have a sense of what We the People even means? I doubt it. To commemorate his death as if a great champion of freedom had died is a travesty of Democracy, it is an absurdity paramount . . . the barbarians have been let inside the gate by the liberal establishment and a general liberal public that should not be as stupid and semi-literate as they first allowed themselves to be and in effect have enforced others to become.

Kennedy had no moral center—and this is not an outcry from one of the Republican neo-con political-palsiacs. No desire to serve the People. He had contempt for the people; the truly first Media President molded in the image of the image mongers, hawking the wares of their degraded ideas. I had a friend whose father recalled that the first words that passed his lips when he had heard that JFK was dead was “Good!”

I agree–it was good that JFK was shot, very, very good indeed.


Editor’s Epilogue

To confuse the character in the story for the anonymous author of the text is a great fallacy; to confuse either of them for me the editor who has published this as other editors might have included this in their reviews, whether actual or fictional reviews; the former real in the world, the latter a subject in a larger fiction, is itself a fallacy. I am an editor only in as much as my character limits permit me to be so. I am herein a fictional character editor publishing this work of fiction inside a larger work of fiction in a literary review that is itself fictional. To confuse me for the author that has constructed this fiction inside another fiction, or a fiction to embrace the micro-fiction about JFK is certainly a great fallacy, and it only shows you to be a quite limited and even narrow reader, perhaps one of those who erroneously skim pages when the act of reading is what should be performed. You do not want to be thought of by those who a truly literate as someone who is only moderately literate, semi-literate at best, horribly degraded as it has become apparent too many college educated have become and remain. What then must I say?


The end.