Racking Up Those Balls for This Giant Eight Ball Game by The Elites—One More Miss-Election, One More Perversion to the Collective SoulThe wonders of the cultural decay that is America, coursing through streets, man, where people—couples, some with dogs, others with babies—huddle under doorways, creaking bodies at the crack of dawn, the vertical rain of Portland flooding any sheltering sky.
I walk to work, flagged by an over-stressed, under-built, and more and more inefficient and broken down light rail, the Max, this shining glory on the hill of the felonious developers and oh-so rich people who say they live in Portland, but who have five homes/ townhouses/ cabins/ penthouses/ cabanas spread wherever.
People wandering the streets, bumping into joggers, spandex slippery, bee lining away from suits hitting some trendy food cart.
The dichotomy is hard, like a collective stroke, thrombosis of the culture that is so plugged into superficial perversion.
The dichotomy is hard, like a collective stroke, thrombosis of the culture that is so plugged into superficial perversion.
The dichotomy is hard, like a collective stroke, thrombosis of the culture that is so plugged into superficial perversion. Every IV drip a method to drag the masses into a perfect storm of self-effacement, collective delusion, and anarchy of spirit. Not political anarchy, but dredging out one’s human spirit until the human in us is only expressed by the androgynous, the metro sexual, the bi-lesbian-transgender, or those preened, everyone looking to be upper class, struggling with one paycheck away from . . . . abject objectification, one paycheck away from pleading for anything from the controllers, one paycheck away from mortgage collapse, car payment repo, all those toys sucked away by the collectors . . . one paycheck away from fear and cortisol collapse.
They walk like zombies, these zithering electronic, Yuppies, post-hippies, old timers, millennials, baby boomers, so many tied to the hope that they, with educations, day-to-day day jobs, will overcome the neoliberal onslaught of total democratic death…As long as there are TGIF’s and night with the Happy Baseball-Football-Final Four Hour, then one paycheck away, well, it makes so much sense that the street people, favela, gangs of dirty, those Oliver Twists, the Breaking Bad fodder, well, they deserve the endless wet, moldy, rotting lives…The white invaders of empire, the middle class, the middlings, their own species, races, genders, so-so-so what…It’s like one giant Poverty Tour, right there with the latte, the pho, the Jewish deli slathering of fat, anything to smear away father-son-mother-daughter-aunt-uncle,brother-sister-cousin-niece-nephew in the skids, on the skids, in the alleys and those doorways, mornings interrupted by the ever presence of people hitting the streets for work, while the people, roaches to most, like Hillary-Bill-Limbaugh-Gates-Bloomberg-Bezos-Dell-Obama-Trump…that entire mess of paid off and paying bribing people we spend more nanoseconds on than we should as this next mis-election unfolds TUESDAY, they look for one last meal, a beginning, so wacked out, they can’t move without a dervish of childhood trauma sucked into the sagging age, bones flooded with the toxins of the Gallo-MD 20-20, elites loving each ka-chang of the till, tax man too, each state supporting Head Start, Schools, social services, with the sin taxes, guns sold, Cheetos consumed, booze iced over while the people we call Zombies, they watch the pigeons, the daily middle class effluence…move on and on…—child-baby-teenager-juvenile-adolescent-senior-middle aged-midlife crisis-new-old-seasoned-babe in the woods.
Yet, these people I see every morning, the sky still shattered by dawn’s yawn through the winter mold, well, they are real, more human than any shit-hole political talking head, some state department frequent flyer, generals and supreme court dilatants, any Anderson-Murdoch-Maddow-Amanpour millionaire, or the rest of them, elites, semi-famous, broken shells of the millionaire class’s guest performers, but my people are staggering into existence, daily the refuse is thrown at them, politicos deciding where tents get set up or plowed over by SWAT teams, where the empty warehouses go, the night shelters, all this, by the middling classes, those upper middle class, set in the drudgery of their bureaucratic hell.
This bombardment is real, a troubling sky that has been the overhead storm of a country based on theft and destruction since its inception…the butchering of millions and thousands of cultures and languages, the tribute to that pathetic red-white-blue racist emblem of the money changers and slave traders and commodity traders and human off track bettors, all of it the bile that bubbles up 24/7 in the throat of a revolutionary who is a precarious as the elite wants me to be.
Daily, hoofing to my work as social worker-case manager-employment specialist, these people that aren’t even in any services my non-profit works up, they are the gnawing reminder of how precarious this country is, thrown away, people who are rags to more rags, all the lies of those super elites smearing humanity with the consumer Everything…consumer stinking, art, education, city planning, food, culture, family rearing, religion, breathing and defecating.
I count these people as the humanity of the growing Diaspora, from county to city, from state to nation, the unholy alliances of banks-legislatures-legalists, destroying any agency, any gumption, any living. These people are in various states of horror or hell, but you know what, when I see the Yuppies and the Oh-So-Progressive (i.e. Democrat or neoliberal) making their way through this gauntlet of victims, I know there is more in common with them, than the rest. I am looked upon as anomaly, 59, way beyond their education, way beyond their traveled, and I am maybe a reminder of why it’s important to abide by the oppressors, the rulers, the bosses, the controlling ones.
I chat it up, spend time handing out bandages, food, bus tickets when I can, clothes, and I ask about their lives, now and before, and I can see they have futures, but hinged on the facades of this country’s marketing, and the bargaining this society’s elite force us into, precarious, vulnerable.
Portland’s got these holding containers…big old and refurbished shipping containers, set up to take in the homeless/houseless’s belongings…carts, rucksacks, suitcases, bags, bikes, so they can work at looking for work during the day, or to make appointments, or to just drag on some potent substance without worrying about their stuff being ripped off. Many of the people using these day containers are workers. Coming and going to and from warehouse jobs, heavy lifting, and in a few cases, call centers, even offices.
Relieving them of carrying and watching out for all their burdens, well it’s not a novel idea, but few cities provide this service. It’s probably one of best secondary solutions to so much aggravating hell we put workers through…proof of I-9, two IDs, proof of citizenship, drug test, for what? Slave labor at Nike or Amazon or in the hundreds of warehouses where all the goods (sic) and services (sic) spin through the turnstile of mass suicide, mass narcissism, mass nihilism. Oh the reason for being, for allowing homeless to fester like an open wound, while kids and old farts dance with their special hops and flavored vodkas, while the particle board society we prop up like cardboard dioramas swells and crumbles with each strike of the pen (killing Social Security, charging for breathing, for each step made on this planet, each rotten lab coat transaction) and with each click of the mouse.
Hedge funders, charter school impresarios, deadbeat developers, militarists, ammunition hoarders, propagandists, judges, and the like, the very reason for the collapsing societies from sea to oil slick shining sea. This stiff arm allegiance to the markets, to the bottom lines of the Zero-point-one percent, banks, bureaucracies, the media of choice, the red white and blue insipidness of the big plan to push people from people, to push people into the cubicles of their deaths, the slow drip-drip-drip of community dislocation, disconnect, as we debase urban tribes, the village to village concept, in lieu of feuds, zombie and vampire culture, the fisticuffs of the controllers, those Trumps-Clintons-Obamas, the entire blasphemy that is Wall Street and K-Street.
I walk among real people, scabs and scabies, abandoned lives, thrown into abuse and over-use, most fixed to undiagnosed disabilities, developmental and mental, yet we judge, laugh, hold these people in contempt for our collective lives that are nothing more than the rot of willingness to negotiate that Faustian Bargain…do as they tell us to do, follow as they order us to, believe as they teach us to do, pray as they force us to…so there might be just a small chance of the Lotto Being Hit. Power-ball and Power Death.
Some of these people I meet in the street, on their temporary doorsteps, well, they have been tainted and touched, torn and tormented, and triangulated and triaged, and for the most part, their insanity is sanity, and those playing at living, eating those aperitifs, they are mentally deranged because they believe in some prowess, some elitist concept that merit is their doing, and anyone else in the dog eat dog culture, so deserves the shit fed to them, the constant harassment. The insane believe Clinton or the Chicago Mayor, believe the Anderson Coopers or Rush Limbaughs, believe and believe in the crypto-Zionist lie. The people in the doorways, under tarps, and so many just on the ground, rolled up in Rescue Mission blankets, they have more to say about Capitalism than any Krugman or Robert Reich.
If only the money hustlers and interest rate thugs and return on capital colluders could get anything right, if they could ever smell the shit and piss of humanity, feel the blood-letting, hold the trembling dying child of the empire, taste the acrid burning hills of their resource plunder. Nightly dreams culling their diseased minds, now that would be something. Here, from Manfred Max-Neef:
“We are proposing an orientation which would enable us to create conditions for a new praxis based on Human Scale Development. Such development is focused and based on the satisfaction of fundamental human needs, on the generation of growing levels of self-reliance, and on the construction of organic articulations of people with nature and technology, of global processes with local activity, of the personal with the social, of planning with autonomy, and of civil society with the state, where ‘articulation’ is taken to mean the construction of coherent and consistent relations of balanced interdependence among given elements.
Human needs, self-reliance and organic articulations are the pillars which support Human Scale Development. However, these pillars must be sustained on a solid foundation which is die creation of those conditions where people are the protagonists in their future. If people are to be the main actors in Human Scale Development both the diversity as well as die autonomy of the spaces in which they act must be respected. Attaining the transformation of an object-person into a subject-person in the process of development is, among other things, a problem of scale. There is no possibility for the active participation of people in gigantic systems which are hierarchically organized and where decisions flow from the top down to die bottom.
Human Scale Development assumes a direct and participatory democracy. This form of democracy nurtures these conditions which will help to transform die traditional, semi-paternalistic role of the Latin American State into a role of encouraging creative solutions flowing from the bottom upwards. This is more consistent with the real expectations of the people.”
There is no greater challenge to this earth than balance, scaling up and retrenching, staunching the disease that states bigger and more is better, and holding accountable those diseased Chosen Few, reckless but initiated in the dark arts of capitalization and profit margins and hoarding. I never met a millionaire who believed there was imbalance in the measure of their success, who believed that on the backs of workers and the souls of the exploited and abused they made their stash of cash. These are unfeeling and deadly in their overreach sort of people. They want government—the people, the masses—out of their business, and they want any measure of success to be set into perspectives they only adhere to—as we can see from Hillary the President:
“…in Tony Carrk an email from, the research director of the Clinton campaign, to John Podesta, the campaign chairman, and other top campaign officials. Carrk, who did not respond to a request for comment, highlighted in the memo the most politically damaging quotes from each paid speech, under headers including, CLINTON ADMITS SHE IS OUT OF TOUCH; CLINTON SAYS YOU NEED TO HAVE A PRIVATE AND PUBLIC POSITION ON POLICY; and CLINTON REMARKS ARE PRO KEYSTONE AND PRO TRADE.
These people in the doorways in downtown Portland are a microcosm of the decay worldwide. It doesn’t matter where the capitalism in CAPITAL shows its face, rears its ugly hydra face as it eats the bowels of society. Money for the elite, for those babbles and those empty rooms, those mansions and aircraft carrier-sized yachts, all those destroyers offshore, bombing cultures, indigenous, all those givers and keepers of the real knowledge, splayed, gutted, that’s the creation of the homeless, the destitute, the insane and near insane, folded brains because of the elite’s pharmacopeia game, the giant experiment that is modernism, plied in the payrolls of the elite, prions of memory sapping, we bump into history, misuse brains, collective mass agnotology, collective mass suicide, while all those elites, all those special little Rothschilds and the like, move massive amounts of money and resources through the ether and enslave the rest of us, debt upon debt.
Paul HaederClick here for reuse options!
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