Go naturally

And when I’m g-ohne…

You might know the song.

Dont want to go by the Devil —  that Laura Nyro one.

Let me ignore what is going on in the world, and, instead, feel sorry about myself, about how it be certain that I will die sooner rather than later — leaving nothing behind of note — even tho I am leaving for NY on Wednesday, where I sure to sure the see the ones who live in cardboard boxes on the streets of Manhattan — as I once, briefly, did — being thrown in dumpsters by the right wing baldo cop from Jersey — as DA Bragg lets a nutso Queens Don off the hook. DA Bragg,  his homey.

Instead of all that maudlin onanistic crap, maybe I ought write something about the Ukraine. To get the clicks, to make everyone know I am ever so… whatever.

Or maybe I should rail against the Syrians being shipped up there to kill Ukrainians. After all, I am half or quarter or whatever Arab.  Gives it a taste of authenticity, despite the latent Orientalism. And then again, everyone loves a self hating Arab or Jew.

Maybe I should admire, for example, this latest, unbelievably eloquent piece by Ezra.  This is what I call writing.  But wait, he is a Jew isn’t he?

I just dont know how to deal with all this complexity.

And then there are the elections in France, with Macaroni still ahead, but that right wing penny-ante bitchette, funded by the Ruskies all the way — or should I instead mention that abominable Algerian Jew going all the way for Islamophobic glory — could be trouble, Yéyé.

No, no , I must turn left. I am verging on a rant.  Calm down, fiston.

What else do I see there?

Ah, Hidalgo, so sad.  Mélenchon, so even sadder.

Me, I prefer to focus on the Johnny Halliday vedette doc recently released on Netflix.

Throw in some Sylvie Vartan, and I’m all back to the glory days.

Fuck the cheese eating surrender monkeys.

Yet despite the distancing irony, a stink of the bodies of the bodies of all the dead bodies everywhere you look from Slav land overwhelms

the Slav men, not afraid of dying

their decomposing children, in the chill of a Ukrainian Spring — their raped wives frozen in mid scream as if incinerated by ashes at the foot of Mount Vesuvius.

Dead fathers, cultures suddenly eradicated by chance and cruel circumstance.

The evil streak of that which lives within all of us.

All of us.

Maybe I should ignore all that.

And talk about great it is to be me, before I go,


leaving america