I joined a literature group on Linked In with over 30k members, and, if I allow myself to get familiar, my posts on Blogger will probably lead to Crucifixion by affluent professionals with children, and I kid with ye not that the anxiety in my chest is palpable. I am the mouth who managed to get banned from Poets & Writers, the New York Times Book forum, that for writing an angry ditty about a crotch on a stick, which was stupid on both ends; the Literature Network decapitated me without so much as a gunshot over the bow; the Jamesians are probably alienated by my impatience with arcane detail (with the exception of their personalities), and I'm moving hell at high tide for a new source list. Twitter shrugs. Twits can tweet fuck if they want to, and no doubt finds the spastic dowager amusing. I don't worry about twitter. Twits pointing guns and threatening airlines are more problematic than my poverty and plight in Philadelphia. Do I stand by my reactionary output? My online travail is a reflection of lifelong victimization, swallowed whole in public welfare America.
Do I cower? Will Blogger close my account before I hit delete if I hit delete? There are more ways to push boundaries than by expressing outrage with expletives worn out from wards of state at the bottom to Under secretaries of state saying "Fuck the EU," on Russian audio capture.
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