The End of Summer In America Part II

If you board the plane and you insist on not wearing your mask, we will insist you don’t fly Delta.
–Delta CEO Ed Bastian

Chaos puts me to sleep…
–Swift Ships

for BadBad PJ Brown

A former Navy Seal famous for killing Osama Bin Laden, and shooting him “thrice,” getting banned from Delta Airlines for posting a photo, maskless onboard with the caption “I’m not a pussy.” has to be the crowning story of the final century. Whoa and hey now Jimmy boy, you must be thinking, the parade of outrage that are the years of this administration ought to temper that statement ye are making. When a protestor is gunned down blocks from here and his killer walks free to disrupt his vigil days later, the shock ceiling in the year of the Rat does predictably rise. Higher still when a chubby and unfunny dickless Christian sets up a table nearby with a banner that says his killing was justified. We can stop being shocked we’re so shocked by now it’s true. The Navy Seal O’Neill story, though–it’s so loaded and rife with violence and fear it can’t be anything but the typically dumb, brute ballast and bullying regalia of Pig Nation. One forgets one’s humanity. It makes it easier to kill and anyway read the headline and get behind a killer. Then again, I’m a pacifist and I was born lucky. I don’t think war should be fought anywhere and I’ve lived my life in relative obscurity rather than have to join any fray with the likes a of a hardon Navy Seal or jock-sniffing failed comedian with a YouTube show. The worst thing about it is I gave myself the hardest time for not being able to write about love and war in the time of Corona but truth is my writing game is strong. I just didn’t want to have to think about sharing air with these peccaries, small-hearted Jingoists with feculent eyes, gun fetishists, mouth-breathing Proud Boy and Joe Rogan listeners.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to draw lines. I listen to JRE from time to time. Ok, nevermind, I want to draw lines, draw them and build them out with rebar and a metric ton of of crushed stone into a wall behind which I’d like the peccaries to be cordoned, on their side electric netting under a PIGS ONLY sign and over here let the ladies rule. Believe me. It would be my pleasure to bring you lemonade m’Lady. Humor me a little and wear some heels in that bikini and I will be your Giancarlo Granda, your officer, your soldier and your dignitary–sorry, Good Reader. I’ve been in too long. This ‘tine’s been a cruel summer, and a sexless time, and I can’t believe I’m writing you about them these jackboots, these fetish-fascists in Dad jeans with eyes too close together in their shit faces begging to be rung with a ball-peen hammer. What are peccary like Robert O’Neill and Steven Crowder except a mistake or stall of evolution, guys who never got laid and never will, looking for power over instead of power from within–used to be you could get away. The 90s were a Hell of a time, Jack. When we could get lost in the underground. But that was before we kissed our middle class goodbye, ain’t it, and sunk our national surplus at the millennial turn into the first 8 years of a Forever War, the face of these “Operations” a man with the same unmistakable fratboy gaze and bewildered mule intellect, who gets chummy on book and painting tours but now these raging GHO-shake swigging and closeted-homosexuals are blocking the road out of Babylon. Tiny men ringing in a tiny fate. My great spites and appetite for their end is the only high note, here at the edge of the Antropocene. I know they’re going to get it too. The same sun, falling down, will burn and peel off their lily-white flesh. Smiles melting, sliding right off the skulls of the alt-right. Should be a proud, fine time the death of Man if it means the Earth will be ridding herself of these Jordan Peterson acolytes. There is still some beauty in the Age of Man but it’s all being saved for the end, when it crumbles and tears and the Age of Women comes. It’ll be a sight so sexy and strange once all the peccaries are burned off and rid forever from the terra, bye-bye Kavinaugh and McInnes, hello Casandra and Andromeda, all hail the Eternal Feminyn!

TUNE IN TO THE COARSE GRIND THIS SUNDAY FOR PARTS III&IV OF
THE END OF SUMMER IN AMERICA
AT INTO THE VOID

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Curator at Going For the Throat, columnist for Into The Void, progenitor of stand-up tragedy™. Jim Trainer publishes a collection of poetry every year through Yellow Lark Press. To sign up for Jim Trainer’s Poem Of The Week, visit jimtrainer.net.

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