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Who Ya Gonna Believe? Me or a Priest?

Okay, so here is the situation we are in.

Hyperbole aside

About, two thousand years ago, no one is quite sure of the year much less the date.

In a section of country smaller than most states with umpteen languages, religions, worldviews.

{You know, like it is now}

A Child is born whose message, strictly verbal, informs every aspect of our lives.

{The Message is freely available, like advertising}

No one alive since has spoken any of these tongues as they did to Christ.

{Ain’t dat right Dawg, or should a brutha keeps it on the down low?}

No one alive has the immediate perspective available to those alive at Christ’s birth.

{Have you read about atom bomb drills? Or have you been in one while missiles floated to Cuba?}

The fabric of history itself is rent. We have only evidence and interpretation.

{Gosh I hope we haven’t found the ancient equivilant of the History of Christ by Pee Wee Herman!}

A body of fact with huge gaping holes.

Okay, that is all the stuff we don’t have.

What is the stuff that we actually know.

Almost instantly, the message became subject to politics.

…!

{No really read the Bible, you’ll see}

So a summary of our position as Christians.

The Message passed word of mouth for a undeterminable period of time or iterations.

A message honed by politics interpreted, time and again by scholars, not fishermen.

Willing suspension of disbelief, pfft come on?

We need an update.

Seriously, the real Christians sneer at the Protestants, The Protestants sneer at themselves and “Cults”

The cults just try to get your money and don’t bother sneering at anyone.

Personally, I often find cults more honest.

Do we believe the priests.

What was it you just thought about priests?

Lets not mention the trials of the Protestants.

{No, come on let’s do. Did you know there are people who believe that Christ would hang out with These Guys on TV. You know ’em, the send me money guys.}

So, I have edited the Bible to suit my own personal mission.

{Why not? Everyone else has.}

Don’t worry. It says you can, right there in the Bible.

“The holy spirit is your teacher. It may say something like your only teacher or the only teacher you need. I don’t remember chapter and verse.”

{Yeah, kinda like the disciples when they were writing down what Christ actually said.}

{Some of the message is so beautiful. Christ really got down with some of his thinking.}

And that is just the thing Parentheses, I think Christ got down with all of his thinking. I think the stuff that isn’t beautiful, you know like hell and how Jesus wished vengeance upon Judas, yeah I think those parts are pretty much crap. Christ healed those who came, he didn’t ask for a membership card. This confusion arose either because the message as Christ spoke it was beyond the disciples ability to convey or understand or it was defecated by politicians who have changed surprisingly little, taken by the average, even after two thousand years of Christian influence.

{Isn’t that enough to question the sterling nature of the Bible. Over two thousand years of the Gospel According to and we still torture people. Something is off.}

Not to mention the 200 plus years of bible toting senators that have been bleeding off the pork.

So, I don’t think my editing is without merit. I can’t live with George Carlin’s idea that we are circling the drain and there is no ultimate creator.

I mean what the hell is the point of that.

We get to see the beauty for some brief span.

We mature only enough to kill ourselves?

{What kind of cruel ass god let’s that go down.}

That is as hard to believe as the Bible, unfiltered by the Holy Spirit.

Nope, what I believe boils down to this.

If Christ were there in the bedroom while I raped that young woman.

And he looked in my heart and saw that I was immediately and ever after sorry.

{What about if you might be sorry someday?}

Christ would stay with us both.

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Let It Be Enough

Today seems to be an angry day. Sitting around dreaming of prison days; days spent with my mother and days in the walls. Can’t say there was much difference between them. ‘Cept I love my mother and hated prison; but was close to destroyed by her and healed in the walls. It’s funny how things work, I am a born optimist. I can’t seem to help it. I see what can be and figure it’s just a matter of time. On the other hand, by training I’m a skeptic. Can’t seem to help this one either. Since the age of five, I don’t believe I’ve seen one hand outstretched to help me without being fearful of the other.
Skepticism comes of this history:
When I was four, I lived with my family. That they were my foster family was a distinction I was aware of. It seemed to me then that a simpler way of saying foster family would have just been to say family and leave it at that. I was four, I didn’t know the word, ramifications, yet.

Well, things were just fine for me when I was four. Far as I was concerned, it couldn’t have been much better. I felt like the center of the whole business.  I remember singing “The Birds and the Bees and the Flowers and the Trees.” 

See, sometimes it happens that a young successful couple just can’t seem to have children. Well, being a normal young couple, this brings them great sadness. After much reflection and prayer, they decide that the love they have to share, needs to be shared and they begin the adoption process.

In the due course of procedure and time, I get an unexpected trip to the park with a bunch of strangers. What a party! I have a blast and am told wonder of wonders that I can expect another one soon! Ramifications. The next trip to the park is even more fun than the last. It is fun being the center of that much attention and hope. Doesn’t occur that there can be a price to being the center piece of someone’s dreams. That you get lost when forced into another’s dreams. But, again ramifications.

Some more due course and time and procedure pass along. And one day I find myself in a courthouse. Some people have talked to me and explained what was happening, so I know about adoption and what the park business was about. Still haven’t a clue about ramifications though. Eventually, I get shown in to the judge. Now, I’m pretty certain I knew the judge wasn’t God, but I couldn’t have pointed out the distinction, right then.

The judge tells me that these folks want to be my permanent parents and was that okay with me? Now this is the point where the ramifications I’ve been harping on came to hang in my closet. I said yes, great with me. Here’s the thing, I don’t pretend that this narrative is accurate. I remember and I’m trying to tell you how it was for me then, but I can’t hang on words in memory. Let me tell you what never, ever occurred to me and maybe you’ll understand. I expect I thought parents were the people who took you to the park every week or so. Because, I remember expecting to walk out of there and go back to my family, and hoping that it would be park next time not the courthouse.

Well that’s a pretty harsh smack down of a ramification. Try this one on for size. I’m no longer a little boy, I’m the incarnation of a dream. Finally, we have children. Now our love can mold their lives. Yeah, except I wasn’t a dream child. I was stubborn, defiant,self destructive, needed Ritalin, had problems with authority, I lied and cheated, and wet the bed. In short, I couldn’t be forced to fit their dream. I was pretty pissed off, really. I see that now. I had been tricked. I wanted to go back to my family. So my adopted mother, packed a bag and showed a five-year-old the door. The front door of the house. I was invited to leave. I was too scared, and that is when the shame set in. If I had taken those steps, and she’d had to haul me back by force, at least I would have been a prisoner and not a participant.  Ah, God!  I may not have understood ramifications at the beginning of five but half way through, I was an expert. If I walked out that door the scary world of adoption only got bigger. I knew I could be fooled, taken, abused. It had already happened. So, I sold myself to fear and betrayed my family.

And stopped feeling free and easy and the center of the whole business. And started feeling like what I was…, lost… and now ashamed. You should never at five feel as though you are five.

So tell me minister, prophet, God, how can you chastise me for a lack of faith? I was four. I was one of the little ones. Who, God, suffered me to be harmed, God? Pardon me, if the clay is a bit skeptical now.

Is there any chance at all that I can be forgiven for taking my pain and raping with it?

Can the pain a woman caused me be at least acknowledged as a dim component of my offense? Can the continuing pain at the hands of female teachers who saw me as my mother saw me, as a combatant? What of the woman, the teacher in second grade who saw the bruises from calf to shoulder? Well, at least I had her sympathy, if not protection. Does the abuse I suffered, and the fracturing of my identity exist as it did then, only for me? Might there be a reason for all my rage, if not for my victim? Or did all this cease to exist when I took my inexpressable rage and raped?

I was never sexually abused by any of my various parents. Why do we believe that is necessary? Harm comes from all quarters. Perhaps I am weak, but my crimes arose from, beatings, and the seemingly endless powerlessness of being a child to a mean, vindictive woman. Who was herself created by a mean vindictive father and so on and on to the end.

Another thing to consider, I was adopted into this mess. It took from the age of five to thirteen. Eight years to a rapist. I began having rape fantasies within weeks of discovering masturbation. How does that come to pass? I don’t believe I was born to rape. Add testosterone and simmer. That would make treatment kind of pointless as well as punishment. I don’t believe it is a flaw in my birth family genes as my adopted mother contends. I think I was trained to see women, all women, as combatants by my mother as her father taught her to see men. This training acted to sever my ability to experience intimacy. But like phantom pain, I experienced its loss, first as fear, then as shame, anger and eventually, rage. As I began understanding sexual attraction, I found rape fantasies gave means to release a bit of the rage at all the petty idignities, betrayals of trust, and vindictiveness of my mother. Not that I understood that then, I did not realize I was already long gone down the road to prison.

Inspite of Sex Offenders Treatment, I do feel entitled to my history of abuse. Both as the victim and the abuser. I feel entitled to the rage, fear, humiliation, powerlessness my mother instilled in me. I feel entitled to the despair of ever finding intimacy with women, after years of fearful approaches and terrible denials. I have lived all these, how could I help without them.  I feel entitled to create something more from the misery I feel, than victims. I want my little boys, the internal one, and my son to stop being sacrifices. Sacrifices for war, corporate hegemony, public outrage, or for our simple need of self delusion.

The sex offenders that come out of prison and off parole and who live offense free lives. These are resources. They are veterans, like their victims, of our eternal war with ourselves. Our seperate halves. Our women, our men, our boys and girls. These are not victim or abuser they are not combatant nor foe. They are simply our family and ourselves in all the wonderful variety of humanity.

The chains of sexual abuse are not held in one mind, but in the generations of minds. It passes through families an obscentity so profound as to corrupt our love for our children or that of a woman for a man. It is not the province of a gender, but of humanity. Listen to this resource your prisons provide you now, please. It passes through society, in aggressive sexuality and the innocent who tamper with it. View its passing in fifty years of television. Simply type ‘raped’ into Google to see how capitalism offends free speech.

I seek a healing, let it have been enough. Let us begin to forgive each other. I’ll humble myself, please start with me. Why must every battle end in Palestine? Why, having been wounded, can we only pass it along with anger added. Well, I am weary, read the tears in my words. I would like to remember my innocence because I mourn its passing. I mourn that I took it from another. Let’s let it be enough, forever and again, amen.

Violence is a Mirror

 

 
Watch two young black men work to save a young white girl while others just walk by.

Watch that violence isn't always something to fear.
See the wolf.  Watch instinct at play.  See what we hide.
Watch how they instinctively knew how, no talk.
Sometimes it can make you proud.
It doesn't matter that it wasn't real.
Watch the heroes.

 
Violence is a mirror                                                                                                    rorrim a si ecneloiV

That shows you what you fear.                                                                   .raef uoy tahw uoy swohs tahT

Not through a looking glass darkly,                                                      ,ylkrad ssalg gnikool a hguorht toN

Oh no, roaring, rending, starkly.                                                              .ylkrats ,gnidner ,gniraor ,on hO

Not an easy scry, not death, nor great sin,                               ,nis taerg ron ,htaed ton ,yrcs ysae na toN

Merely, an honest view, posed from within.                           .nihtiw morf desop ,weiv tsenoh na ,ylereM

Toss away the key, no reflections , Oh aye!                            !eya hO ,snoitcelfer on ,yek eht yawa ssoT

What criminal to cage, the offender or I?                                 ?I or redneffo eht ,egac ot lanimirc tahW

Violence is a mirror that shows you what you fear.     .raef uoy tahw uoy swohs that rorrim a si ecneloiV

Protesting inside that criminal you hide                                     edih uoy lanimirc that edisni gnitsetorP

Came whence?                                                                                                               ?ecnehw emaC

But not from here.                                                                                                       .ereh morf sey tuB

It Ain’t Aesop

(To be read aloud.)

Dere was dis cat sittin’ on a fence.
Well, dat seemed most curious to me.
Why, would a cat sit up on a fence?
Well, dat’s what I says.

So I walks over to dis strange cat.
And he, never moves a muscle even.
Just sitting there…
Looking…

Well, I got real close up to dis cat,
And it up and says, “What you want, Creampuff?”
Ina voice like an oven door slammin’

“What’s a cat doing sittin’ on a fence?”, says I, real smart back.
“Come to dat what’s a cat doing wid a voice like an oven door slammin'”

“I sits on da fence cuz dat’s where I has da mosd options”
“An I has a voice like an oven door slammin’ cuz dats where my heart is, baby”

“Well, I sees some little sense in de first answer, but none at all in de second.”

“What’s your name, Creampuff? asks dis cat of me.
“Spot.” I says, wondering de mischief dis feline was plottin’

“Well dat’s a steady collar you got dere, Spot”, an I could see it meant it real pert.
“Yas indeed, Dawg, you musta steady licked some boots for dat dere collar.”

Dis here made no more sense dan dat last, ” A course I did, how’s a dog supposed to get one oderwise.”
Dat ol cat just rumbled and spit, an it were a moment for I saw it were laughin’

“How, indeed”, it says like it won some point.

“Dogs got to work for dey collar ain’t meaning no oder way.”

“All right Ol Spot, old son, tell me true about the journey you on.”
“You out in the cold, your chain inches too short.”
“You haven’t had a meal since princes had warts.”

I wasn’t born to take no lip like dat.
Not from no fence sitting oven door cat.

I up on my legs so to be eye to eye
Dis fence sitting slacker, wid an eye for de pie.

“Look here mutt, you ain’t no single cat.
You a fence sitting monstrousity wid de brains of a rat.”

“I got a collar and you got a fence.
“Your options is dreams, my collar is sense.

“So sit up on your high picket throne.”
“Or perch your strange ass on de broom of a crone.”

“I care not what such as you say, anyway.”

“Okay Ol son!”
“Well said an well done.”

Dis lick spittle cat tryin to put game on.

“I see I was foolish as only a fence sitting cat can be,
“When I thought I could show you, an I thought you could see.

“The view is different when you up from da shit and down from da top.
“You can’t wear no collar, you can’t be no pop.

“You sits here as da days passes weeks and da months da years
“You cries and you stirs all the ‘motions an fears.”
“Tears… dey cry an wail an fuss.”
“sometimes Ida soona be hit by a bus.”

“But heres what a fence sittin oven door slammin’ voice of a cat
“Say to Spot da boot licking collar seeking canine of whos who an dats rat.

“You a corporate pussy, Canine” I’m droppin dimes
“Four paws an a nose, you does dey times.

“You keeps your collar an I’ll keeps my fence
“I’ll have my options an you yo sense.”

But tell me true ol Spot ol boy
or Ill take home your bone for my toy.

If da collar do true and boot licking divine
What use da license an number and hook for da the line?
Never would you see any such truck on my kind.

On the Road with Pharoah

Publish your shame I say.

Hide in solitude?

No.

LET IT OUT!

Join the company, fool.

Have you peed your pants, stolen from a friend, cheated on your wife?
Well, the list is long.
Let’s let Judas come home.
After all, he’s just you and me.

How could Christ let his friend die in shame?
How could there be limits to His compassion?
I spit upon the very idea of Hell.

If it exists and I should go there,
My prayer is for an infinite bladder and a steady stream.
so that I might at least piss upon my fellow offenders
and so relieve them and myself all in one go.
Stop hiding
Or do you enjoy offending?
You’ll only continue…
Unless you publish.

Consider what you gain.

Now the fear has substance it can be touched and healed.
Alone, it is inchoate.  Your fingers can not grasp it.
You are a fish and fear is your water.

You are not the inventor of your crimes, merely another in a series of avatars.
Rejoin humanity, you never really left.

I have lied, cheated, stole, raped, assaulted, betrayed, niggled, offended innocence.
I could do none of these things were I not human.

Can a whale play the piano?
Can we understand when it sings?

Crimes arise from our natures, not despite them.
We pay a heavy price when we will not see the murderer within.
We amputate our compassion, that which helps us stand being so fallible.

As you toss me away, to be raped with impunity in prison.
Please feel superior.  Avert your gaze from my nakeness.
You can hold the better parts of humanity, I the worse.

One thing though.
Don’t seperate me completely.
Don’t call me a demon, because I ate Aunt Bea.

I’d really prefer hamburgers.
It’s just that scapegoat is such a heavy role,
I need for the Keepers to invest some pain.

The Keepers,
The Pure
Safe in Righteousness.

The Keepers of Humanity.
They play the pain, baby.
And that is what I’ve learned

The preacher whose child hates God.
The teacher who just loves children, in their place.
The mother…where has she gone anyway, I need my fair share of abuse.

All these various roles we take
While we dance inwardly with our demons.

Well, stop.
They are not your demons.
They are ours.

You are the humans.
The favored of heaven

We are Pharoah’s crowd.
Born to be object lessons.

Where Monsters Come From

What do we see in our Shadows?

Do you suppose Elizabeth Taylor played dress up? Did she totter about, skinny and cute, on her mom’s high heels?
Painted like a clown of a woman?

Why the knives, Liz?
How are you painted now?
Aren’t you still eighteen, inside, where it matters?

If Bill Clinton had been a White House intern getting a blow job at the big boss’ desk we could understand and even laugh.
We can picture the haze of pot smoke, horniness and giggles that birthed the idea.

When the leader of the free world gets a blow job, from a daughter, in an office where our best men have subdued ambtion and defined our national character; you peer through the haze and wonder where our heroes have gone and where our character is headed.

When a man who’s very name in politics began in a dirty hole in a vain war, finds himself a member of a thug government, What’s a McCain to do?  When did you forget that hole, John?

And when in pursuit of our WalMart happiness we watch these parades of humanity,
Are we indignant?
No, we are envious.
We want to party like a President.

If the bed of youth does not become the garden of age, alas the flower of wisdom.
If we shine, we must also dim lest we have no quiet place to consider our course.
 
We were set upon our course by giants.
It can not be navigated by fools and despots.
We must ware the dirty holes not use them in our turn.

When we are led, we are powerful.

When we are diverted by fear, or toys, or divisions, we are exploited.
And the Lawyers dance as Washington burns.

It is not what we see in our shadows that matters.
It is what we refuse to see.

My Interview With Oprah

“… So, I went on Oprah the other day and it didn’t go well at all.  She was interviewing me because I just published a book.  “Women Rape Too” is a gadfly of a book, mostly intended to awaken women to the role they play in their own victimization. If I worked out some rage at women, along the way to helping them, so be it.  I figure I am entitled.  Entitlement is evidence of criminal thinking according to the Sex Offender Treatment program (SOTP) at Lansing Correctional Facility (LCF).  [Morons love acryonisms.  It makes it easier for them to find their jobs, you see.] Anyway, back to my sense of entitlement.  I am entitled to be angry at women.  I tried to point this out to Oprah, who is awesome by the way (unless she is being a bitch to me).

“You are not entitled to rape.”, says Oprah in that calm as houses way she has.

“What the fuck!”, I said.  “I only said I am entitled to be angry at women, bitch!  I never said I was entitled to rape them.” “Oh look, you are startled.  You just called me a rapist.  Why shouldn’t I be angry?  Further, why shouldn’t my anger be targeted at your sex, and sexism be damned.  You just made a very sexist comment to me.  However, because we are attempting to redress wrongs suffered by women, I am supposed to miss that?  Fuck you.  When wrongs are redressed it must be done so wisely and in proportion.  Go too far trying to fix things though, and you have women hiding behind social protections while claiming equal status and privilege.  That is not equal, that is protected and more demeaning than me calling you a bitch, bitch.”, I says.

So, I never got to explain to Oprah why I feel I am entitled to be angry at women.  On the way to the police station, the cop driving asked me, “What kind of sorry cocksucker spits in Oprahs face?”  His partner nodded and grunted.  “The same kind that would kick your cowardly ass if you weren’t covered in authority symbols and you two big strong faggots hadn’t just cuffed me and stuffed me into the back of this cruiser.  Damn man! It smells like sex back here.  Is this where you and your butt buddy up there play hide the ass missile after a dozen donuts and a hard day of waving your pricks in other peoples faces?”

So, I never got to explain to the policemen why I have problems with authority figures. 

 The Pakistani ER doctor asked me how I’d come to be coughing up blood.
 
The driver cop said with a smug laugh, “He spit in Oprah’s face and her bodyguards got a little too enthusiastic.”

I said, “The backups to the Village People here beat the shit out of me for pointing out their obvious homosexual relationship.”

The Pakistani doctor looked at the cops then at me, “I am here on a student visa.” he muttered.

So, I never got to explain to the doctor why it is so hard to help me.  The judge was actually fairly decent, although the prosecutor was a prick, as you’d expect.

“How do you plead.” says his honor.

“I don’t plead.  Pleading is supplication.  I do not choose to be a supplicant here or anywhere. Do you want to know what happened?”

His honor looked at me and me right back.  “Okay, I’ll listen.”

“Your honor I object.” says prosecutor boy.

“Oh look a talking penis! They need to get one of these for the zoo.”,  I said pointing at the prosector.

“Over-ruled, both of you.”, banging his gavel.

“Why do all authority symbols remind me of male genitalia?” I asked his honor.  I mean the cops hit me with nightsticks that I swear had KY on them, you have a gavel, two semi rounded ends connected with a stick? Yours has a hard on your honor on, the prosecutor lacks two hairy fleshy bags trailing behind him to be a perfect representation of Bobbitts post affair penis.”

“Don’t worry, lawyer penis man.  I’m sure you have a couple of assistants back at the office who fit the bill. Are they men or women?  And also don’t worry, you are only short because you so completely lack neck and shoulders”, I pointed out politely to the Penis.

“Look your honor! With that big, round bald head.  He also looks like a ping pong ball sitting in a pile of shit!”

His honor sighs, “It’s going to be one of those.”

“You know, that is what I said about five minutes into my interview with Oprah.”

“You had an interview with Oprah?”

“Well more like I had a brawl with Oprah’s staff. Those fuckers are zealots man. This one fat guy stood on my hands with his high heels [look I’m Jesus!], but yeah.”

“It says here that you spent thirteen years in prison?”

“Thirteen and a half, your honor.  For rape. You need to give me credit for that six months.  In an odd display of meaningless synchronicity that is also how long God saw fit to place me under my tender mother’s care.  I also had about seven years of freedom in the middle there.  Of course, I didn’t do much then but hurt people.”

“You’ve been out a while then?”

“Yep, thirteen years.”

“Parole?”

“Nine years almost to the month.”

“So why are you being a pain in the ass now?”

“You know I think Jonah’s whole belly of the beast thing is pretty sharp. Think how it really was without the mysticism and evocative cant.  I mean this was not polite culture, Jonah’s times.  I think that living in the mass of festering corruption that betokens entrenched power made Jonah want to puke his guts out.  But he played along until something happened, who knows what, but it stung old Jonah something fierce.  Maybe a favored child fell prey to the corruption he despised but spent his soul guarding.  God does seem to like hitting us through our kids, ask Alice Miller, or read the Bible.  Whatever it was, after a long symbolic time Jonah realizes this fact.  You have exactly as much moral authority as you are willing to stand up to.”

“Your honor.”, says I.

“And the beast spit him out?”

“Bet your ass, your honor. Oh and I believe the penis is about to ejaculate”

“Your honor!  Does this man seriously expect us to believe he is Jonah?  And stop calling my penis, I mean me a penis!”

“And out spurts the semen.  What a mess and sterile too.  Did you two go to the same law school?”

I don’t believe I am Jonah. I believe Jonah was just a guy like me who got fed up and managed to accomplish something.  Then looking back everyone was like, how did that guy pull that shit off?  One old guy looked at the other and said I don’t know it all sounds like bullshit to me.  Shit got swapped to puke (for obvious esthetic reasons I mean imagine if old Johan got stuck in a bull?) and bull was made whale so Jonah’d have enough room to digest his shame. Presto! Chango! Jonah’s morality came mutated out of the guts of a whale.”

“I would appreciate it if you would not make my prosecutor cry.”

“But that’s the part I’m really enjoying. I object strenuously, just like Demi Moore in a “A Few Good Men””

“Never the less, I insist.”

“You are lucky your Big Brother is here Mr Peniscutor.”

“Since we are on the topic of law here in court.  Has it occurred to anyone that if our foundering fathers had known more they would have been more concerned about separating Business from State?  Look! was that Paul Revere riding a silver spoon?  What is he saying?  We own the land, We own the sea.  The royalist are back and the family name is Petro.

“Look that doesn’t have anything to do with why we are here.”, snapped the prosecutor.

“Could you be quiet?  I’m talking to the judge, and running out of insulting things to compare you too.  Err… well, insulting to you”

“Well the pen… err prosecutor does have a point.  What moral authority are you claiming?”

“Oh yeah, I get sidetracked, probably because I smoke pot.  Anyway, Jonah loses a child gets fed up, decides to stand up.  And that is me except I haven’t lost a child.  I hope God figures I have had enough tough lessons, because I dearly love that boy.  If God asked me to hurt him to prove some point, I reckon I’d be asking Obama if he knew any secret way to nuke heaven.  Nah, I should ask Oprah, she could get something done.”

“Back to the long tedius point at hand?”

“Tedious? Really? Well, once I was released from parole something inside me broke loose.”

“What?”

“Rage.”

“Wait a minute.  You spent thirteen and a half years in prison, seven hurting people ending in the rape of an innocent young woman you never met, thirteen years being abused and you only felt rage after being released from parole?”

“Yeah, seems a little odd, doesn’t it?”

“Your honor…”, emitted the prosecutor.

“Shut up!” (you decide who said that)

“Yes it does seem odd, it seems impossible.”

“Oh I’m not saying the rage wasn’t there all along,  I just didn’t know it first hand.  I figured out I was angry by my behavior. I must have been very angry to attack that young women.  Even when I was in the middle of the assault, I felt separate.  Like I was watching, not doing.   I couldn’t feel the rage until I was free.  It is too unsafe to be that angry, it will isolate you.”

“Free?”

“Stop feeding me straight lines, your honor.  Free from prison, from authority, but mostly free of a sick, sick family.”

“Ah you are one of those children?  Sexually abused, grow up to sexually abuse?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I was never sexually abused by any of my various parents, birth, foster, adopted.  Why do we think that it is required? It is not, you know.  Harm comes from all quarters.  Even the physical abuse, while usually severe and sometimes quite horrible, absolutely pales when I consider the unrelenting campaign to make me acceptable to my mother.

It doesn’t sound like enough to turn a little boy into a rapist.  It doesn’t justify my crimes.  It is not even an attempt to justify myself, no matter opinion.  I have already paid that social debt, and continue to pay the personal one within my heart.  Justification is a simple waste of time.  I seek healing.  Healing for myself, my victims, and our society, even perhaps for my mother, that rapacious bitch.

“Healing must be directed.  We must seek the source of the pain, not hide from it.  With my mother, ‘events’ always conspired to leave me powerless and humiliated.  Did we fail to get into private school?  Well, Patrick, they didn’t want you, because you are trouble.  Does it matter if these were even the words?  It is what I heard. I beg you, believe.  Otherwise, that little boy, me,  was born a rapist, and my alienation, isolation, and misery exist merely for the edification of the favored of heaven.

So to answer your question, your honor, I am being a pain in the ass now because I simply refuse to be one of Pharoah’s crowd anymore.  I do feel entitled to my history of abuse.  I feel entitled to the the rage, fear, humiliation, powerlessness my mother caused in me.  I feel entitled to the despair of ever finding intimacy with women, after years of fearful approaches and terrible denials.  I feel entitled to create something more from the misery I feel, than victims.  I want my little boys, the internal one, and my dear son to stop being sacrifices.  Sacrifices for war, corporate hegemony, public outrage, or for our simple need of self delusion.  And before you all, what I say, I say before God and you are merely witnesses.”

“That is the interview I wanted to have with Oprah.  It is why I have problems with authority.  It has ever been why it is hard to help me.  And your honor it is why I see only a flaccid penis where a prosecutor should be and a monkey banging a drum when you wield your gavel.”