The past is a pool of blood.

Internecine squabbles continue between former camel-shit caravan drivers turned oil princes and former horse shit cowboys turned capitalists. When planes slammed into the World Trade Towers like two over-extended penises caught in a lie, a warm radiation spread over my body like an afterglow to knee-jerk fear. Many of us took a hit when the twin towers fell, psychologically if not physically, conspiracies sprouting like mushrooms from fertile imaginations, unable to accept the fact that not everyone loves us anymore. So that must be our fault, the rejected lover accepting responsibility for imagined crimes against an unfaithful spouse that he didn’t want anymore anyway but didn’t have the heart to tell. But not me, I know suicidal despair when I see it. I know that suicide bombings are suicides first and politics second. We’re on my turf now; this is the world I know, the world of opposites. In martial arts like marital arts, use the aggressor’s weight to his disadvantage. The bad guys might just save us all despite themselves, slow down run-away capitalism before we all die from the heat of our own fires, accomplish what a gaggle of rich-daddy environmentalists driving $30K hybrids could never accomplish in a thousand years. What happens when one billion Chinese all have cars? Whose air will we breathe then?