#Dzhokhar Man Sing to the Wrong Tune
Tsarnaev’s brother lived next to me in LA, not the real dead brother but the spitting image brother from another mother probably the same DNA but for an accident of fate Tsarnaev’s Dagestan and my neighbor’s Armenia would’ve been within the same lines on any map right there where civilization first broke out of Africa and then sat around for a few thousand years deciding where to go next…
Many of them got stuck in the Caucasus where Dagestan and Armenia exist today, though it’d probably be Hell to go from one to the other since the USSR broke up and ugly lines reappeared on the map’s face that hadn’t showed up for a few generations…
So, but for some accidents of fate Tsarnaev and my neighbor would’ve played in school together and dated twin cheerleaders, drunk cherry Cokes at Pop’s sodium shop and traded quips and quickies at the Quick Lube on MLK Blvd…
As it is Tsarnaev sits on Death Row for flipping the bird at a surveillance camera and for the struggle that caused him to identify with Allah’s assassins, smoking hash instead of drinking beer instead of getting a job and bringing home turkey bacon in lieu of the real stuff…
My neighbor is Christian but could probably care less, probably can’t even speak Armenian or Russian, much less Arabic, he dyed-in-the-wool American, using synthetic fibers, no doubt, and no Woolite required, banging bimbos for breakfast and spiking the punch for lunch…
Americans don’t do religion when sex is available and the coeds are cute, the liquor is flowing and Med Mary’s available with a dose up close up for those of us with long-term afflictions and habits to feed…
So now Dzhokhar sits on Death Row for killing Americans instead of Muslims, guess he got the play books mixed up as a child, so the score is settled and it seems like a tie…
They’re screwed up and so are we, eyes for eyes and teeth for teeth, trading body parts for God’s little vouchers, pie in the sky, begging for alms and arms, all of us third-eye blind sh*t-for-brains useless best occupied when sowing the seeds of Abraham in fields of barley…
Worst of all: He showed NO REMORSE. For that, there is no forgiveness, heart for a heart and cheek for a cheek… But where’d he get those bedroom eyes? Fifteen minutes seems like an eternity…
Most war movies recount battles like so many trips to the dentist, or play-offs to the World Series of War, but some fortunate few break down the horror into the individual traumas that constitute the one mass trauma that sometimes defines our existences, and if left unattended, our world. ‘The Notebook’ doesn’t do that—recount the battles, that is. ‘The Notebook’ is a war movie without battles, except the internal ones that end up making us into something different from what we were before it started.
mary is discussing. 
Esther Fabbricante is discussing. 
streaming consciousness... 
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