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Love on the Killing Floor sady one through nine dream poem or prose novella in nine parts of stephen sady of portland oregon whose eloquence and grace has not been sufficiently documented or captured on film prelude: portland was a closet, hiding the swiftest brooms, in the rain. portland was the real DC. the actual berkeley. he was laughing in the dream, laughing at me, wildly, in the light. in the dream i stood beside his client, subjected to the FBI medieval malpractice known as “Bomb therapy,” a cruel practice of the early 21st century in which mentally ill and drug addicted or drunk stooges were given “Bomb Hoaxes” to deliver to the Public Relations teams to Raise the “FBI Woodies” from their deflated post9/11 sexual dysfunction. sandy ate it all, and then who wanted to be john p. wheeler III, or nancy bergeson, after all? sady one this is all really for your wife, to tell her how lucky she is. i know she knows, but i’ll begin. aaron swartz was putting his head in a noose, the day you spoke profoundly, saying, “The FBI went too far.” and oh did they the world round. i saw your father at the secretariat, your mother’s anthropology. who i am to write about you, who i don’t even know, through this wall of pain, i called to you, “you’re my new hero.” Barely true, by the marble of justice, between two flags, truer than the emptiest phrase, how could i say better it?
i was sitting by your son in law, gathering intelligence. he works on death penalty. he will marry your daughter. i tell him he is so lucky, that you are my hero. i would send you fruit, with a note to say: the fruit of the poisonous tree. the things i could do with money! there was a greyness in your eyes and the age of your skin, and the silent noble pain, the machinery of your work. screaming into the cavern of these lies, i felt your eyes catching mine, traps they are, all eyes, all lies. and then i would i would cast my eyes down, unworthy your knowledge, showing my esteem. i would be there for you, every fateful day, to buffer the pain, of you between the noose, of this 2013 lynch mob. you there, with wax against the screeching tsunami, which knows no right or wrong, but the stipulation of adonai, recoils at elochim, and i will take no other teachers. i will ask of you nothing, but be there for you ever, early and late, there for you, like quan yin, to be silent, immobilized in pain, as tears stream down my face for Somalia. when i want to scream out, i will not, i will hold on to your last word, and very performance. i came eating popcorn, expecting a circus, swallowing each bitter bite like bullets of lead in this total fiasco, feeling the humor of wax’s sad resilient gaze. when he placed his hand in mine, and i felt the skin of guantanamo, with guilt i felt concupiscence for you, even if you die tomorrow. i could be nancy bergeson, with some fingers around my throat. next time i plan white gloves, lest we forget who we are, in this omerta. it was Francis Bacon from day one, the screaming man in a suit, imprisoned in grey, and tears sputtering through grey and charcoal, and marble stiff prose to the purpose. you entered the elevator, i was looking for you. but i could not speak to you, nor look at you, too delighted with your presence. the guilt of love, in the horror of this tragedy. how i could i bear the joy of loving you, in the horrors of this brutal ceremony. and then when you felt my love, and the mockery of my decorum. let it be known you stunned me even then, to laughter, with denunciation, after denunciation, of the stupidity of FBI, the cruelty of their method. taken then aback, by the discipline of the harsh judge, you were but the smallest piece, in the wall, of the terror factory, holding up your side, but then. notice how no drones kill us now?
i could see CIA writ upon your back, and feel your slate grey tie, sad with the greyest hour of this all, thrilling with the interest of the relief of sageman, but god were an IQ in sight to absorb this all . . . Sady, were you young as I, i wouldn’t love you so. it with the fondness for a teacher, for a father, that i care, and if perchance, this most misunderstood love of all arises, of younger women for older men, so is is it that i love you, sadly knowing all is lost. i trust she will hold you calmly through this all, as she always has, and with her hands, i’ll write this. written upon falling in love with stephen r. sady, someone’s father and someone’s spouse love knows no document mary eng 2913 sady two you see sady, i survived, unlike nancy. his fingers were around my throat, but i was 25 and there was no reason for him to kill me. so i have come back from that death by strangulation, to see this through, and be your christmas jaime larson, in the city of man som hatar kvinnor, men who hate women, in nazi portland. my father can no longer speak. stieg was dead. pinci was dead. tony was dead. everyone was dead. how could i tell you how extremely much i love you, and what you do, it makes me sick, the feeling of horror, at three in the afternoon, and i know not where you go or how to find you, but ache for the cool of your voice. you could sit like the other man, in the nicest karla plan. and tell me to finish my studies and tell me to eat my jam. you could hear my sad stories as i cry into my bread, you could wake me to tell me of a call from london, to tell me your son was felled. you could take me across the water, quickly in the diamond spring, to the cold fine island, and we could there begin, to search for the actual meaning. i could try some wine. you could tell me i was too young, but that i would make for someone a wonderful wife. you could guard me jealously from your gardener, and tell me to go for a walk.
dryly my mouth on the pillow, would awake with the nightmare of london, and then finely, i’d find you and triumph to find you were hiding behind ice. but you were from poland, your ancestors, or england i don’t know what’s true. sadly, this sad year keeps bleating, with stories that seem half true. of who has been killed, neither you nor i it seems, and this was all about henrik. you see i have tasted the fruit of the poisonous tree, too, of the many kinds of love. and so i can tell you how i finely i know you, in mind as if you were a boy. and there you can feel my ardent heart beat, in the sorrow of your palm. i would be for you always, the luxury no one is having, this side of stalin’s wall. it was when you mentioned solzhenitsyn, der leute hat nicht getun, wir sind wir, arbeit macht, i will not have any more women teachers they are too harsh! siberia was not cold enough without more murder, they had to have another kill to frost over their melting hearts. sady three you were the steel spike holding me to the track. monster in a prison, and your grey lips. could i tell you, i walked miles through until this day, whilst you in your prison of law wrote away. i was gone, unknowing. in echo park, my only, might slyly pull me through, for a picture near the aloe, and then i’d go to, a keeper of my prison, the prison by the hour, and the hurtful threat, held over my head, the certain dread of male violence. sweetness would only know, the way back to him, and these unspoken agreements whereby i might sit beside, the presence of others holds nothing, to the place where, gazing we look deeply into the mirrors of souls, therein, you are the steel spike holding me down, to this track of law. as love was an endless lonely street, i dreamt roses to throw at his feet and the two years he kept me waiting to find the next best thing. the certain comfort of his no, and my preposterous yes, holds me to this grey day, in which i ponder sady three. your tongue was in your cheek, or you were biting it. you were a performer, and i was watching your song and dance.
ashamed to search for you, but then i try. and there, i’d be your zero dark thirty, oh so social, with you, and CIA at your back. sadly missing the world affairs council 100 dollar socialist, dreaming of a peter, and the kiss i’d ask for my right cheek, i will not find him, but think over and over my farewell of books and sad tidings. sady three, espoused to ether, i imagine her grace. and your daughter. the lack of time you have for any of them, and all the money you lay at their feet in lieu of love. and there, where give you my all, i am all here for you, only, guiltily, informed of nothing. sady four sady, it was a desperate winter. wandering through penuries, leaving all those dreams behind. the blue room gave me away to a fake hope shortly abandoned. law was just sentimental, surely you agree. the tedium of this 24 i’ll now wait. thank you for appearing in my tuesday dream, seven days ago, and then the next day sending your liege. to you, i would attend as prisoner of the seventeenth floor, and cast my eyes down to hold the prana in, this side of guantanamo.
i dream we are on the island finally, away from all that. or that it is nothing like love but destruction. i dream she loves you, or loves you not. i dream you will send me back to the dead boy who was my love so briefly. i dream. no more for you i dream by night, as now i dream by day, and look into the death around your eyes, and hear the words you say. i dream imaginary things of your ancestors, of a catalogue of names. i imagine you are a little child. guilty i feel, and realize our similitude holds me, in due debt to wax, sad magnets. i dream i am nancy’s ghost, coming to tell you of strangulation i survived, when i was 25.
i dream you wish a nurse, or an officer for your footmen, or that all must be deleted and undone. the CIA i wrote on your back with my eyes, burning and burning again the soulsame secretariat, we were at the tate, in a mockery of americanisms, happy at last. no. there was a steel grey sorrow around your craft, and this week especially it has crept into my skin. and while thankful i am, to fall in love again, i’d say, the sorrow smarts a bit too much. sady five there was no love among the slaves. it was told by victor. surely, one would look up, from his turkey sandwich, and admit over beer, it’s all salt mines. one would. the gypsy water, could not hide the crimes of the Irish Freedom Fighters. they made mistakes. the foam grey of the chicken carcass boiling in a pot, that was the grey of your tie. it was in that grey, of dead meat, i realized you slept in your office. angel. death angel. come not too soon into these corners five. i made two mistakes. i met you, and there are no more mistakes. i didn’t meet you. i was very afraid. you felt my sympathy with your left foot walking straight down and your patience. your patience, which is impatience, and the gold coiled around you. these are things which come by five. sheerly i thought, the friar would do. i thought the table and your absence. your absence was more powerful than your presence mister sady, i would have trusted you. what did you tell her, mister wax, what have you said to upset her so? is this not Ellis Island by Guantanamo? i was raped in the abbatoir, the step before London in the Diet Rape way, girls now call Rape Lite. but that was long ago. calmly you two are as fathers, evenly respecting me as you disrespect me. sending shocks of Turbulence through me, so i might steady your way, and you might feel me, holding chamber. there will be none of the obvious isn’ts and won’ts. nothing will come of nothing. i will not hold you like my father. i don’t want to be your friend, i just want to be your lover. a lungfull of coaltar and i was done with scotland. no more to its boozy streets. barrett brown’s FBI raid came crashing into my teeth, it was rather funny, how ethereal these crimes. i wouldn’t waste a grey chapter on a thousand lies or fives, i’d be off at six.
sady six now six would come at evening, and sadness at noon. there is nothing left there for me, besides true love, so i shan’t go back, until it kills me not to. but it does. it killed me to stand around, twirling twine, at the stable beside the horses. i didn’t want not inside your mind. or perlstein. aaronson, fink. so many, many evas, and the good food, and the dickens books. there were good things in the closets like you. i was lacking inspiration. i was lacking fear or joy. i was afraid of you. your mind sliced mine like dust. so there. what is to become of either of us, prisoners. if only tobacco, or tea, or some petty drug were enough for either of us. the FBI went too far. yes sir. when killed they hamilton. yes sir. oh but who will save us from all our fears, who black boxed supernatural powers? there are new things to study now, in american law. there are drones and you. drones and I. drones. thy will be done, and you alone, hold the keys of Ransom’s purse. where six is five five five or worse. and two and two, and some such, were less than, nothing. i gave you my time, time and presence. you know how much that means. it were not for rudeness he was sputtering. the privy did it me give of the terror of his composure and control, to whittle out a way, to make a semblance. no justice would stand on either side of that court. or this land. justice was the rat in the room. with rat hair, rat grey in British Somali Land. they organized a carriage to cart around the Magna Carta and point at it like a red balloon. “look, look, see, see!” it shan’t make any difference. and the room in 1988, where i was your lover, was it nancy, or some other, i was her, in another generation, but i am third. i am third and fly by night, sad it is to realize, that what was love was not, or what was lies was not, love was a trap. a trap trial alright. sady seven good heavens that you make me write fiction! that you distress me so! none have fraught me thusly for some time. were it biography, i might know you, so i write poetry on your screen, all that i see of the grey bureaucrat, screaming. francis bacon waded his way out, of the wreakage of his studio, into love, or suicide perhaps, or
were it murder. i saw you walking in your suit, in the forest. you loved the trees. if love were not the disease, of fatal consequence. tragic tragic things comport with love. he takes up the floor. i can’t escape his dominion. there is no relief from his seven. she takes this. but you are on the seventeenth. and i was invited. to understand your absence i understood, you are angry, or tired, or frosty. i saw the way you fought with wax over smaller things, and laugh at end of day, as the hay is high, this side of the rockies, in the land of peter. the ivy league bulimic, had a way back, through tornado, and the best asberger’s experience, this side of 1.70/hour, filing clerk. his elders paid him. do you see? in 1957, this empty coin toss symbol, had a way down, towards leveling, all the money from me. but i won’t work for money.
we already got paid off. by the years. enron fell down, and FBI fell down and Ransom whispered: we were vikings. of ostvold, the eastern fjord, i came this way to find you, so brightly in the morning on the blue fjord. here to soft remind you. of all you once stood for, before they burnt our country to the ground. they shot a golden eagle from the sky. and who was that and which prophet which stephen, which steven, this year of 13, and year of stephens? dexter had his hand, around the cloth of the confederacy. and if i made it to the Daughter’s congress, would you still recognize me, aged and white, i’d chase your ghost round Goodwin hall, as Ransom likes you. you are the only one fine enough for me, outside bjorke. who sang the brother’s song, and wrote enough in, fast, before the Censors. Goodman Sady, was it really you, testing me? sady eight
the decentralized stupidity agency. that is what father called it. it wasn’t for the length of my nose i know i’m a mammal. wherewolves ploy by night, the motherless orphans.
they centralized. centralized orphans agency. federal bureau of delinquency. they were such lost boys. if only you were their father. but you are now. grand. Sady nine sady novella by nine, a prose poem in nine. once upon a time, there was a prince of such composure and grace, all other humans suddenly seemed, like short poppies in the land of he, who greenly leaped across the united nations, to free the slaves from their galleys. held, they were, for far too long, and no letters or lost love, betrayed the sentiment we feel, for the music of third. third it was said, it was said there were three, and best if i could define it, the loves lost or losing me, if you were three. you were three and nine, of ptolemy and kierkegaard and who wrote of his castle, who wrote first a calculus, and who hit what poets miss, under the table with the crumbs. was a way out superior to a way in, in fact, above board or sub rosa, i could not be gagged. i could not be gagged so much in fact you feared for your own safety. how public then, was our love, and my compliance grateful. i respect you so much, anything you want, is what i said to him. and “can we put it in writing?” and if that is, this marriage of the minds. horrors i don’t care for drinking. so sober this was, our central intelligence, held by the rolling tape. not on the wire, and always for them, they will hold me your agent. agent this, or agent that, i was your criss cross, your zig zag. i was stuck in slough, looking for you. you were not the eaves, or the cold walk past riksdag, you were not in the frozen ice cream. you were not in the chemicals poured on the plane, to free it from the ice. you were not in the tornado that ripped me ‘cross half the sky. you were not in my miserable school, or yet, my miserable life. you steadied the ghost of aaron swartz and showed him the promised land.
you helped me lay down the law that held to earth that miserable man. and if you will hold, your crying way home, with hands like mine dear sady. i would then do your daughter well, if she take from what i maketh. so steel your self up, for your swift NO, and spit it back right at me. and i will feel your cruel yes eyes and riot in your lying. execute it then, and say good night, and then we’ll see for keeping, if thirty more, can come your way, or this might your obituary be. you wrote some fine lines. walked some fine lines. look about it, seldom was your equal on the earth feet of gold, sweet zeus. end. nixonland
written February 9, 2013 March 11, 2013 mary rose lenore eng, who regretfully and painfully, fell in love with elder married attorney stephen r. sady upon the start of the portland FBI trap trial of somali teenager refugee Mohamed Mohamud. Apologies to spouse and any injured parties, for this fictionalized account of her imaginary guess at her love’s requiting. apologies to the FBI and Mohamed and the makers of the FBI Fake Bomb for trivializing with the grandeur of my Love, their need to make a dime in a broke town off a fake bomb.
for ransom walter and ransom eng and fannie walter eng and olina olesdatter christian eng’s fru. and for ambassador chris stevens, sent to burn in benghazi.
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