when I hear the word 'moderation,' I reach for my gun

[Mittelwerk at aol.com]

so, it's all come down to this.  

everything on this list is beginning to look like inter-office memoranda, the
insignificant gripes of sniggering culture clerks.  I assume most of you are
fat.

you don't even bother to fetishize culture, anymore--because culture, i.e.,
Pynchon, doesn't even have anything to do with your real presence, here.
 Come now, be honest.  Like everything else, this has devolved into a forum
for the sphincter-faced proclamation of 'rights.'  What you actually do, or
accomplish, with your self-styled 'individuality' is irrelevant; all that
matters is that when enough of you get together, and apply your
administrative savvy, no one will be able to make you insecure anymore.  Like
insects, your strength is in number.  Your sinister, unconscious motive:  to
speed up the decay of life, which would make your incompetence as civilized
subjects less conspicuous.

I say:  get the fuck out of my literary corpse.  take your 'gender' issues
(or Jeff Stryker-model dildo) and ram it up your race-theory pretensions,
then sprinkle it on top of your quasi-humanistic social psychology, then toss
a few sheets of your first, scared, lousy, trend-setting sexual experience in
the mix, then set the whole shebang on fire a la Global Peace.  Then run off
naked through the social services infrastructure, till you come to
Boeing-McDonnel Douglas:  ask them, "does this have anything to do with TRP,"
with the same look you get when you see an 'inappropriate' post on the
P-list, because . . . 

after the P-list, poetry is impossible.