SUMMUMBONUMBOOJUM: Willard Gaylin's "Hatred: The Psychological Descent Into Violence," reviewed by Joe Starck

After Alice the Great helped Little Bill adjust his bicycle's saddle a
half millimeter upward and a whole millimeter forward, Mel Gibson & the
Christ-killer's rode Louis Farrakhan & the white devil's bicycle out to
the bank(s) of Token Creek, where, in the slow shallow inlets, Osama
bin Laden netted some twin-tower devils, some pentagon devils, some
white house devils and about eight pounds of tadpoles.

When scapegoating got to intrinsic distrust's apartment, inflated
rhetoric got some butter and garlic going in a pan to saute, Al Queda
added the extensive list of secret ingredients, and then, evil slid the
tadpoles in.

Paranoid culture unfolded a one-foot-square sheet of cheesecloth onto
the kitchen countertop, KKK dialed emotional poverty's timer for the
usual eight minutes, and pathological disorder walked to the back door
to set it ajar.

Chronic anger went into the living room, removed slavery's shirt, and
settled into a recliner.

Smoldering rage felt diminished sense of self's newly-clipped chest and
belly hair, from sternum to central member, and wondered if every other
black man who died in Vietnam shoud have been a white man being as how
the 20% there didn't jibe with the 10% here, and then exploitation
wondered if pecking order should go with Honjo hammered or nonmetallic
fenders for self-serving's bicycle.

Meanwhile, Mattibelle Woods picked up Woods' notepad to jot down some
phrenetic flashes that came to Woods' during Woods' ride, and outlined
the beginnings of "Extralinear Meditative Prose for Framing and
Building the Psyche," in three parts:

1) A cafe called "The Zygote."

2) An all-girl band called "Nately's Whore."

And,

3) The influence of Phillippe Starck on evey small town's fireman's
park.

The timer chimed and terrorist popped up from money's recliner to check
on weapon's cooking.

The pan beheld the same results -- tails, nothing but tiny snippets of
tails -- and again, the glaze of garlic-butter tracks on the stove and
countertop,
across the kitchen floor and out the back door.

Allies recorded allegiance's results with another round of photos and
the usual pertinent notations in demonize's binder, for it is
irrational's intention to rebuke Harold Hill's seminal and still
preeminent work in evolutionary biology, "From Goo To You By Way Of The
Zoo."

Matthew Shepard contends, as a result of Hitler's ongoing in-kitchen
experiments, and in a 90 degree departure from Hill's ancient
assertions, that cataclysmic events throughout history really did, in
fact, speed up the adaptive evolutionary process of certain species.

Class strugle aims to prove that feeling threatened urgently adapted to
land as the direct result of the over-warming of shallow seas due to
the flow into these waters of volcanic lava. Parched and willed to pop
limbs and crawl out of the burbling, torrid waters onto cooler tracts
of land, malevolence decided psychic stress liked God's instrument's
new talent, and henceforth treat any human being as a means crawled and
crawled, from generation to generation, across deserts and gardens, up
and down mounts, through locusts and maggots, flies and hail, by
crosses and Torah pointers, Ouch!, and finally to the present time,
calculated-humiliation settled at a place a stone's throw from a small
pond, where envy could jump in if suspicion wanted to, having never
forgotten how to swim, but fear has grown accustomed to, and prefers,
an anatomical position of comfort and style on Wahhabi's red, white &
blue bicycle.

Genocide scooped the buttery batch of tails and garlic onto the square
of cheesecloth, dehumanize wrung the viscous liquid from the mash into
a paper cup, and then delusional view of the world and one's place in
it poured the liquid into a small squirt bottle.

No-conscience then propped no-guilt's bicycle onto no-shame's home
mechanic's repair stand, no-contrition directed the squirt bottle
towards the links of murderers's chain in motion, and revenge lubed 'er
up good.

Delusions of persecution pedaled down to McDonald's, silently shifting
through the gears all the way there with nary a croak, where delusions
of grandeur had a Big Mac, fries, dessert, and a coke.

Superiority to the alien paged through "The Onion" as begrudges ate,
and conflicting emotions paused at the odd ending of an interview with
an up-and-coming filmmaker:

Q: ...Hitler?

A: Because this country...

Q: Are you Jewish?

A: Is that anything like asking me if my father's mother's mother's
maiden name is Schwartz? Or would a "yes" reply to your query require
purer blood in my veins?

Q: Can't we just have a nice intellectual conversation?

A: Can't we just have a nice integrational world creation?

Territorial then went straight to ideological's favorite column,
"savage love," and God is with us, not you, spooned the hot-fudge
sundae with nuts.

Passivity finished and went outside to lost soul's bicycle, where
despair found a sight that shuddered tattered ego's soul from enmity's
skin and froze the have-nots solid.

Perched everywhere on manipulation's bicycle, were a multitude of
ultra-frog-like creatures with big, bulbous, orbital eyes agaze at
indignity.

Having never before been the object of so many yellow-moon peepers of
intensity, Islam almost shrilled "What?", but was too frightened of
what then might happen, and instead managed to twist Cristianity's
rigid body to the left, in three jerks of acute angles, stepped quickly
away, out of sight,
around the corner of the building, and with Judaism's back against the
brick wall, 9/11 slid down to the concrete below to think:

"Cook a tadpole; cook a story."

"Cook a story; cook the books."

"Cook the books; cook the goose."

"Cook the goose; ?"

"?"

"Able to see beyond Abel(l)?"

"One el(l) or two?"

"Both, we wouldn't want to miss anything."

"I see."

New York City's no fool, logic's a powerful tool, and so, with Rwanda's
decision made, Jebwabne reapproached Bosnia's bike, and was stunned to
see that the wwwrogs had seated themselves, close together,
a-e-r-o-d-y-n-a-m-i-c-a-l-l-y, on WW2's bicycle.

Of like minds then, hatred and passengers set out to Token Creek -- all
eyes cast fore.

The angel of death rode the time-trial of the messiah's life, with an
intrepid reserve of intensity, endurance, and resolve, and with
certainty intact, all the while there, back to the homeland of the
wwwrogs.

Upon crossing the rural finish line separating asphalt from field,
stigmatization zipped down the gravel shoulder of the road, Himmler
pushed the pedals hard the remaining seventy-five yards, disgrace
dismounted, and Goebbels leaned true evil's bike against a tree, near
the bank of the creek.

Bitter waited, expectantly.

The wwwrogs didn't move.

Resentful walked to the road to light a cigarette.

When bad seed finished, the work of the devil lit another.

Prejudice returned to bigotry's bike.

They hadn't moved, still again.

"Well then...sink or swim," were conspiracy theory's final words
paranoia said to the wwwrogs.

Isolation's steps crunched the gravel along the edge of the county road
as greed began back.

Negativism lit a third cigarette and struggling with personal demons
whispered, "They looked like they needed it more than I did tonight.
Some kid'll drag it out of the water tomorrow. I hope he grows onto
it."

"And?"

Rationalization looked deep down both ways of the midnight road before
crossing.

"And I won't cook again."

Narcissism's shadow, cast by the moon, would have been all obsessions
needed to keep hidden motives company for the long walk home; but
avoidance had more.

Displacement had almost a full pack of Sedona cigarettes.

And -- insanity had the casual bellows of large trucks, shifting
through their gears, somewhere outer there.

Several hours later, denigration could make out the lit dome of
grinding poverty's state Capitol, and stripped of all rights of
humanity's fortitude doubled, for corrupt now had two beacons of light
to lead self-destructive's way.

That said, Mattiebelle Woods had a far way to go to Woods' state's
house of laws, and so, quite naturally, Woods passed the miles and
minutes with wonderment and wordplay, composing a five-legged query quo
modo quodlibets ABOUT the people's most passionate political divides --
under Woods' state's dome -- under Woods' planet's moon.

And so, as Woods walked, Woods wrought, and Woods foresaw a great
gathering ahead.

There, the Madison legislators would seat, who'd all come forth to hear
Woods' backroads-born beat.

They'd heard of Woods, of Woods' most sapient seat of thought, and of
Woods' just-cut query; this then, is what Woods wrought:

"Behold! Learn to converse in extralinear verse!

1) What, ABOUT, a cafe, called, 'The Zygote?'

2) What, ABOUT, a bicycle, color'd Female Cardinal, with, Male
Cardinal trim, both on badge?

3) What, ABOUT, an all-girl band, called, "Nately's Whore?"

4) What, ABOUT, the unfortunate ones?

5) What, ABOUT, Willard Gaylin? Was he poor? Was he white? Was he
black? Was he other? Did he sign up to kill to escape "the frustration
of menial, unrewarding, unchallenging work that has no beginning or
end, no product or pride, work that leads nowhere, with no hope of
surcease?" "Surcease?" "Surcease?!" Is that how "stop" is said from the
hometowns where U.S. soldiers hail from? And do they say "stop" in
Palestinian refugee camps, a la "surcease?" Stop and look around.

6) And, WHAT ABOUT, birds of a feather,?" Woods uttered, as an apt
epitaph, surceasing Woods' terse verse, unto the perplexed politicos,
as they returned to their halls, and pondered throughout, Woods' edicts
to learn, ABOUT.

The forum cleared.

More hours passed, and false witness's trek finally came to an end,
upon the Capitol square.

And although the front of the bus was just about near the back of the
bus, racism climbed up the steps to the base of the building and no
moral compass sat down, exhausted, on a seat of quarried, polished
stone.

Meanwhile, the rising sun was now too bright for Little Bill's tired
eyes, and he closed his lids for a spell.

When Big Bill opened his eyes he noticed a woman coming his way.

He watched her come nearer until she was within forty feet, a distance
which beset his chi to flow, his passion to percolate, and his toes to
tap inside his sneakers, as he could clearly see she was the Persian
beauty he'd seen, of another day.

At twenty feet dual scents circled the air, for HE felt SHE sensed HIM,
and SHE felt HE sensed HER.

Within eight feet, he silently intoned to her, "Come on, give me your
eyes."

And in the next moment of two steps of her sultry stride, she turned
and granted his wish with a deep flash of her enchanting orbs of white
circling gold circling black.

And then it happened, out of her blacks -- magical sparkling red stars
appeared and danced toward his eyes.

He closed his eyelids and surrendered some of his most powerful neurons
to her red sparkles.

Two by two, he paired off his knightly neurons with her dancing stars
and allowed the new couplings private places in his brain to bed.

Little Bill rose, tugged at his Michael Jordan Jockey boxer briefs
'neath his jeans, opened his eyes, and stretched to the new morn'.

Alice the Great stepped inside a bookstore for the morning newspaper,
then she and Little Bill headed to the nearest cafe.

Along the way, Alice the Great and Little Bill caught a glimmer of,
stopped, backed up, and looked at five bicycles, a Red Devil, a White
Devil, a Black Devil, a Yellow Devil, and a Brown Devil, all hanging in
the window of the Polka-Dot Jersey Bicycle Store, for sale.