Sometimes She Turns Up in Murderers

https://youtu.be/M7oPAqnDv0g

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Sometimes she turns up in murderers — and when

fascist flags are unfurled, she’s often the impulse

in those who salute the enflaming pursuit of the flag

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and its world — she’s the final accoutrement to which

the psyche must turn for its laws. She is, in a word,

the cause. After packing its foolscap and foibles

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and folderol into its factory — gotten itself into gear —

only then will a Conscience decide to appear, and her

brand is the one that will most avail; she makes all

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the stodgy ones pale. No other conscience can do what

she can to our inward allegiances, male, trans or female –

that is, can release her containing companion from

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leasing its life to the tedious labor of moral behavior.

She thinks a conscience is nonsense. She makes you

the lone one at bat. No other conscience does that.

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She is what gives you the leave to do anything you

want to do. Sometimes it aligns with the sociopathic.

At others it hovers and spins to the center of what is

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exactly true. She’ll have left all of that up to you. She’ll

have gone elsewhere to play. Pinning a note to the door

of your heart: “Have a day full of dangerous volupté.”

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