Spam Is Not Specific, Nor Locally Grown

I have the serious intent of answering as to who “we” are, what “we” want, what “we” might become.

This does, remarkably, place me in proximity with two great souls, Oscar Wilde and Walt Whitman.

The story I relate, concerning Adair and Victor, what it is to leave your happy home for destinations unknown, and to groove, on a Mannahattas sidewalk vent, for the grill allowing the vent to vent, is a lot of grooves, or else this hot air, emerging from underground,

Would be trapped, and there would be, potentially, an explosion, and that wouldn’t be okay.

One of the greatnesses of The Ballad of Reading Gaol is Oscar not lamenting his own sorry fate at being fucked over, but seeing this gentle soul, a murderer, and doomed, as if Oscar was not just as doomed. My thesis is no one can handle a ballad so masterly and be guilty of any crime requiring imprisonment, or,

Oscar’s imprisonment was a death sentence.

That might be excusable if Oscar was a zombie made of spam. Oscar was as far from a zombie made of spam as could be imagined. Oscar was open to the criticism, and when you get down to it, I love Oscar’s sons did well, and contributed, including to Oxford.

Returninng to Walt Whitman, his great poem-soul-moment-love not forgetting or forfeiting the mystery and commerce of Mannahattas, though he must cozen up to the sweet, silent, of, for example, Bill Clinton wearing a blue dress, in the foyer, or antechamber leading in, to 9 East 71st Street. Okay, we have to know some history to appreciate this decoration of the most valuable property in 2025, with also, sitting in, Stephen Hawking, on drums, bessel equations, Noam Chomsky, somehow equated with AI, though his best work was anti-Vietnam,

And Walt Whitman says,

“I was asking for something specific and perfect for my city,
Whereupon lo! upsprang the aboriginal name.”