10.12.19 – NYC LitCrawl: Elise Ramaekers reads The Worming of America

Not a Mayflower ,but a Lioness – 
The Minister, or maybe more the Governor, turns to me again, and in a hushed sly tone says, “Let it die, you fool, let it die,” as he passes me in a brisk manner, squinting his eyes as if to induce a Catholic inquisition on me and the flower.
“Let it die,” he concludes, as if the flower deserves to die painfully. A colorful flower crucified or burned at the stake fills Winthrop’s heart and body with blood. Winthrop and those like him — the rabbis, the priests, and the lawyers of every religious government and corporation — all put forth the same high-treason proposition that “Questions are the root of all evil.” In these control-fraud civilizations, any fool who asks a question will have his or her head put on a spike. The Christian Zionist’s spawns the devilish children called “Divine Love, Divine Laws, and Divine Court… that of course trusts in, prays, and/or worships a Divine God. My mother questioned the Puritans’ religious love, law, and God with her free-grace controversy, and it landed her symbolic head on one of those Boston spikes. This is a “New” England education, same as the “Old” England education… kissing the rod. We are bred and polished to accept punishment submissively, to love our abusive master with a whip. We are the loyalist subjects only educated in order to pay the tax, and only cultivated to kiss an Elder’s abstract and personal God’s rod.
This common-sense awareness highlights, colors, and sharpens my view on these prison-ship streets. Majestic , royal illuminations, and Divine advantages barely made it over the surly Atlantic Ocean to an American atmosphere and time zone. Regardless, royal foundations swirl and simmer unabated in America even though royal King Charles may have lost his head in England.
The good minister Winthrop plays his part in a colony gone wild. He rushes ahead and quickly huddles with his loyalist spinsters, who do a double-take, gawking and muttering when they see me coming towards them. These vinegar tasters, like three poodles in tutus made of feathery lace with matching parasols dance at their doggy park. Mrs. Radcliffe, Ms. Vassar, and Mrs. Holyoke are all there, smacking / licking their lips, snacking on each other’s misery with fascist doctrines, but calling there doctrine a religion.
And here I go down my path, on my way — the red-headed step-child whose family was banished by the Minister and the Town Council over the free-grace controversy. These Beacon Hill rubberneckers know my family was then slaughtered by the Lenape terrorists in New Netherland. I was captured and “Adopted” as a slave by these Indian terrorists. I lived with the enemy for five years in the woods and I did not necessarily need or want to come back to Boston.
Minister Winthrop and his horrid harem of ladies lick their lips and flutter about. The royalist loyalist faggot-mob meditates out loud so I can hear them gossiping about me in front of their sour church.
Mrs. Radcliffe — a legalist, aghast, bitter, and aloof, says, “How in God’s good world would anyone turn away from our civil society? We should create laws to stop her!”
Mrs. Holyoke, an asexual fat little Buddha, in an acrimonious missionary tone scolds me: “What virtues does this child have? Does the pain and suffering of living with those primates in the woods ease her suffering?”
Ms. Vassar, kind of clueless, natural, vulnerable, and slightly salacious, says, “Why would that cute, saucy and sweet little red-head want to stay in the woods with all those big strong wild men?”
These politically-correct crème-de-la-crème ladies are tortured and terrorized with my lack of social respect for them. My disrespect is not just for them, but for our parents, our Elect, and our Elders. My disrespect is for all authority posing as a false God. My only respect is for nature, and the mystery of my Maker, whom no one in this world knows. And it is my reverence, it is our human reverence, for this  most important human mystery I call Nothing (that we all share) is where we all meet, naked — spiritually and emotionally, we can reconcile.
In contrast, my biological disrespect for my mother and father is hereditary. Dishonoring Elders is the same crime my mother was charged with by the Massachusetts Town Council. Big-Daddy Winthrop was both judge and juror at my mother’s trial. He was both Moses and Bloody Mary, leading a mob to burn my mother. These politically-correct sociopaths are petrified, policed, and taught in practice by psychopaths to never to think or speak such a healthy and common sense thought as that the Bible is an old ruse — a capitalist man-made invention.
The Minister, the good shepherd, tries to herd his lazy loiterers into their church. “Come now, ladies, nothing to see here, nothing but a dead flower.” They drag their feet and shimmy towards the large church doors, nervously looking over their shoulders at me with manic eyes.
Abrahamic laws of heresy, blasphemy, and/or damnation corral your imagination as a child until the day you die. But beforehand the rabbi, the priest, parents, and civilization break the child like a horse. The Jewish child, the Catholic child, and the Muslim child with Abe-Babe parents is saddled, blinded, bridled, ridden like a horse, jockeyed like a stallion with a parental bit in its mouth and a parent’s whip slapping its ass. The Minister and his pledging sorority sisters will always hate or despise me, the eternal child, because they despise themselves. All is vanity, all is low self-esteem for religionists and courtiers with their priest-craft and King-craft. Hitherto, I felt sad and ashamed for the Minister and his marmalade ladies because hate is the only thing that enlivens their jelly-fish souls. Hate is the morale, welfare, and recreation for the Abe-Babe standing-army. Jews and Catholics prophesy that it’s love that turns them on, but it’s really hate that gets them off.  Dread, anxiety, and loathing animate their low self-esteem and fear into “Loving” and “Lawful” social pursuits. It’s not that I miss the preacher’s tea party or the sorority sister’s social with envy, or even that I pity the preacher and his flock from a martyr’s position. It’s because little Ms. Vassar and Company look so wounded, fearful, and so deeply pegged and nailed down as they unsuccessfully strive to appear the opposite — that is, free and luxurious, mutually, physically, spiritually, and financially.