What, no? Think how we judge each other here in Stringtown Blegsylvania, by the level of superstitious and disqualifying taint we fart, who we deem worthy or unworthy, who deems us worthy or unworthy, dependent on our dogma(-n)s.
What's worse if you're a fucked-up thirteen year old kid with parents fucked-up for Cracker Jesus, that you didn't die and go to heaven or that God just told you you don't deserve heaven - I can type sentences like that all fucking day. Sheeyit, my faith was shaken by the latest Kate Bush release, who the fuck am I to talk.
- Writing to St Peter.
- Above the law.
- Motherfucking christers are entitled to free speech, yo.
- You never call, you never write.
- That joke isn't funny anymore.
- Prayer for the paranoid.
- Fantasy Island.
- It would have been interesting watching crackers deal with his Arab bloodlines.
- In love with a view.
- Bibi to Obie!
- Two choirs, one cup.
- Loud is as loud does.
- Genius of crack.
I don't think they'll find the new weaving anywhere finer than truth. —Osip Mandelstam I've tried to sift a truth finer than salt from my mouth. It matters: I get up or I do not. The books can wait, leaves burn themselves these days, and the day begins or it does not. Now wingless, a wasp masquerading as the sun crawls— a harmless razor—across the backlit curtain. No city trembles on the verge of the sea. No stupid bird threatens to dissolve me if I forget my species in the official questionnaire. I could put my ten bureaucrats to their task. The dusting and polishing. There's a point, a mirror for me to enumerate my teeth. Beyond these walls, there's only the snowed-in field, an egg just opened but empty.