What Started as a Slight Dryness in the Throat Soon Progressed to Desiccated Lips Crinkly as Crepe Paper

• Cropped and bleached, but yes, the above posted before before the cropping and bleaching.
• John Abonilox's art. He did send me an email telling me he had posted after a long moribundity so I'd have known of the post anyway, but intentionally or serendipitously to yesterday's post here, this is why I keep the Moribund blog roll - I'd have seen it.
• I am in conversation with two beloveds over micro potus and Macro Potus. Both have asked that the conversation remain private - and cool, of course. This needs mentioning, however: my anti-Clinton, which is too (more people than these beloveds assert) personal, is based not solely but I believe primarily in my yaddapostasies, long-yodeled here to the point I'll spare me as well as you too much re-yodeling. My anti-Clinton is not pro-Sanders - I will not be crossing the street to vote for Sanders on April 26, nor do I advocate his candidacy. My interest in Sanders is based on my anti-Clintonism, anti-Democratic Partyism, the fuckers, and how Sanders makes Hillaryite Colleagues angry.

• Motherfucking Democrats. If you only click one of these, make it this one.
• Liberalism is a philosophy of rich white male domination.
• Red-baiting from a reliable Democratic stenographer.
• Neoliberal Economists for Hillary!
• I can steal from me in an email to a beloved: And I'm not convinced - tinfoil hat time! - board of directors, Neoliberalism Inc, for all the wailing of their lucratively paid barkers, aren't quite content to get this inevitable old white man death paroxysm out of the way now since it's primed to go now - the board would be quite OK with Hillary the next four years.
• The fragility of nature captured.
• On the village green.
• The sweet smell of excess.
• Rick Nielsen interview.
• Rest in Peace, Ross Shapiro.

SOME MATERIAL MAY BE INAPPROPRIATE FOR CHILDREN

Jeffrey Jullich

stepping off the curb onto the right foot, the left foot

following in due time, dragging a heavy weight that goes “thud”

as if falls those few inches

          collective guilt cannot fit inside individualism

          In the cabinet under the bathroom sink, the household

items, bottles and canisters of detergent, Pledge Lemon Trigger,

and, along the inner corners of the cabinet and its edges,—dark

stains, eukaryotic organisms, branched filamentous hyphae

         —screaming and pointing at the crud

          women whose hair was stiffened into “beehives,” as they

were called,—

—canceling out the odor-producing glands under their shaven

armpits by spraying on chasm lice chemicals

          sliding the waist-line down to pierce the gluteus with the

splinter of a hypodermic

          The dishes sparkle, they literally glitter and throw off

incandescent particles

          barely able to eat, no appetite, not taste buds

          the food stays fresh for months and, even after over a year,

is still crunchy when chewed

          holding a clean handkerchief over nose and mouth

          eyes irritated with a burny carbolic sensation

          irrigate the sunken cheeks, the sandpaper lips

          tongue blindly groping upward to lap at the moisture of tears

          droplets of a fluid dispensed from small milky-plastic

bottles only a couple of inches in height might reduce the

discomfort,—later tossing the expired bottle into a wastebasket,

the fumes distorting whatever’s seen through the vapors, like a road

on a hot summer day

          What started as a slight dryness in the throat soon

progressed to desiccated lips crinkly as crepe paper

          it’s perfectly natural to ignore a faint aftertaste

          it involved no joke saying “Does this taste funny to you?,”

very dour look on their faces, to the extent that the word “faces”

still applies

          plants other than the desired plant life are ripped from the

ground wearing a thick glove

          The gardener finished with his chores, and went around

to the back of the shed to hose himself down with a garden hose,

bare-chested, rubbing his hand over his glistening pectoral muscles,

the nozzle—