- Winners and losers of the recent nuclear holocaust.
- bodies . space / Trust (a time for hope).
- The Body and Us.
- What will be Left?
- Hey, Presto!
- No Left turns.
- Motherfucking Democrats (w today's rhetorical question at end of article).
- I am telling you three times: this vindictive-for-giggles shitsmear is The Motherfuckerer.
- This can't end well.
- The Dementia Village.
- Space Camp!
- Lost in The Vorhh is on my desk. I'm skeptical I'm capable, but I'll try.
- UPDATE! 2017 May 13.
- I'm not going to write about yesterday's asterisk, as in, not even somewhere else that I don't publish here, beyond this sentence.
- I changed my avatar for my personal email to my profile photo of me in stress test mask because it makes me laugh.
- I changed my avatar for my work email to my profile photo of me in stress test mask because it makes me laugh.
- Bookkeeper ordered me to change my work email avatar within three minutes of changing my work email avatar to my profile photo of me in stress test mask.
- I laughed. Impulsively. In Bookkeeper's face.
- Bookkeeper has the same bitter poisoned soul as The Motherfuckerer, and the same aspirations, but is an incompetent Motherfuckerer - so she hasn't the power to take me to court for laughing at her.
- You need to examine yourself, Bookkeeper said. I managed to squelch my laugh.
- So, a good mood, finally. It feels like it's been months.
A KIND OF HEADLESS GUILT EMERGES
I’m alone until I’m asleep, and there you are: naked,
you take my hand: Shhhh! We
tiptoe through a
black-blue meadow. To the pond behind the farmhouse. (The farmer
sleeps in the blind window.) No cicadas even,
maybe just maybe Venus — & this is before Wednesday, everything’s
tiptoe ‘round the house as around a painful subject — & we’re at the pond!
And now it’s time. To use vague holy-man speech, like: I am
another face in your hand, the face of your eye — wing-surrogates, the word
it’s time for afternoon, them white-blank architectures.
No, veil. Nothing’s glistening. Christmas, Christmas. It’s time
for you to forgive me: I was forced to eat valises
that wouldn’t close by themselves —
that was just a dream, good morning:
regurgitate the stars and the soot