- Sharing my opinion sucks ass
- Notes from the edge of the narrative matrix
- History of successful cracker-baiting
- in yesterday's Post
- with reminder Democrats are full partners in the scam
- yes our sociopath overlords will kill every human on the planet before changing script
- yes this author suggests Trump not father but monster-wave rider because
- DECORUM-VIOLATOR! not policy-breaker
- the author
- duh or complicit
- death to the either/or:
- who doesn't know the game
- is was and will always be Mayberry?
- Best Monkees cover ever, how did I not know about this until yesterday?
- Terrifying rise of zombie state nationalism
- War, good god, y'all, what is it good for? Boeing, Lockheed Martin
- Eat your pie
- New Year in Los Angeles
- "Americans always overestimate the importance of leaders, because American leaders job is to get people to do things they don’t want to do."
- Why he doesn't write
I’ve had it with having a body.
With windows that won’t open.
Antibiotics. Luggage. Styrofoam.
I’m sick of being a burnt match
bloating in a puddle of anti-freeze.
Sick of the ripening blushes of peaches,
all that Tiepolo pink, sick of rushing
in my ears regardless the brain-stall,
spectral footfalls in ghost halls,
guffaws and slips of how truth leaks out
and goes in. Pinprick or serrated,
what’s the diff I’m sick of it. Sick
of this flesh restricting liftoff,
ballooning at the waist like the costume
of a duck. Maybe if I’d stuck with
the dancing lessons, speech therapy,
the oboe, had a robot do the vacuuming.
Maybe if I made music as I walked
like a goat belled off to sacrifice
and when the psychopomps offer me
yet another heart, this time I refuse.
Come, gazelle, step through my shadow.
Come, rain, wash this face away.