- Been yodeling about Micronesian islands without extradition treaties and Montana missile silos since this blog's start
- our fucking shitlords' actuaries and algorithmists and psyop cyclops and pucking figs and psychopath upper management shitlord wannabes and slathering megaphone grifters been hankering for a mass peasant culling, not necessarily right now and just this one, but the bug's a feature not a bug
- New Wire!
- Plague Spring Journal
- Coronavirus and the ruptured narrative of campus life
- I have a cold
- Dual status of cats
- Curse of Eugene Debs
- Toxic troll armies
- Depoliticizing Trump
- The great Chinese Bat Flu Panic of 2020
- The art dump
- Our fucking shitlords will find the tax dollars to build their Lexus lanes
- Old Wire, quite possibly the song posted most here since I started yodeling about Micronesian islands without extradition treaties and Montana missile silos fifteen years or so ago
LEAVE THE HAND IN
Furthermore, Mr. Tuttle used to have to run in the streets.
Now, each time friendship happens, they’re fully booked.
Sporting with amaryllis in the shade is all fine and good,
but when your sparring partner gets there first
you wonder if it was all worth it. “Yes, why do it?”
I’m on hold. It will take quite a lot for this music
to grow on me. I meant no harm. I’ve helped him
from getting stuck before. Dumb thing. All my appetites are friendly.
Children too are free to go and come as they please.
I ask you only to choose between us, then shut down this election.
But don’t reveal too much of your hand at any given time.
Then up and pipes the major, leave the hand in,
or change the vows. The bold, enduring menace of courtship is upon us
like the plague, and none of us can say what trouble
will be precipitated once it has had its way with us.
Our home is marshland. After dinner was wraparound.
You got a tender little look at it.
Outside, it never did turn golden.