- Can’t stop thinking about dinner Saturday night past and my interaction with my not-blood sister-in-law, a poster child for upperest middle-class privileged Democrat invested in the game
- – I wrote that part Wednesday morning I’m typing now Wednesday night – when I typed in the morning I didn’t think about N-B S-I-L weirdass mention of Madelyn Albright as a personal hero in our conversations, her smacked expression when I called Albright the war criminal she is and now (by grace of Blessed Serendipity) was (for this poem’s sake) (worth it)
- I said as a peace offering, you cannot be a United States Secretary of State and not be a war criminal, but that didn’t help
- I saw Albright on campus within the past two months, and the loyalty she inspired in her colleagues and students tells you all you need to know about the curriculum of this Shitlord World Domination Wargame Training Facility, wait til you meet the grad students and faculty of government, business, and economics
- I did not say anything when N-B S-I-L (I do have a blood sister-in-law, she’s nice, she and L make each other laugh) tried to Hillary-bait me, I was busy not biting on brother-in-law's baiting me with Steve Miller Band songs
- Hilltop killed its mask mandate, don’t think it’s related to Madelyn Albright’s death, just asking, I wear my mask for people who want me to wear my mask as well as me
- half Hilltop happily unmasked, seeing the lower half of a face I’ve seen half hidden for two year I think fuck
- Do I look like an almost but not me to you too? do you forget my name for a second when you see my mouth for the first time in two years?
- This is true, the copy-pasting magic of wordpress over, new bloggerfart, what? deffjump is taken?
"SHE STEPS INTO LA ROUE DE LA FORTUNE MOVIE THEATER"
She steps into La Roue de la Fortune movie theater
off the Jersey Turnpike, buys a ticket,
and so swiftly the waters roll
above her instinctual visions: Plaza, Il Piazzo,
creep of film over the sound of the words
piano, purr, whisper across her neck,
one door opens another,
in the labyrinthine pitch to preserve
order, the expulsion from Eden, the dark
soda up her clear plastic straw, reels
of rodents, popcorn, teenage workers,
acne, blood and circulation turn to ice
inside this mechanized paradise,
where reality meets the sound of gardens
growing past their makers’ dreams,
growing strange and outrageous.
She stops to check her phone
and the phone lights up, Putin, Botox,
Trump, the garden grows outward, up,
to each side, the ghosts are simply
plants who forgot to stop growing;
they groan, shriek, quake, giggle, gurgle,
stare, and point fingers at the living.
I’m glad I’m in love, she thinks.