my phantom beard

My phantom beard
I stroke on flail 
and grasp and miss,
long habits will
prevail. Despite
my clean-cut 
chin 
in mocking
taunt above what
long has been 

happiness project

Happiness is a retrofit 
we install just in case 
the earthquake hit 

if it didn't or did - 
it might again. 
So you can't really say 
why whether or when, 
just get your shit up
to spec, better yet 
pretend 

This is all in mind, 
right? 
Send 

random dancer

Her limbs are like knives on balance and slice
on pivot and spin as gravity dies
and comes back to life between beats and on pause.
So graceful a win, without effort or cost, just cause.  

cheap lesson

"You inspirational piece of shit!" she hissed, 
eyes blazing narrow slits. "How dare you 
compliment my taste, and then show yours 
so desolate!" I said "Uh, wait, uh what? How's 
this?" She smacked my face, deserving it. 

It's how I learned you might get smacked. 
In fact, I did! 

No turning back 

Close enough

Actress, producer and wife, she struck out 
on her own pitch and transitioned to criminal
influencer, remaking fashion and behavioral
trends in prisons and extralegal organizations
and clubs, worldwide and nation tall. Soon 
the authorities wanted to cut her a sweetheart 
deal: full amnesty (nothing she'd done had 
been technically illegal) in exchange for 
influencing criminals to be more badass 
and cool, only in prosocial ways. She said 

"Hey what the hell, I've always marched 
to a drumbeat of some kind" and signed on. 

The experiment won her the Nobel Prize 
in Economics, because the committee
was like "fuck it. Close enough" 

People learn to make way for a trailblazer, 
don't they. Oh yes more or less, and she 
went down as one of the best - but she did 
go down, in the end. We all do, but as she
might have said you can't let it stop you. 

situations

As always with everything, 
we're doing our best to investigate 

what situations are, 
and what kinds of things
can happen in them.

This situation is grave, and we honor 
the concern and criticism expressed
all around. However we assure all
concerned that first, we have
to determine what situations are.

Only then, responsibly we can figure
this out, using whatever happened plus
as many ideas as we can responsibly
come up with because it is a very grave
situation, as we've admitted. What are they?

We can't act rash yet. It would be premature,
so cool off please. Back down. Once we're
sure what a situation actually is, we guarantee
all concerned: action will be rash as you could 

ask. 

Guided by a fuller understanding, together
we can't lose, so cool it. You did your part,
all of you bringing this to a crisis, and that's
the most important part you can do. Now.

Leave it to us. Back off, cool down, grow up. 
This is already a situation, and we don't need
another one. What are they?

wonderknot

Her brain is baking wonder pies
beneath a sword of Damocles
that life suspends
on thread of dread
above us each, on mother's knees.

But as we grow invulnerable
and wise, we don't much notice it.
It's theme and trope of tolling bells
in books.

Its sense
goes somewhere else to fit.

That thread
is plaything, now. We spin
and play and spool it out
like Gordians, we prize our knot.
No effort mindful or forgot
could undo all these tight-pulled
strands. No mind's-eye gaze could scry
this plan. No mind's-hand fingers
trace its ways.

Insoluble, the puzzle stays.

Until the days we lift our eyes, and there
suspended, spy the sword. It's hung up

still.
It looms and looms.
We've woven for it some reward

metamorphosis bug

It's time for the bug 
up your ass to die
and be reborn as a butterfly, 
aflutter in tummy and rising
like heart in throat 
to your mouth,
where you puke
pure hope.

great time on stage

Sometimes you can just tell
they're having a great time up there, 
onstage 
it's not faked. You can't  

fake strutting and bopping around
like that, yelling "ooo! ooo!" and 

doing this sort of - anti-choreography! 

Everyone's got their own dance going,
but 
you figure they planned it. It smacks 
of something planned, and maybe
actually rehearsed - or run through
a time or two, perhaps not identically.
It smacks
of artificiality,
but they're really
getting into it. You

know?
They're having a ball, a blast
up there 

and we 
uh 
paid 

to see this shit.
But that's okay. It's joyous
affirmation of some kind
of human confidence 
job

and if we didn't come to see 
that? Well, we certainly came 
to see this 

standing permissions

If my baby had a hat 
I would tell her "I allow you 
to wear it!" Or
if she had an outfit on,
I would say - so there
would be no doubt - "I give you
permission to be clothed!"
Or if 

she were drawing 
regular breaths, I 

would say 

"By all means, 
breathe normally.
I allow it." Or if she

wanted to do some thing
she could do all by herself,
without my permission, 

I would give her my permission.

Because 
I respect my baby, and 
I honor her autonomy. I allow 
her  

big time 

in translation

Your look is
so eloquent 
that I have
to narrate 

all the notes
glimmering in
glint and shimmer
from your gaze, tuned
by corner twist of the mouth,
narrowed or widened eyes, 
raised brow, and turn 
of head

- I put

your look 
into words
for you.

Well, for both of us.

In continuous narrative flow,
as you keep that look coming.
As you, with an index finger
straight-up, indicate one point
- or you curl it down,
take one point off,
you keep score
while I narrate.
Putting your look
into words galore  

Most of them true, 
some false, some off, 
you course-correct me 
to sure. It's a little 

improv routine 
we do. It happened 
more or less on
purpose 

pure

heart visit

I visit you in my heart, 
but you're not there. 
Empty chambers, 
calling out - no 
answer!

Whoops - I overshot
the mark. This isn't
my heart, it is yours!
You're probably out! 
In my heart? Yes 

We passed each other
on the way. We really
should call first.
Coordinate. 

It's such a chore

foot taller

When I'm standing next to you 
I feel a foot taller
I know I'm not
It's psychological, but
I feel like I've grown, 
and maybe the world can see! 
Or you can. That would be 
enough, because your eyes
are the world's 
to me

Listen. If

Listen. If people want
to understand me then
they're just going to have to 
figure me out. I am sick of 
shooting straight sense at 
swirly targets of others' minds
only to come up bupkis on the
comprehension tip! I can not
be any more clear than I once
was! and if that's
not
good 

enough, 

then I will never give up no 
never 
give up. People are just
going to have to judge 
best they can, and
figure me out for themselves if.

If 

people want to understand me, 
but. You know. They don't
have to want to. 

I did my part

body dancing fail

he was a body dancer

his family

couldn't even.
That's how so many fail
when those they love,
his friends shook their heads,
they didn't get it, lovers
turned their heads 

when he danced. 

When he danced,
all the world 
moved
when he danced,
from his perspective. 

He rocked a balance pivot 
and shuffled apace, throwing
shapes - arms and back, neck
head atop and beyond torso,
upon hips and legs, knees, 

suddenly bent, feet - ankles
straitened by rippling out 
driving pistons thrown akimbo,
his whole body breaking
and reassembling a cadence 

in a time
for a time 
abstractly-related 
to his human heart. It
was time. it
was 

always time.

For he was a body dancer, 
and so he failed.
For the world was like 

"What?" 
"Is that
...you mean,
you're a dancer...?" 

which made him sick 

he was like NO! There are body dancers 
and mind dancers! I am a mind dancer! 

That's how you fail. See,
he tried to be both, 
too far, 

and failed.

he was a both dancer. Body 
& mind, and nobody wanted 
that thought or motion
song or dance. 

So he failed 

graverising

Once  
each day
I get up from 
my early grave 
to misbehave.

It's really just 
behavior, see?
No miss! That's
normal for ol' me. 

I wake up late 
and dig me up 
from underneath 

I break the ground
with groping hand 
for coffee cup 

I groan and shamble 
 towards the town 

and stand in line,
and meet your living gaze 
with mine.

You ask, and

in sepulchral tone: "Triple
almond cappuccino please"
I deeply
sweetly
moan 

The Big As If

It was as if
some occult hand had reached
down from clouds across the land
to palm my heart, like
a magic trick 

that you just can't teach, 
unless you can.

Or else you miss
where now you see it,
now you saw. Now
you wish and kiss 
and paw, lose
everything 

perchance 
to crawl, 
perhaps 
to raise. 
To win it
all. 

It was
as if some
occult part 

unplayed as yet 
by dummy luck 
and handy fate 

had come unstuck 
by skill and art. 

Panic's OK!

Panic's OK! if you're panicking

anyway

no sense panicking

about it

hey, when you just

assess

your immediate threats,

and there aren't any? Guess

what?

Panic away!

Since

it could

impede your

reaction time. Put

paralysis in the mix,

or influence a whoops

badass bad decision

or two. If immediate

threats stand square

in view, that's tactically

bad.

You don't want to

panic, then.

And OK, maybe

you don't want to panic

in your spare time either,

but since you are?

Panic's

OK then,

panic star

Gotta panic sometime,

maybe. Right? Might

just as well panic

when nothing

important's on,

hell. 

Impure joy

Here is the joy
you've made in me
in sudden effect
in inner array, 
and cutting to groove
in tenet and core, 
by new and continual
play and display 
by mischief and trick 
played square and pure.
By ounce and by ton, by
hook and by barb, by light
and delight and by tone
and shade. Here

is
what
rises in me,
from you: all
polarized,
alchemized gold
gone astray  
and sure. 

verbatimesque

when I'm nude
I understand myself better 
It's not so artificial! 
when I'm not nude 
people say I have a beautiful body and they wanna see it 
when I'm nude I can forget about everything else 
sometimes 
when I'm not nude I can be invisible 
sometimes I can go anywhere
people can't see a thing!
I had a bad idea once 

about a garbage disposal that went on 
automatically whenever you put food down it 
like a hand 
because
it thinks it's its food!
I thought it was a good idea 

until I thought about a hand   
when I'm nude I think about my hands 
a lot 
what should I do with them?
when I'm not nude 
I adjust

Slowdown days

Day succeeds day, and that's okay 
but I wish I could slow
most of these days down.
I'm enjoying too fast, 
and then they are gone.
At they end of one, yes,
I look forth to the next, 
but - 

- it's gone

like that. These days, they are
ours, but how much do we
get to hold each one? By flying sun,
skyful of whirling stars? I don't 

want to stop time, just 
make mine large

before it is done.  

night census

Somebody barked

Somebody bark back 
We'll have a lil' shout-yelp 
holler chit chat, and
everyone in earshot 
gotta chime in!

We can't see each other
from the yards we're in, and
we've got to find out

how many dogs we are.

One, to keep making sure
we're all still here, or
if anyone new comes on,
we must know!

Bring them up to speed
on how barking goes.  

Two,
in case the revolution
comes, 

I suppose.
Or propose - either way
we had best prepare 

vigilance is the way 
all good dogs know. 

keep out of hell

People who slap God across the face 
in the name of human judgment 
and then turn around and burn 
themselves forever in hellfire
have
done fucked up 

Right? 
I mean 

They did it without thinking, 
I bet. 

That 
was pretty stupid, guys. Didn't 
you see the sign? It said judge 
yourself asshole! Go judge 
in a lake! Or something. 

The thing I don't understand is, 
what if its a fiery lake? Man 
if a lake's on fire, that's some 
unnatural shit right there. I say 
if God did it, God did it to be 
nasty in a sense. Like maybe 
just to take a place and make 
the whole place nasty. Right? 

What better way could you 
devise? I mean lakes are 
super nice otherwise, 
typically. Nothing like 
a big pile of water just 
sitting there in a mountain 
bowl, with upside-down 
treetops reaching down 
into its shimmering piece 
of stolen sky? Hell, 

if there's going to be any 
lakes at all, better set 'em 
on fire! Otherwise we'd
all jump in, cool off! Nice 

day for it? 

It's off-brand for a purpose
divine, bank on it. What purpose?
Oh, I don't know, such as: maybe
that's why a lot of us try to keep 

out of hell? 

Who says hell don't make no 
sense! It obviously makes the 
first worst sense in the world:
keep out. DON'T

GO
THERE.
Oh, but your bold-ass rationalist
free-thunk spelunking explorers
in mind all had to go there, didn't
they? Always making 

fun 
of 
how
dumb 

hell is.
Well, makes sense to me 
to keep out of it! 

I don't care to barge in on
arguments where burden of proof
entails a noble end of knowing, and
a lethal means to find out. I say nope,
no,
oh no that's
okay - you decide on that one!
I'll just 

be over here, doot-di-doo, 

minding my business 
like a salvation champ 
of all time, grieving, 
praying for the damned 
on the sly (probably not 
supposed to, but - who's 
it hurt?). Thoughts and 
prayers, all my peeps 

in hell. What the hell, 
though. Yeah,

something about that whole 
place smells wrong. It's 
the brimstone.

Maybe. 

the moon killers

the moon killers practice 
at their lunacidal craft, 
recruited up from infancy 
and trained not to laugh 

by instinct education as 
the moon creeps full, 
all over earth the moon 

killers 

wax anxietal.
Watching night by
night it grows plainer,
fuller yet: this gibbousness 

won't stop increasing, 
ever. 'Til we rise 
one night and 
do the ritual 

that sends
the moon back, 
back from the full

not messing

The looks you give with your eyes
Make me wish I could smooth
and soothe your brow and brows
with fingertip kisses and tugs
of earlobes (your, mine, ours
hey, however it goes). I want
to play nose duels and chin wars.
I'd massage your cheeks 'til you
glowed from pores, then your eyes
would flash and spark! "Hey! What
the hell you doing man?" Oh
oh
my heart

Yin/Yang generally

Parts of you are soft.
The light behind your eyes. 
Those places of your form and being
spike the light hard-held in mind
behind the light in mine,

so soft.

You cannot see 
the point and edge 
and warm hard club
in burgeoning to
bludgeoning inside
a mind grown firm
and dense in your
caress -

- by softnesses,
with such keen thought,
strong feel concealed
within you, playing out
revealed to me unstressed,
and natural.

We're such a mess! 

Between us made 
quite incoherent, yet we sense
a coalesce, perchance congeal.
Wethinks confess, protesting
not at all. We feel

to condescend a bit,

to find
communion
in a rush and tussle,
tousled writhe and fall, 
undressed and blessed
with sweat and sharp incense
and all, to rise again - or better, 
lie

and breathe
and grin, just bathe
in aftermath
aglow. 

Behold! Behave! The one
made up of two! Lies here!
That legendary beast of
burden, labor, love and wings
uplifting us in songs
to sing, now sprawls
in rest and recreation's pause,
me gathering you

gathering.  

Now see?? Was that 
so hard but soft? OK,
it was. Now
in your voice
which turns in flip
and somersault 
to catch me every time
it calls in nets of choices
I'd have always sought, and
always made if given any
choice you gave, your voice

is soft. And I 

no longer breathe so hard. 

What fond parade of thoughts
and prayers is playing now 
behind your eyes - and I, 
no fool! Behind mine, too.
And you can see as well, I
find. 

It isn't hard.
It's easy, babe. But
parts of me are hard
sometimes
to take. 

Sometimes
you cannot see.
But soft! But still, I sense
you know the pattern
and the path we've laid
to curve and interlocking shape
with holes of light and dark
arrayed, displayed, designed 

for none to see 
but you and I. 

And oh, who kids! Who cares - 
the world can see quite well! 
They snicker, grinning giggling 
- or maybe it's a scent, a smell 
that clues them in. 

That Yin/Yang stank.
So dark and bright
like incense notes
arising in a heady glass
of potent grapes, 

so redolent of earth 
and snow   

how now

Well since "what's up" 
is pretty dead and gone -
well, anyway. Played 
out. Still running, but 
wrong - no punch no
juice no jolt no
fun, I say 

say
HOW NOW? 
instead!
Where we meet
any hale and/or hearty
and familiar to greet!

And return "well-met!"
as the comeback! Yes!

Will it work? Ya, 
you bet:  

"HOW NOW?" 
"Well-met!" 

Slam-dunk. All set.
It's as easy as pee in the pants
of a punk! Just picture 

two punks: "HOW NOW?" 
"Well-met!"

And that's all they have to say!
Nobody gets stumped. No one's
"on the spot" tryna know 

what's up.
But 
of course "how now?" 
could be 

anywhat or why. So,
you do have options,
but they're optional. 
Sly.  

folk etymology (truth's cute sin)

All fiction needs
is a much-needed gap
made in what's not known,
so can never be
fact. Then

we fashion
to fit, and it slips,
click!
in.

Conflicting
with nothing, it's
truth's
cute
sin. 

not/just sayin'

people allergic to dogs and cats 
I bet that they're happy sometimes
about that 

immaculate aim

I worry about miracles 
but God knows
what God's doing,
I guess.

I know that we 
could use a few, but 
there are people worse 
than you. And there are many 
worse than me. And maybe we 
will go alright. Just down 
with this. With all this here. 
Just what could be

Still I
would settle for
one night 

of miracles,
even though, I know 
you would never tolerate 
such gifts. You know 
how much they need 

elsewhere 

Aim miracles there
Aim miracles there

everylady dancing

What if every lady I ever met 
and fancied a look or what
else I could get were
collected en masse 
in a nude
discotheque,
grinding and twerking
and working a sweat while I hung
just suspended above the dancefloor,
in a slow-twirling airborne glass cage, 
with my meat on display like a sex 
zoo exhibit galore?

My hands grip 
the bars - my eyes frantic, implore 
someone anyone! Please get me
out of this, or

I will rage in the cage,
and the glass may break!
And - look. falling glass? That
sounds dangerous, mate. Falling me,
too! Smack! Slapping into
that crowd
of happy nude every
lady I'd rather not injure, 
somehow.  

Anyway, what if that? So what?
What if then? 
What would I do, hotshot? 
And when? And 
how would I know 
to go docile or rogue? 

I tell you what I'd do.
I'd vogue
vogue
vogue

sharks for arms

The men with sharks for arms
are going dream to dream
seeking you.

They're maiming and injuring
everyone
who gets in
their way.

In these dreams,
it's real pain like
nothing you've felt
before in a dream.

In shock,
missing parts
in bites and bits, and
slipping to black from blood

loss

- only to wake up
fine! But
you can bet,

people are going
nuts on social media
all about it:

Who ARE you? Why
is the Shark-Arm Army
so bent on tracking you

down?

The Shark Armers
don't know your name of course,

but
they
sure
give a thorough description.

And it’s everywhere.

People who know
you are excited.

An atmosphere
of conspiracy
surrounds you,
but

the temptation, as
you can imagine, is
or must be

terrible.

enough with the fucking jazz age

Enough
with the fucking jazz age.
I'm sick
of these jazz age mystery
shows.
The shows
would be fine. I like
the cars,
the clothes,
the plots and detectives'
lines,

but

it's
evident
in the score:

Whoever they hired
is some kind of jazz
age nut! Their picks
- plummy croons and
jump swing tunes -
seem insufferably
coy, and smug
as fuck.

And
it pains
who must watch.

It costs shows dear.

We fight through
insulting musical cues
to get to charged twists
and drama points prized.

Just trying to keep the suspense
we'd choose alive, through
such catastrophically puerile,
insipid musical insertions,
ruining dialogue, chases,

even clues!

Here comes
some awful
jazz

excuse.

You can sense those hired
to put them in.
Behind the scenes, grinning -
in ear-to-ear leer, wickedly
ruining jazz age shows.

It's pretty nice work
if you're a hateful piece,
with terrible, snobbish taste
who loves to shove it in
everyone's face
and sneer.

my classy friend

I stood in the kitchen shoveling 
food - the last of the breakfast, 
plate to maw
by forkful shove. 

I'd risen abstractedly to clear 
my plate when I saw 
I had not cleared my plate
- how rude! It was hammed 
and tomatoed eggs, and someone 
had made quite a scramble of them. 
To dishonor the pigs and hens 
and plants, all such labors of love 
was beyond my ken. So I raised it 
to mouth - the obvious choice! 

And shoveled delicious voraciously 
in. 

And thought in a flash 
of my classy friend. 

Look. I don't think she would 
"disapprove" as such. She would 
probably laugh like bells and blush 
to see my pure manner and natural grace 

engaged in such ways 
of feeding my face, but 

it probably would confirm something. And 
if she'd been there, I feel I know for sure 
- I probably might have had presence of mind 
in greater, specific amount 

to deplore.

But 
maybe quite not.
Maybe not rather. 
It's possible that wouldn't cross my mind,
or it's possible
I would transgress such line, since 

her standards are hers, not mine, I find.
And I think this here attitude, cool and aloof 
from unnatural affect and held value 

is something she actually prizes, a bit! 
We're examples to each, in what's
just 
fit.  

Outmainstreaming

Thing is, I've always been mainstream. 
A lot of people didn't notice, 'cause I 
wasn't quite type. I defiantly touted
and barged around, charging mainstream
cause, with the weight of all right, which 

isn't much done! By the mainstream 
laws. But the fact is, I was always more 
mainstream than you. You didn't really 
notice, 'cause you were aligned 
but I was polarized

like a laser light burning right
through. So I pulsed so in perfect time
with that mainstream shine, I was always
just-so, and then some. And then 

some people didn't notice. They thought
I was some kind underground whore
of alternative current, subversive
and such.  

But I wasn't. I was main 
stream core. Too much.  

I'm only coming out now 
to do it some more. 

So notice next time! I am
way 
main 
stream 
galore. 

An Ode to U and S and A

When I talk about America 
- the Land I Free by my Very
Presence in Mind - naturally 
others don't know that, but 
it's right there in the senses 
and evidence, ideally. Anyway, 

naturally I get a flag in my throat 
which must unfurl on the humid 
and billowing breeze of my sweet, 
hard, shining words, naked as steel 
and twice as pointy. I stand a patriot 

to a round of ale and uncork a sort 
of Nietzschean pastiche of battle 
hymns to a democratic republic 
idea of will, which the Neetzch 
would probably declare me dead 
over, from just beyond the grave, 

but 

I don't care! My country is the one 
they call Tisovthy, in the old song 
I know much by heart. I roll purple 
grains in majesty for my own
mountainous amusement and 
call it fair, foul, fine, and free 
on all sides - as I deem each warrants 
from basis on merit, and guess what? 

This is what America means! 
Free stuff. Cheese, of a peculiarly 
undistinguished sort. Great beers, 
once you get into the minors. A 
huge, titillating abundance of 
emphasis on sex, tits, ass, 
pussy, and of course, religion
- opt-in! All of it! Rock, roll 
and who knows what they've 
come up with next! This! 

This is what we've got to fight. 

THIS is what we've got to fight for. 

We must use each and all our inbounded  
unalienability of human reason to identify 
and critique our ideals. This way only
we stand up, speak out and march! Nobody's
fool, we! Time for a truth bomb - get in the 
echo chamber if you can't stand it.

I mean, if you care you should dare. Right? 

Find out about what you care about first, 
probably. America is the cahoots caboose 
of the world's train of thought in full-on
canoodle mode trying to woo the whole
world's mind to our way, our side, as if
Burger King had never existed. As if Pepsi
were not an option. Well, have it our way
if you like!

You're free too. 

I suggestively recommend though, you 
take a big ol' look-see at what you're 
getting into first, 'cause it's great. 

Caveat Empire

Straight maybe

Listen. I knew this was a chance
when I took it with half a thought 
and my whole heart. And now 

you know about me. What I am. 
Or if you don't, it's time you did. 
So 

you know
you can decide what we've gotten 
you into. You need to know this 

about me. 

I am the mack dandy. 
The big pizza-eater. 
The one with the thumbs.
The trouble bubble,
and when I swell it goes
out to the ionosphere,
and when I pop it's like

every cop in the world 
got called and its a panic
scramble nightmare of 
paperwork, filling out 
reports and applications
for warrants, warranted
and not in a huge ass-covery
recovery ops binge preparatory
to the greatest red-tape bureaucracy
parade never seen.

They have to pull a hush-up 
when I'm on the scene, or it's 
a bad look for them. I don't 

want that. I'm mild in my 
aspirations, I can't help it 
my effect's so outsize. When 
I'm home, I'm home for business. 
The whole walls and windows, 
cupboards and draws setup hums
with the echoes of past business,
and guides with as-if spectral hands
the way future business is tended
to.

Basically, 

I do the dirty daily-duly on duty mode,
and I don't question what I must or wanna,
'cause it's gonna happen like it had to, and
fate's big hand in the game is afoot - 

but today, dearie?

You and me hold all the cards. For now
and for once, it's no business of anyone's
but the whole wide world if we stay,
hit, raise, show or fold. You knew 

all this about me the moment 
you first held my eyes, I thought. 
But now I've got to know. Did 
you? Do you now? And what 
do you say? 

If I'm wrong, it could be 
the wrong one of us got 
sucker-punched in the eyes 
that day, that night, that week 
those months so long ago, at 
that cowboy disco hoedown 
we dragged ourselves to, and 
it's kinda funny neither of us 

tumbled to it since, if so. 

You know me. 
You know what I am. Am I 
problem to you? Solution?
Opportunity, challenge, 
comfort, head-rest, heartstring 
or just a puzzle? I

don't need to know. You 
don't need to answer. Not 
now, not ever, but I needed 

to put this out there. To give you 
this chance. You could take it now,
whenever,
or forever. 

bigotry math

How can you hate 
the Taiwanese? How 
many them have you met?
Girl, please. There's twenty three
million of them back home, and 

I bet you haven't met twenty-three,

where you roam.
Yes, sure, some roam
and settle around. Near you, 

even maybe. Face to face
in a crowd, but how many
have you met yet? Truly?

So far? 

Enough sample size 
to fill up a bar 
on a graph you plot 
to declare all the rest 
same beans? Good 
as bad? Real hate?

Is that 
the paltry, vacuous 
make-believe thing hate 
means?

pleased & uneasy

We feel pleased and uneasy, 
unnerved to find this alien 
slant in a natural mind, which 
in other ways makes all sense 
and fit. 

So we think we might like 
to acquire it

dogs are cool

dogs are totally fucking cool 
to lie down and sleep when 
there's nothing to do, 'cause 
they totally trust you to wake 
them up! If there's anything

cool, 

they'll be fresh like a pup. And 

dogs have no fear of missing out. 
They know that you wouldn't 
just leave them behind! They 
have purpose and energy, always 
aligned. They know just what to 
do, if you give them a sign, and 

maybe train them to obey what 
it means. That's just
the dog's trick! What
it is, what it
seems.