After you passed, I unearthed
bugs, grubs, and facehuggers
in all the things they told me
I needed to eat to live —
noodles, garlic cashews,
and the squirming sounds
of nervosa. Sixty pounds of
seared meat taught me little.
But decay, like sadness,
is only half-contagious.
Your silence also spoke
in all of us the Lesson:
that the Stillborn is
still born, that the
Dirt cannot be dashed,
and that Our Past can
only rot the Rest
if We attempt to rip it
Like you used to, now I smile
between two chubby cheeks.
It’s the life above not the boots you want. Proud LL Bean atop the tundra. We all look good in print. Unsure for certain what I’d do without pursuits poetical. Prolly haha all day. Mutation from youth to 30 sorely yearn for loud friends. Carousing. Scanty money’s enough. Lack thereof, lean pockets. Books. Learn the life of the mind is what it means to live right now. Young at heart. Fee-fi future accosting new thought. If we were trees we could reach round the power lines. Grow rows and rows. Don’t look down a long road. To be unwavering, unwanting. No yen. Fo-fum. Fresh never frozen. Burns but you have to buy your own adventure. Or dream it.
Step 1. Procure a pet. Canines, felines, and even bovines are preferred (s/t w/ big eyes and fur will do the trick, though I’d advise against the llama — they spit).
Step 1a. Pet your new pet frequently.
Step 1b. Achieve ego-death by dint of a newfound selfless love for aforesaid pet. (This sub-step (1b) is everything really)
Step 2. Apply prenominate concept (1b (supra)) to each and every other aspect of your life, esp. those involving interpersonal relations; the acquisition and accumulation of material wealth; the oxymoronic (and really rather silly if you come to think of it) notion…
When he rose to adulthood I reviled him, judged from a false high. He was on drugs and unemployed and cadging money from our family, and this angered me: your average work-obsessed, unaware American. And thus the last hundred interactions I had with him were merely one-sided indictments: iniquities and unctuous penalties from an impenitent know-it-all who was also mooching and stoning and coasting and comatosing with substances. The differences between us were superficial, but we lived in a superficial country, and so I was deemed superior. But because he’s now dust at the bottom of the Atlantic, I can…
Shame we burn
our being for numbers:
blue maths cold past
consumes till future’s tubed,
choiceless mortis of the now.
Pill: I take another sight:
a Sun so numb he’s unseeing.
Fahren, dinero, height, might
I undo him tonight? Mm.
To immolate. Facultative.
Pills. Bills. 150+ Pokèmon.
I was a picayune will be dead
soon. Our star’ll sink dusty when
she shakes her sickly head.
Puke: I’m quietly sorry for quarreling,
better me to you. Dear tutor: noose.
Gallows. Thousands. Living for cowards.
Thou sand and thou Sun hath forsaken us,
all but One. Couldn’t begin to count them
down. Would need to start now.
* Originally published for LinkedIn’s From the Creative Director’s Desk series
Just the other day, while eating a candy bar, I thought about an oft-heard word: creative, now a noun. What does it really mean to be a creative? What greater humanistic impact does creative advertising have on society? On COVID? On the future of our great country? As designers, copywriters, and directors for big, beautiful brands like Ford and Nestlè, we need to know where we fit in the new future of the West. For example: Why do we still have our jobs when so many don’t? I’ve seen…
He had been behaving so strangely lately, and this had kept her waking — idly vacillating between vague, late-night streams and gnawing at her newly manicured nails. A quick pop with the fellas, that’s all he said, but what does that entail? Those fellas were bachelor assholes, still pining for undignified fun well into their 30s.
Her accusations dissipated to make room for frustration: the nippled light glowing above the foyer flickered. She had told him explicitly he needed to fix it one night this week, but he hadn’t. …
If hell were a city,
we’d feel no such pity
for the man who ran it, would we?
And if I were a Father
who lopped heads in water,
would the Judge ever let me be?
And if I were a Mother
alone, swollen, smothered,
would the Lamb not share my shame?
But all is forgiven
when He who is Risen
condemns his frail children to flame.
“It could all be over tomorrow: kill our masters and start again.” — Killer Mike
The bourgeoisie are in a bind: in the absence of hard work, they haven’t the least idea of what to do with the newfound time. Their hobbies and interests have always been placeholders, not passions — plied only to push through those last two or three waking hours in a day. This discloses the dominance of their employers, not to mention the voluntary cuckoldry of the average white-collar worker.
“Oppression’s ultimate resource [is the] cooperation of the oppressed,” claimed the scholar Seamus Deane¹ about the…
Writer and rural poet.