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photo: davy carren

We’ve got all the news that’s fit to be liked. “I am not a moron,” harrumphs the moron. Nonsensical responses that could also be referred to as lies or just distractions. Diplomacy’s daylight never saved. We are dashing around in circles here. All catastrophes aside, there are more porous circumstances to attend to. Not even looking the part anymore. Strategies are for more capable personalities than any we’ve come to know. Plans? Disorganized blather and iconic retribution. “There’s nothing to see here, so look over there, and then forget there ever was a here. I never said that.” Not even brave enough to outsmart a reporter. A real showboating loser, that chunk of a cheese cake. He’s a set-shot paper-towel shooter during a crisis, and he’s got his sights on another tax break — one that, “Believe me,” works out great for him. “You’ve never seen anything like it. It’s the best. It’s absolutely fucking gorgeous.” Sure. Sure. Reassurances are just something to count, but never to count on. We’re all just vying for time, here, in the partly ashamed rubble of the always behooved interests of the rich and greedy, of the incompetent overseers whose misdeeds aren’t even hidden anymore. “That dirty laundry? It doesn’t exist. Stop being so petty. Take this healthcare, away please.” All’s unfair in politics and woe, darlings. Buck up. We, who are ravaged by the inaction of dolts and devils, come to unfit terms with causation’s buckled knees, and then it’s just stunted fits, strangled by your necktie again. America? America. God’s cash, his grace a plea. And hide thy worse with insulting words, from tweet to shitty tweet. We’re dealing in prefabricated context. The lost art of deception’s gone hackneyed and lumbering through pesticide-sprayed, GMO waves of grain. Who are we but what’s left when the room clears, when the terrorist sharpshooter’s gone to hell without remorse? The news ticker scrolls drivel, on and on, and we die a little bit more with each hour’s abhorrence. Another gut check for the truer of heart. And we cling to the lonely places where inanition strands us with bitten heels and disheveled minds. Trust is not an option when too many theories are given credence in some over-abundant dumpsite of plenty. So, we scream upstream, rushed and wounded to this, divided and unreasonable, perhaps wondering where all the fishes swam off to, or if there were ever any here to begin with. Sing without me. Forget to rebel when it’s too inconvenient. Disagree in unison and just out of earshot. Choke on your lost cause. Never mind me. Horticulture’s my middle name. Shit. Well, at least the line’s still open at (646) 851–0347, even though we’ve all got a little less than nothing left to say.

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