I mean, seriously. Look
at these ugly-ass
chickenshit fuckstains.
These are the
faces of true fascism.
And for you stupid people ( although you’re
probably too dumb to know who you are):
Fascism (/ˈfæʃɪzəm/) is a form of far-right, authoritarian
ultranationalism characterized by dictatorial power, forcible suppression of
opposition and strong regimentation of society and of the economy.
Formatting is slightly fucked up,
but it's still fun for the whole family
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1FZz7lY4qzTr9CTdzAG6q8wtby3gQnHJT/view?usp=sharing
Violent
revolution is always one, of course.
Go
figure.
reading
is a pretty revolutionary act.
I
use the word “fuck” a lot, so
that
helps, too.
And
Apple! And I don’t
even have an iPhone.
Well,
fuck me hard and call me happy……
https://books.apple.com/us/book/the-bliss/id461739806
This is the way it was originally supposed to look way back in 2010,
but the hosting site decided that the file was too big, so everything fell apart.
Photos (except for the one below) by Rebecca Etter.
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1pJvyULkAcM2P26lBsLtvUg3g48z-KMMT/view?usp=sharing
More words than you ever knew existed:
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1T0M_1lbZD5eNfwfcS5HiZkPJsRiKzMp-/view?usp=sharing
So, I
started writing when I was 12 or 13. It’s
okay to admit it - creating’s fun.
Several
years passed, and I decided it was time to start sending my work out into the
world and see if anyone felt like publishing it. It was about this time that I stumbled upon
the secret of creating art - no matter how amazing what you’ve just done is,
you should NEVER overestimate its ultimate insignicance in the bigger
picture. Seriously. We’ll all be dead sooner or later and then,
beyond that, the assholes who think they run this world will either blow it up
or finish the job of running it into the ground.
Prove
me wrong. I dare you.
So, to
pass the time, I write. Sometimes I
paint. I know it’s better than watching
reality tv, and I hope it’s better
than getting hooked on crystal meth.
And,
occasionally, I wonder if my generally misanthropic outlook on the state of
things isn’t some kind of mid-life crisis.
But then I look back through time and realize that, no, I’ve been a
wise-cracking smartass caught in a tarpit of existential despair for as long as
I can remember. It’s entertaining, and
the chicks dig it.
BUT
WHAT’S THE POINT?!?! you ask. WHY ALL OF
THIS NAVEL-GAZING??!!
Shut
up. I’m getting there.
As I
write, I periodically like to send out manuscripts for possible book
publication. Why not? And I have found, to my initial surprise,
that there are THREE responses I get from publishers.
The
first, and most popular by far, is the tried-and-true flat-out rejection. Oh well.
The
second, of course, is the acceptance, and the people who have spent their time
and money publishing my whining and ranting have my most sincere, deepest
gratitude.
And
then there’s the acceptance, that never quite pans out. It’s an odd creature. “Yes!” the publisher cries. “I want to publish this!” And there is the first flush of excitement as
we start hammering out the details.
And
then days pass, and then weeks and months and years. Communication gets more infrequent. Excuses are offered. Occasionally, a press goes under. These things happen. More frequently though, is that the publisher
has had a change of heart, but doesn’t want to A) hurt my feelings, or B) spur me into an enraged killing spree.
I, of
course, eventually get to the point where I say “Well, fuck it - I’m not gonna beg this asshole to publish my work”,
and I move on.
And my
record keeping sucks.
And I
don’t delete files nearly as often as I should.
And so
now I have quite a few unpublished manuscripts lying around, and a few that
were published electronically for only a 24 hour window (and wtf is up with
that?), and it’s time to get off my ass.
None of this shit is going to make me a millionaire. There’s no real special occasion I’m saving
it for, and I stand by all of it as quality work. I’ll start posting links to the e-books here
over the next however many weeks. But,
since my record keeping truly is
atrocious, I can’t guarantee that some of these poems haven’t seen the light of
day in a book or magazine somewhere. My
advance apologies to any editors or publishers who this might annoy.
On the
bright side, it’ll only be annoying until we’re dead.
minotaur at the
water’s edge,
end of winter, a
direct hit
the days all laid
out in
delicate tangled
webs of
silence &
despair and
fear is a weapon,
yes,
but not yours
the hands can be
broken,
the heart pulled out
the children can be
made to sing
show them their
mother on fire
let them see the
humor in human
misery
all of these fuckers
who will
tell you that
they’re not
monsters, and what
they all
have in common is
that
they’re monsters
all of these gods
demanding your
obedience
your money
you call it politics
or
you call it religion
and
either way
you bleed
or this
idea of everything lost
eventually
being found
this
idea of hope as a
fist in
the shape of god
a dog
on fire crossing
an
endless desert
because
listen -
what’s
the point of being
famous
once you’re dead?
we are
a kingdom of corpse-fuckers.
for
sure,
but why
not try to pull our heads
from
our asses and
see the
clean light of day?
and
this is what i ask frankie b,
you
understand,
on the
eve of little georgie’s death,
and he
just pours himself another
drink
and looks right through me
wants
to talk about love but
he’s
not drunk enough
to get
the words out
talks
about self-hatred instead
and on
this, at least, we agree
over
this, at least, we can share
a meal
of rancid meat and
splintered
bones
a feast
for the jackals we
suspect
we’ve become
