Do that thing again. You cry while I hold you, like the little baby I am. Don’t look now, but wow, I’ve never fucked up so completely. Oh wait, yes I have.
Should I die tonight, does this legacy of rambling so easily capture as the dry moans of midnight thunder, the shaken masses; flashing my love letters down deep thrombosis of their breaths. Licking clean their contented smiles, byte by byte.
The saddest realization of all: that happiness does not breed romance. Destined for solitude until the need arises. A meaningful day within a meaningless life. I accept your cordial invitation to a humble doom - to always fall back in love. A wolfish grin tailored by sheep.
Discovery lies on the other end of a precarious beam with escapism.
This won’t make it to anyone except an unmonitored email generating standard responses or the journalism student interning for less than minimum wage, but hey, what the hell?
I wanted to provide feedback to the New York Times, as a relatively long time reader of several years. I abhor NYT’s coining of the recent political cooperation between Russia, China, and Iran as “the new axis.” I know you did that because scaring people into reading makes you money. Its shock value surpasses the daily basic click-bait bombarding your readers, thus winning today’s battle in viewership.
While I maintain you have the right to make money, you do not have the right to assist in building the scaffolding of a new war – worldwide or other. Americans do not want another war, and do not need another war. Likely, you took some money on the side from an interested lobbying group to print that out. Or perhaps an NYT executive rubbed shoulders with LD, L3 Harris, or other profiteers of death and destruction this weekend at the golf course and they caught you at a time where NYT needed to pad the bottom line.
Either way, your rhetoric in this instance is immoral. What our people want and need are basic human rights and a redistribution of wealth. After decades at war, our middle class has been demolished, our relationship with the world community dissolves, and our planet smolders both literally and figuratively. Until your competitors go back to printing Roe v. Wade, you won’t go back to covering the loss of human rights because you feed on fresh dissent, not on moral principle. You won’t talk about wealth disparity until you need to save face either.
Still, I plead, at least do not so flippantly toss around the concept of world war 3 as if hundreds of thousands of civilians as collateral and thousands of America’s poor as soldiers don’t stand to lose their lives because of it.
Their deaths are on your hands now.
Something inside me used to be angry; I gnawed off it. Something to listen to on the way to everywhere - nod with it. Some pills that spilt over my bedside nodding off them. Every now and then I don’t hate myself, but not often. Flash - the lightning grumbles. Crash - my thoughts crumble. Something inside me remembers the toast, shit, I'm not with it.
Remember you die, so you do not forget to live.
It’s my job not to pay attention, but I listen.
I like to hear them laugh
and enjoy each other.
I love their stories and their snores through
a well-earned nap.
I like to hear their families say,
“Jacob turns eight this year.”
that’s Carl you’re thinking of,
but that’s okay.
I weep inside for
their breakup’s, their hard times,
their mom’s sick.
They piece my heart back together
when they ask their
if they’ve eaten. They called
just to ask that and if
they could pick anything up.