bump at warp speed

tiny sins number as cells in the skin scaffolding of any member
society's limits don't begin to get fussy past the second column over
at the layer where personal discomfort is the greatest matter

all flesh is in time-calibrated centrifugal tension
big picture allows free sprouts to meet the cutting level
all else mulches down among the living's ankles

bump at warp speed, you know it should be something big
not just the worm hole ribs torsing by nor structural flaw;
another dimension pressing in could drastically alter being.



Illyn
"My face is torn from being born of rock."

To all Fanfest participants

You underestimate my numeric system for buy and sell orders.
It could not be more simple or devastating:
single numeral. or alternating numeral.
What power does this give me what power this gives me is
High-relief visual trackability. Sensitive bug detection. Brand recognition, fear, loyalty. Fractal beauty upon processing. No charge.
Psychological Mind-Ef: If you tried to copy me it would be like you loved me or something.
Some try and get burned out by numbing sameness of it, seems only decorative, lose self-respect.
Don't see how it cuts through the false and arbitrary 1's-5's-and-0's waypoints of the decimic logic paradigm.

7,777,777.77
1.11
23.23
191,919,191.91
666,666

Ayre Fromme Diaz
[Phyllis]

hypnoid

I started out by developing a test that would diagnose any individual with the most horrifying universal aspects of human consciousness stated in the most disturbing possible fashion. It was a pyramid in the sense that no one was sacred or untouchable if you wanted to succeed or the alleged auto-glass business model: break out car windows to drum up business. I knew it would work because I myself am hypnoid. To an even higher level than the average sucker, I am stopped dead in my tracks and drugged in my own juices by a voice, a face. The audio cassettes of my great aunt with their hand-typed labels, her missionary sound letters from Taiwan, had a hoodoo on them. Would flip a switch. And I didn't really know what she was saying, but we mustn't let it stop. Her goal was to narcolepse across continents and generations from beyond the grave and the Iron Curtain.

Would that you be looking through my eyes at the children all in white cotton blouses with their slates and ribbons and scholastic badges. Would the street dog, the sadhu, plaza fowl taste their pure lunch broth and noodle. Were to be so young again and given the choice while still in my tenderness to receive Christ unto me into my soul and spring strength up through the whole and length of my body into my arms and legs and feet and hand so that I might too lift others up into His mightiness and glory forever and ever.

But because of the restraints of my own moral structure I could not profit and grew to use my design as an auto-mocking performance artifice. In this way I could retroactively focus my labor into self-illumination piercing enough to drive me toward virtue. But there I focus as if upon a star and I upon a noble and impossible voyage as Earth grows smaller behind me, and the star remains exactly the same size, if not dimmer with the thinning of the atmosphere.


Hoolie
"Here, from decades into the future."

eyelet screws

can't... bear... wakefulness
today the bad is any news
seeing even double in twos
send me on a path I'll lose
hang me on a nail or use
wire and some eyelet screws

shoot me with a tranq dart
from an elephant gun
for the present i have no art
and it isn't fun
get me right in the neck... part
ere I can run.


Reptily
"I think I am Reptily."

Disciplinarians of conscience

You
seemed like a decadent
distraction that I really couldn't
afford at a delicate time of
transition.

I
Could swear at least I'm not
sitting around spending energy
on pasatiempos that snatch at my
attention.

There're
Snapping anemones
in eight bay windows of the building
starring as disciplinarians
of conscience.

It's
something I'm finding in
myself and projecting you
at will onto the forbidden scrim
horizon.


Donna
"Spin, vajra"

Victory lap

prison break, five months out:
warm's finally won, desert gone,
one-hand driving home, windows

down. rays of sun from behind a
cloud, my head, a crown and
the harvest sure now as a weed.

celebrate, let hounds run free, but
in only moments from the yard
there are squeaks, the loudest able

baby alarm. a flashlight found the
nest blown, grass strewn with tiny
leporidae and what they bleed.

as a rain begins, I shuttle ear kits,
nine fur packets one at a time, like
a bitch, to ground cover, also new,

across my neighbor's fence. elbow
in tremors, the contrite older dog
helps me find every doomed one.


Phyllis
"Planets turning two ways at once."

Oops, actually

Intentions were all we had to fall back on:
Naive, goodhearted vainglory.

Not because the outcomes were whalecrap.
They floated like miracles, to be true.

We're successful at what we do, rather.
And not sinister at all, on a spectrum.

It's the meaning we always get mucked up in.
If you only knew how little mistakes mattered.

I work in my own private panopticon.
Work it till I've spent the last good drop.

Then I slumber against the bricks under where the eye's painted,
the open eye on the wall I laid with my sweat and a trowel.

I wake in the wool of the sheep who eat the grass I planted,
wondering why so many creatures would stick around.


Reptily
Kathmandu, 14

Mine canary

when you were done you sat on the edge of the bed looking at yr shoes and i dismissed you by closing my eyes but your outline stayed, and a shadow, dark maroon on light maroon. my mind is an instrument that works with or without the input of light and a blind whore once told me a mind will still produce its own color projections-- what, with no optic nerves at all? If they are dead or even missing? This man was completely blind, I had my eyes closed to dismiss you, and yet your shadow was in my mind staring at the floor as if your shoes would walk themselves over and climb onto your feet, and I knew anyway you were still there.

i doubt it's true what we think of as clarity is just a point on a spectrum of perception-- that's hocus pocus; it's bullshit. there is such a thing as seeing clearly, not seeing clearly, seeing but not wanting to see, wanting to see but not seeing. what i saw when i closed my eyes for example was my vanity, my horrible insensitivity toward your innocent fantasies about our love. with my eyes closed i could see you sitting there seeing and not seeing, with your back to me, seeing me better turned away than straining your eyes to look up at my face when yr crouched between my knees. i don't really know what you knew but i can guess from seeing.

i don't even know for sure what drugs you're on or how they might affect the type of functions on a space travelling telescope that go wrong or get enhanced through fine tuning from an earth station or hits by gamma rays or junk or rock and ice mists, whatever it finds beyond the farthest layer of what we can slough off tho not too far to project signals that can travel but few scientists even know i guess if such messages are really matter or just waves of stuff that's already there hopping in a different rhythm from a chain reaction you can make with our advanced machines that supposedly started by smashing bones with different kinds of rock.

clarity and metaphoric light come from all kinds of senses of course, pheromones, the pitching of the voice or when you hear me scratch or sigh at night or how many rings before someone does or does not answer a phone or a pause in texts that someone inside you knows is different even though your main operating persona is officially a sight beast, plain talking, private man who expects everyone to keep their peace on or question their vision at the peril of loss or retribution for the antennae who knew too much and got cocky with their secret knowledge no matter how available it was the whole time; i respect by not thinking much.


Ken
For the Chama-Tilly 
Fordamall Chank Motel

< b >Meaning = ?< /b >

Be clear
Feel clear (lucid) (no emotional storming)
Speak clearly (pronunciation) (logic) (reason)
Clarity
produce v. encounter
difficult/ easy

dogs feet on laminate sound like tap dancers
dancers tapping seem like gloating animals of prey

truth:
problematize/ catastrophize clarity
see: Dr. Bro. Cornell West

Problemity

Clear path to objective = + ?

9:30-10:06 pm: mostly eating strongly-flavored Jelly Bellies both individually and in random combinations, twitching nose, attempting to name discrete flavors while staring at unfinished course outline

Clarevity
Clareol

Enjoyment of fog/ privacy
Ambiguesstine

Pedestalation
attempt to spectacularize realistic flavorings and believable generic texture placeholders as example of few modern inventions to live up to childhood expectations of Future (source: A Wrinkle in Time)

To deprive, deceive or blind in order to inspire
Sadistucate/ Masostication
(hairshirts/ witchboarding)

Yellow cake flavor tricked me into drinking milk
Nourishion

metaphor/ simile = path to/from light?

my face smells like skunk even after my shampoo
to catch a cousin who knows my smell I roll in doo

Drug free:
schizoid: bad/ ambien whore: good

Drugged:
good: communion wine/ bad: vat of communion wine
bad: thorazine; bad: heroin; excellent: heroin; heaven: heroin; destruction of all we know to be good: heroin (crack, meth, pcp, kids smoking pcp, crack whore, designer drug, designer whore; drugged whore: good?)

Drugs that will clearly be available in heaven:
Marlboro, Black Label

Future = Heaven? Clear path = +?

Low visibility slows traffic/ grounds flight
Clarity = grounding? Clear intention = outcome?
Can happen what can picture = +/-/ Can happen what not pictured = bad?

Love of dogs> love of people/ dogs thoughts clear/ unclear?
Legitimable?
clear = simple? gray area between simple and complicated = clear?

Light/ burn/ sunglasses/ dark/ clear/ W. Blake/ racism/ clear black = clear dark?
Whitecade/ Clarior
Blindness-sun; nightburn-? solar eclipse = auspicious/ lunar eclipse = ominous

Hell in Drugs:
Thorazine, MD 20/20, Rabies

Opposite of clear: foaming at mouth/ or you can't handle the truth

Tap dancing: produce = heaven; encounter = ?

Carnivorance
Claws curl under to gouge at food/ prevent efficient travel on sheer surfaces

Meaning = ?



Phyllis
"Stuck at Peg's all week, beacon down."

Foundation of society

My abductor was hot,
I went along to save my life,
And then they blamed me.

I love my kids but they were
No help as prerequisites for
Whut? Beach house, husband

Also not plugs for a bottle of
Nasty funtime perpetrator jizz.
Can I be held guilty for cumming

All those nights and waiting for
Him alone at the motel? I was
Mortified and trembling horny.

At least I didn't take a drink and
I have preserved my sobriety
Date. My sanity map is intact.

All I ever learn is don't get in
Trouble surrounded by idiots.
Right, mom: think it through.

But then if our society were not
Vapid and trite, wd I even be in
This rifonkindonkulous situation?


Peg

Dead Family

Tomorrow is a place of mind
Where we can fade together
And disappear at the same time.

Dead family don't split off,
Don't wander away alone;
Thank you for not leaving me.

Grown-ups and babies one,
Today it's no matter where,
Know you can always call.

Dead family may choice out
But it's a package deal, and
I'm so thankful not to worry.

I feel good, dear family in a
mode of thought that we're gone,
already safe from what happens.


Dad

Snow on new grass

Thank you for going on record as my associate;
It is a good feeling being peopled by the proud
N' strong, warms like a text bong for the illiterate.

Blooming all over, from the breath of the young,
Unfortunate flowers of ice layers are going down
To remind us of dogs and that their shit is brown.

Thanks for taking a moment to click on my icon;
Me I can't find one peer who merits their full-time
Collusion in this paradigm of queerbait jobmakers.


by Ken

Springtime of regret

Eyes of twill, goddess like-- she may not answer
Trailing warp strands of wind from the bluing pupil,
Drapes her finer bands of woof in cave, out wood.

To a boy she gifts a turn of earth as if she'd forgot,
Like God above, she decides, she may not answer;
Giving cover is to suggest or hide uncertain luster.

He may not ask her what has died, so if to mourn
And might himself unlace as if to smoke, to roam,
And being out of place, find in her wake a home.


Phyllis
"Find me on Paul_Verlaine_Cam.net"

Useless privilege

Holed up litterly back in a high cave with dogs and jewels,
the last few peridots and silver horn rings, I face the lee side.

Not even a slave to sit and remember when entitlement
worked because it bled into the guests and wandering.

The armor tilts against a charred, greasy corner dripping still
the mists that bore us in defeat on sleds with baskets, data.

Debtor, inwardly I exact a rage and skillful path line hedging,
tuned as a noble corpse's concubine's, cuckolded by virtue.

It starts with an eye painted against the central peak, awake
to every sip of wine, hate, sloth, neglect, indulgence, swim.


Peg
"For Mike"

The 24 hours of natural sleep

Prior to my abduction, students merrily gathered in
chambers clustered along passages, and my breath
swole all the apparatus of the university hospital clinic,
savior of wayward intelligent and other rural children.

Then blown like knots of mucus, teenagers through
crash windows, ashes rose to mix with snowflakes,
the suddenness of my absence was the bunker bomb
that saved only conspirators and their empty victory.

Now my dogs patrol with their noses in the curtain folds
Blind as moles to real criminality, claim only movement
unsanctioned, sounds that are free and wild, productive.
Dogs sniff out warm terror and target soft, darting beasts.

All day long and through the night they lay in wait at a
tractably ebbing and spiking unwakefullness, one eye
or ear, a whisker as lonely drunken antennae, the mind
sifting through other years, categories of intransigence.


Dr. Donna Thong

Polio

Connie:

I'm writing down this dream about Peg and Ted because if I try and tell it to you I'll prolly start crying. And it starts with you. In the back seat of the Galaxy 500. You sneeze, I blow on you, you blow on me, etc. but it doesn't end with violence. It's actually fun because you are your current self at your present age.

Ted is there back from the grave, why? As if there is no Ken and the same young Ted is our dad, Peg's husband even though the rest of us have grown old. Except for Peg of course who is pretending to still be as young as Ted when he died. I get into it with her about like, well, I'm sorry if you forgot, but I already told you I have to drop off my prescription on the way. On the way where? What prescription? Ted is driving us around an anachronistic Anaheim, California. There were druggists and a storefront post office.

We get out of the car and I am walking ahead still pissed off at Peg and Ted follows behind trying to place his (dead) hand on my back. He appreciates, understands my efforts with Peg. Maybe because he's no longer really there and I am. His black skinny-tie suit is way out of date.

I squirm away, feeling bad about it but can't accept his comfort. As if I blame him. Easy to make him feel bad as a way of lashing out at life. I realize it's a boyish thing to do.

Turns out we're stepping inside a yellow-brick clinic with white letters stenciled on the door as they used to do. The patient is me, and I'm on the same stainless steel table where I was born, with those aquamarine rubber sheets and gloves, and the nurse standing behind me is going to have to insert a very large needle into the back of my head. Why?

In a fetal position, I feel the needle go in and it's the most actual pain I remember ever feeling in a dream. Was it LaLa behind me in real life gnawing my scalp? It goes deep, and I hear the nurse apologizing and then gasps and says "Oh..." and starts crying. She has apparently hurt herself, but so badly that she is actually sobbing. Then I turn and see the doctor coming in, the nurse going out saying "That's the most I've ever cried-- not just at work, but ever."

It's become a little clearer why we're there. It must have been from a letter in the New York Review of Books about Syria, because I've got something like polio. And I'm a boy. With polio. And the doctor has invented a contraption where he can put me in a hanging net on a track like a rollercoaster/ centrifuge and send me flying around the clinic. In some sort of multi-purpose room. Remember those?

Then the doctor is Dick Cheney and then he's Ted again. He tells me I can pick any gift I want. I say I want this and take the thing from a box, a taped-up moving box or the one you keep Christmas decorations in. I have sovereignty of movement now, and we are rich. I sit down on a free-weight bench holding the thing I wanted between my thighs trying to figure out how it works.

Very heavy dream hangover surfacing from this. Whut? I kept saying. Oh my god whut? LaLa is by my side staring patiently but she is a bitch. In truth I'm single and I dream about my nuclear family from 100 years ago. Is that the same as having polio? Did you infect me when you sneezed? Ha ha just kidding. Mostly I'm disappointed we're not really rich.


Love, Hoolie

Stop My Body

Dr. Chermin:

You may recall my scheduled release date to have been long ago passed.
Please respond by a means and in a way that demonstrate your receipt of this request.
You are a highly skilled administrator who can appreciate the weight of a key's turn.
I don't pretend that it will be a safer environment for me or others on the outside, only
that a promise was given and what do I have through a barred ceiling but that which is into it kicked.

Sometimes an object goes skittering across cement, stops out of friction but loses touch and,
adding its own earthly mass to the force given it by mystery, crashes into a woman's life.
This can be bread, bobby pins, empty match books, dead phones, small creatures who continue at their pace on a new surface like it doesn't matter, or makes no sense to try and go back so they keep on.
But I can't fall from this baseline. Out of chemical jail doesn't mean it's ok to stop my body.


Donna

She Rides a World Economy

"It's not the first time you've let me pass through these doors naked," I said in perfect Foreign, the Devanagari script falling from my lips then lifting up to his creased sienna face on wafts of al fresco samosa smoke like notes on an undulating staff. There he stood in his soiled turban, the lifelong portero of this particular row of fleabag albergues, long ago twist-tied together by mutual hallways, cat walks and trolley tracks. Despite an instant and matter-of-fact recognition after my absence of more than a decade or three, he stood there bodily replacing the prodigious cement barricade he'd pulleyed aside, uncertain that I really meant to come in. And I had my sponsor along, and there was a loosey-goosey policy about visitors after 10.

It wasn't yet dawn, so i wasn't quite lucid, but I knew this place and this kind, lower-caste gentleman who had opened this same door to shelter myself and others in the past from jarring nudity and baffling poverty, and then for many days or years consecutively after, while I and my briefcase, in recovery, had zipped about the blocks and streets between sacred animals and motorbikes and tuk-tuks and saris and men hoisting onto their shoulders or backs and carrying to market giant smoking babies.

I remembered having been out once more celebrating the end of a long sobriety by drinking glasses of fake scotch in all the tourist joints up and down the high street, and then some off the path, and then losing my path between the spoke boulevards jutting evermore barren and outward from the center, which twinkled in the distance. But I was giving into the urging sweetness of sleep, removing the navy corduroy suit I'd just purchased for interviews and laid it down as a mattress on the filthy, potted walk and snuggled beneath a thinly knit but charitable covering draped across me possibly by some passing matron.

It was really too short a nap, but soon I was up again in my white undershirt and briefs, wrapped also in the bone-white Chinese sofa throw, it turned out to be, wandering in a circle, conjuring a map, then remembering the suit and finding my wallet still intact but no keys. Then I just stood still, holding the bundle of nearly all my earthly goods as close to me as the man from Tanzania with elephantiasis in his nuts. Who knows how many more moments were lost until by supernatural providence or chance, my very first sponsor into The Program, "my Eskimo" as they say, happened along on his way from a meeting. He led me by an elbow, similar to the way he had pulled me along behind him the first time, on the identical road to the exact same salvation or slavery, though I still thought he was selling Shaklee.

"Been out having some fun?" inquired Karlos, with a K. I said "Oh yeah I drank a lot of whiskey." I remembered drawing glass after glass to my burning mouth to keep up with the rows of colorful bottles against their mirrored plenty and wanting more warm burning even then to warm my own bilious burning. The door to the rooming house was so massive as to appear immovable, and even I could barely reach its monumental ungalvanized iron ring rustily bolted into the quickset to serve as a knocker or carnivalesque game of strength.

Then there was the seismic ride up in an elevator which eerily seemed even itself not to believe its own forged and re-xeroxed inspection certificate. It stopped on a familiar floor, but there was an awkward moment as Dan, the portero, as if waiting for a tip, was actually hesitating politely for me to tip him off as to my present state of financial solvency, which would determine which way he'd lead us down or up the dim hallways/ catwalks or onto which trolleys. He started us backwards up the steps from which streams of forlorn past and potential co-residents climbing down with their towels and visibly dreading the communal bath openly advised against that direction, those lodgings. So we boarded instead a pre-war electric train on stilts that seemed thumb-tacked to the walls above the narrow, crowded street toward a dead end-cum-cul-de-sac of more upscale private rooms with windows and struggling, infested houseplants in coffee tins and maybe a working sink.

On this short trip one could not think but to imagine the range of imminent and catastrophic incidents of both predictable and total structural collapse, reports of mayhem and death of a level and volume that would surely reach screens on desks at the like of the International Herald Tribune. The tracks of recycled beer cans and structural decay of an originally flimsy and corrupt excuse for scaffolding made the whole contraption sway with the weight of its human slurry, a precarious conveyance that each moment threatened to rock against its upward-cranking counterparts, like parallel boulders careering on rope bridges.

Atop the upper deck of the carriage flying toward us, a scene that made me breathless: the billowing scarf and ironic double-breasted beige trench, the lovely blond CIA sergeant who'd come roaring up in a freshly washed and minted Land Rover while I stood taking mpg4's of a local drag star in a crowd of the broken and curious at a benefit for World AIDS Day in one of the city's squalid, dusty, clay-bottomed squares. She hadn't said a word as she stepped up alongside, as if at a curtain call, to more closely examine my awkward, ugly Western dorkiness jutting up at least a foot from the throng. I acknowledged her somewhat invasive proximity and our relative physical resemblance by muttering to her as if to a tour-bus companion how the dancer on stage represented a local gender-minority NGO and was the great hope of the organization. In the middle of my detailing their upcoming international itinerary for the agent's well-groomed but officious muteness, she was already roaring off again with her driver to vet no doubt more intel on spotted countrymen who hadn't checked in with the consulate.

She appeared to me now, standing boldly ignoring the handrail of her trolley-top, as a figure fit for the back of a coin or ship prow, a noble symbol of chin-high, first-world caretakerism: we, victors, missionaries, models, guides, monitors navigate, show the way, in ceremonial stealth and humility, arrogant yet inspirational of security, hopefulness, and to always titillate. She, who could live anywhere, have anyone, had chosen a post (no doubt and nevertheless quartered in a microdot of be-marbled and T1-cabled gas-generated luxury) in a land of relative misery, where she would walk among the ancient and the simple, brush against the untouchable, but interlocute and mingle, in hotel back gardens and high-walled compound suites, with kings instead of mere gentry.


Ken
"On assignment."

Conceal and carry

My phone found a way to my ear during sleep
though i'd left it charging in the living room:
A junk call, maybe it was political, offered the
option to press Exit 8 to hear a special message
while on hold. I touched some numbers, maybe
mixed it up with the TV remote; but it was dark
and late and i was confused. I got angry, but
then a young male voice came on the line, live,
but muffled, and said to me yeah we're calling
because; I said what, i can't hear you, i was try-
ing to get a special message. His throat seemed
to clear and said we're calling because someone
reported gunshots. There were gunshots near you.
And then I was being held very tight from behind
and/or my heart cage was caving in, but i could
tell for sure that there was another man in my bed
who was locking me very hard between his arms
and knees and wearing only a t-shirt and briefs,
and i struggled to get free by elbowing toward him
because i live alone and haven't slept with anyone
i want to say it feels like since the days of John
Wayne Gacy. Even mostly awake i knew that my
bed was turned the wrong way and i had to find
the knob on my lamp to orientate myself and to
identify the snoring of my dogs, which can often
sound like the results of a horrible crime amidst a
crowd, an urgency of mass panic in progress. I'd
spent most all the evening on and off between the
the normal responsibilities of an unemployed day
hypnotized absorbing the entire wikipedia page on
John Wayne Gacy and checking especially for
places and dates and names with a morbid com-
pulsion to know how close i'd come to the rope
trick, the chloroform, the quicklime or one of his
purported thugs, and feeling the chill of a narrow
escape. I even found a story on the deco-Uptown
hotel where i worked my first outta-school gig
where a cavernous ceramic basement rivaled the
faux Spanish facade and drifting clouds and stars
over the dance floor at the fabled Aragon Ballroom
for phantasmagoria, an underground pool grand
enough for fey, mustachioed servants to maneuver
about brimmed still pumping chlorine and steam in
the late 70's when i was a dropout teen swept in
there, by a slimy mob net, massage setup, a cum-
and-go for married fags from other neighborhoods
or travelling through town on a party, or a younger
man with the simple misfortune of a dick turned in
the shape of the archetypal snake chasing its tail,
a mobster operation with a cash register and a coat
check, decorated with seashells and framed pix
of the swarthy underboss who kept the books legit,
turned out the kids on how to give handjobs and
where to hide cash if you're naked, how to keep
him out of the transactions, a mobster type who'd
hung photos of him with aldermen and the mayor,
political coverage under glass, just like Gacy had,
and sure, JW'd been there, but not lately, having al-
ready been locked in a cell for our job-site safety;
photos like the one that humiliated the Secret
Service with John and Rosalyn Carter at a Polish
Day parade. I really couldn't tell if the man behind
me in bed had me in a wrestling hold, a manacle
of flesh, or coming back from the dead, maybe
someone i knew, to love and protect me from that
superbad moment half asleep when someone was
warning me, on a phone i don't even have, to be-
ware of gunplay in my vicinity. Even tho we don't
believe that Pogo murdered anyone with a firearm,
he did abduct some boys that way, and where I'd
been to dinner earlier, an Irish pub, they had one of
the new no-conceal-and-carry stickers displayed
prominently before you stepped in through the Chi-
cagoland outer weather door to stamp the frozen
muck off your feet and then in toward the scary loud
and spirited drunken camaraderie or outpour of re-
lief in the eye of a polar vortex, cries of horror-glee.

by Tom

Your Ridiculous Rage

What was it you said your entire class, country, county's eating wooden nickles or clanking along the road like tin cans tied to the 1%'s marriage vehicle? Like you can compare yourself and most people to the worst kind of traditional torture normally reserved for minorities sexual or racial? That a whole 4% of the population is sociopathic but only a quarter of them have figured out how to literally indenture and slave and drug and maim what was it, the great plains, population, planet?

But look what you're getting where you're standing as you complain. Free internet with your paid subscription to all your other property? Isn't it a little overwrought to belabor the work you'll never stop unless you stop working and rot in the revival tent of a target parking lot? Who says just because you love so hard and your people come from earnest good stock that you should get a piece of land or a pet or something to eat; are you a prostitute that goes around selling faith and honesty?

You say the little bitches from like 5 colleges in the usa get to learn how to charge all the rest for every part of nature we touch and the right to even wear our own skin to a backyard birthday party? That your grandmother's last three teeth throb so hard she can barely moan the last four of her social into the ear of the slob sucking off some middle-managing coupon fluffer? How did you explain the way to save up the refills for your pain meds the next time you get shot by a gunmaker and hold a drug sharing holiday?

Ken
"I'm waiting."