What I thought before I thought I thought something about a red moon.

It is said by the echo of the dying man’s body that cold is only cold in relation to warm.  I knew that I was not dreaming by the dandruff on my lapel. I knew I was in the same place I’d been for several months by watching the band exit the conga-van on Monroe Avenue. The wind in a circus is caused by passing oohs and ahhs. Learning to fly comes at a cost of crashing into houses and haystacks. When a house is built, there is no artist to sketch the masons, carpenters, and electricians building the house. The fisherman’s lodge is a church in the red night. I knew I was not in my country, that my country was in me.

I got tired of carrying sacks of stones I’d place my bets with and changed to carrying pockets full of space for putting between things like houses, teeth, fenceposts, eyes, phrases, table-fruit.

There’s so little to work with, to work out, to work around. It’s a long corner, unlike a hairpin where winds meet – circumstance barrels out like a deer flanked and shot, two Fins after it with Mosin-Nagants – sauna later in the evening. Rarely do events play out — Humans in charge of it mostly, and a scatter of dandelion seeds in the red humidity of a swollen moon.








Eyes on the Prize

Trayvon Martin was killed by George Zimmerman, meanwhile, smoldering bodies are found in Detroit, and by the time you finish reading this, several of the world’s women will have been raped. Unemployment is worse than the government wants us to think. People are also underemployed. For many just getting on their feet, gas is not affordable. Global warming, individual mandates, TSA, BPAs, civil rights, war, the 1%, women’s reproductive rights, the price of everything ; constant, generalized, compound-uncertainty, cognitive dissonance: No solutions, or solutions dissolved in gossip and rhetoric, rendered inert by straw-men and argumentum ad misericordiam or general distenterest/despondence. People like Nancy Grace have television shows and people like Nancy Grace watch them.

In times of need, Americans seek out that which satisfies them. We love red-herrings. Mainstream media loves walking into a serious meeting and slapping a cold, dead fish on the table. Then they put their hands in their suit pockets, and walk flatfooted around the room whistling, hoping everyone will be distracted by the cold, dead fish. And we are distracted. We take the bait. Lucky for them, we enjoy being led astray.

We like thinking we have something unique and important to say – some group or cause to stand up for. We do, it’s true, but this sends us off-topic and keeps us from creating real solutions to the causes of problems. It spreads lotion on the bedsore instead of getting the patient out for a walk once in a while.

We like to put a balm on it. Put some creme on it. Take a pill for it, and in some cases forget about it until it goes away. When the towers fell, our first reaction was to blame. But while they were falling, we asked ourselves why would someone do this?  When a loved-one passes suddenly, our first thought comes in the form of a question: why? It’s in our nature to question why terrible things happen, when they do. Our instincts provide us with the right question, and the answer. Too often we exchange the why? for the who? part of it. Who as in who’s to blame? Who was responsible? Whose negligence led to this? This is racism.

Our negligence led to this. Our, as in: everyone. There is no one accountable except for everyone.

In the BBC documentary Requiem for Detroit a former convict and now YMCA worker explains something very succinctly, “abnormal behavior in an abnormal environment [...] is normal.” We created the environment, or allowed it to be created around us.

Guns don’t kill people, George Zimmerman does, right? Or, was it because George Zimmerman was white, and Trayvon Martin was black? Was it because of the bullet inside the gun, or did a ‘stand-your-ground’ law cause all of this?

Zimmerman shot Martin because he was misguided, as we all are. We will remain misguided if we continue to accept the mainstream-media’s bait. Our eyes have been taken off the prize. The prize is right in front of us. It’s us.

Compassion is not divisible. It is not for one race, or one sex, or one species; in order for compassion to work, it must be applied universally. Incomplete or false compassion leads to intolerance.

Compassion cannot be retaliatory and it does not waver. There can be no tit for tat.

Racism exists. It has, and will exist well into the foreseeable future. One race over the other is not what’s at stake here. Compassion is at stake, and as a result, humanity – everything.

This is a time to dwell on our sameness, not our differences.

“Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Without them humanity cannot survive.”  – Tenzin Gyatso

Preview Snuck.

The following is a piece from a body of work called Unfortunately which I’m currently working on.





Excuse me, bro. Could you spare me a cigarette? Everyone has been turning me down.

Are you surprised?

How do you mean?

Are you surprised that no one will give you a cigarette?

Yeah man, it’s just a smoke. I mean, can’t people spare a smoke?

What about your dog? How does he get cigarettes?


How does your dog get a cigarette if he needs one?

My dog doesn’t smoke, bro.

Well, if he did, how would he get a cigarette if he really needed one?

I don’t know, bro. He’d probably have a pack or something.




Improbable Volta

In the shadowy evening, two fawns stepped lightly into a shallow pool of hogshit which had washed downriver.

Look at the white flower as it blooms up your ass.

Love, like the moon, was not made for lovers; they were meant to argue in the Rally’s parking lot under the slanted red sun.

His heart was the size of Texas, but his penis was the size of Idaho.

He missed her breakfasts of eggs and buttered bread, her shadow in the kitchen, the way she farted in her sleep.

Delicate snowflakes paint the brothel’s rooftop.

The sea’s history shows/sailors who stowed away a bible/were saved from shipwreck/but often died a few weeks later/from a venereal disease.

When she arrived from Vladivostok with two dollars in her coat, the moon was low and yellow but then she was bitten by a rat.

Corn requires sun./Dirt requires oxygen./He decides he will make the trip/from the basement/to the store./It will be his last bottle of Mt. Dew.

When the woman made of mud finally spoke to the two brothers, she said, “Is there a McDonalds around here?”

Before the dance, we put on our best ties and waistcoats but Ronald threw up in the buggy and died about a half-mile before we arrived at the barn.



Last Month’s News

Snooki is Pregnant. Rick Santorum is being taken seriously. Basketball game. Highway, two red lights. Legs tired. Have it your way. I’m lovin’ it. Guns don’t kill people, TJ Lane does. Nicki Minaj’s booty. Puffy shoes and fluorescent laces. The end of the world. There is not enough room in Iran for Iran. Shots ring out while you’re at home, in bed. Dow is up. The Big Three are up. Davy Jones is dead. Cheer up. Father murders wife and baby before trip to Las Vegas. Turns out, Ted Turner doesn’t watch TV. $4 Gas, but $1 McBurger. Greece Fire.

It is believed by those who do not read that the world will end in 2012. I don’t know what to believe. The Mayans had several calendars. None of them mentioned the world would blow up. By all accounts, we’re in the middle of Aquarius and Pisces, age-wise.

The Irish flute continues over it. A basketball player dunks on it. We spend the money on it. Be happy we are not setting fire to the governmental buildings. Be happy it’s just a joke, still, here. Be ashamed and be incapable of being ashamed. The ethnicity became economics. We became the statue of liberty draped in gold tinsel, a designer pair of shoes and an ass-showing dress.

There was conventional wisdom. There was a pasture where the cows grazed under the blue sun and the green grass beneath them. It was all there. The whole thing.

Week in Review, Tuesday, March 6th, 2012

News from Green Acres: The house on Renfrew was busted and the guys are in the slammer. There are several dogs chained-up in backyards. The street is quiet and the streetlights are not on.

Pat Caputo has a degree in journalism from a major university. He has won awards as a journalist. Pat Caputo is also a bad journalist, proven again today. Here’s the Article: Hard Evidence Suggests Michigan Has Caught Michigan State in Basketball

Who’s in third?
Who’s in third?
Yeah, who’s in third place?
Who’s on third base?
No, who’s in third place!
Who’s in third place?
I asked you that.
Asked me what?
Who’s in third!
Who’s in third place?
Oh. Ehem … Ron Paul.

Super Tuesday was a blast. I had a chicken-strip wrap with ranch dressing. I also had an RC Cola, with a cup of ice.

Klitschko, the real-life Ivan Drago, won again. It was boring. He pushed and punched. He knocked his opponent out. It was a big German deal with laser-lights at a big stadium in Dusseldorf. Boxing needs a Mike Tyson. I’d rather watch a 45 year-old Kid Dynamite  knock senior citizens out than watch Klitschko prove he is a “nice guy.”

Lucky legislation passed just in time for the Ides of March: it is now ok for United States officials to kill other Americans on foreign soil. Oh, and get ready for the drones.

Peyton Manning releases the Indianapolis Colts.