One column.
Two Sentences.
You choose the headline.
Deplatform and silence.
Coerce and align.
One month,
Two calamities.
Refresh and it's gone.
Nothing remains
in focus for long.
Digest the digests;
digests of every kind.
Fruitless echo-chambers
self-censoring the mind.
Theaters, Airplanes,
Public transit; Empty seats.
Next weekend two protests.
Let me hear you in the streets.
Gamma correct the pores
off the very face of life.
Featureless perfection.
Expression goes under the knife.
Flowers now grow upon flowers
instead of good rain and black loam.
Flowers feeding off fireworks;
Their roots' refusal to go home.
If I am to meet my fate
by my expressions in the past.
Let these words here written
be my very last:
Towards thee I roll.
Thou all-destroying but unconquering whale;
To the last, I grapple thee;
From hell's heart I stab at thee;
For hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee.
With broken haul and tattered sail
torn to pieces while still chasing thee.
Sink forever into the violent sea.
Though my fate is now tied to thee.
Thou ****** and acursed whale!
Sixty-six maybe
July 26, 2020
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
I stole some lines from Moby ****
And Fahrenheit 451