Prepare your anus, you’re about to get a red pill suppository.





there are premieres to attend,

though all a matter of preference:

for copper sates muted laugh tracks,

sickening in their avarice


and yet a television on mute—

with subtitles screaming—

is something like celebration,

or is something like creeping


in inky pools of cimmerian shroud

not rotting but rusting,

watching humans parade about

as if they were mechanized instinct


the dawn is vigilant,

and she will:


fasten nooses

truss and fuck

break bones;

box-office figures


photosynthesis has turned hollywood into a jungle,

where human trash sprouts like barnacles,

clinging to any scrap of fame

swallowing phyto-plankton

shitting sitcoms





the quirky indie comedy

was screened to an audience of

severed heads, bobbing and lolling lazily on the surf


a few turning over in the spray

but mostly: it was serene,

the afternoon, and the heads

were of mid-level functionaries


they had slight, serene smiles

mostly due to the haze of beta-blockers,

codeine and klonopin—although

a few were somewhat agitated


because coke is back in fashion

in some quarters.


to live in los angeles is to feel

heat emanating from past mothers

their mouths lubed with spit

from sequential masquerades


while elsewhere in motel rooms,

the progeny of their tar-stained fingers

are dirk diggler,

and mostly they are coked-up

because fucking on camera can be nerve-wracking





where once veins coursed

there are make-shift tubes,

with parts harvested

from a push-mower


the light is their terrifying matriarch;

when she spreads her pocked arms

the breeze carries chlamydia

and crabs in lieu of smog.


in the l.a. of today, nestled against

california’s diseased breast

white men cower from the rhythm

and leggy blondes devour it


directors direct, sewage projects,

and talent scouts lean on alabaster


noting movement, yet motionless themselves,

considering possibility;

the starlets were merely dancing

in the shadows of pictures


under an airless celluloid sky while

the past ate itself;

and chivalry shambles on

because there’s always a producer

to hold the door open for some

young thing from wisconsin

Whose Nation: Literature and Culture

Whose Nation: Literature and Culture

A Modest Proposal: Forty Starting Points to MAGA

A Modest Proposal: Forty Starting Points to MAGA