Sunday night Musk Sieg Heils, Monday at noon Trump inaugurated, between noon and one Monday Hakeem Jeffries, Chuck Schumer, Nancy Pelosi, Hillary Clinton, and Barack Motherfucking Obama all texted me telling me to keep the faith, keep hope alive, give them my money, I doubt any of them will read my *Fuck - and this is the important part - YOU!* replies before I told the bot STOP
So one more, I can't say last, grid of rage aimed specifically at motherfucking professional Democrats and their shitlib zealots all of whom would prefer Trump to anyone to motherfucking Obama's left. As for regular grids viz Trump's daily farting unto totalitarianism I don't know, I screamed at the fuckers whose one purported job was to prevent this who instead did their real jobs and facilitated his return in exchange for keeping their power and position. They hate you far more than they hate the crackeriest christeriest magassholes. Hate you. Have a theme song, I forget which number
THE BOOK OF EQUALITY
Daniel Borzutzky
Here the readers gather to watch the books die. They die suddenly, as if
thrown from an airplane, or from spontaneous cardiac arrest. They live,
and then suddenly they die, and the reader who watches this is at the
moment of the books' death bombarded with images documented through the
smiling lipstick face of a journalist who has shown up to report on the
death of the books. The milk was poisoned and forty-two babies died, she
laughs, as she fondles the ashes of the dead books. And the death of
forty-two babies is equal in value to the death of this book which is
equal in value to the ninety-year old woman who shot herself while the
sheriff waited at her door with an eviction notice which is equal in
value to the collapsing of the global economy which is equal to the
military in country XYZ seizing the land of the semi-nomadic hunters and
cultivators of crops who have lived in the local rain forest for
thousands of years. The reader opens a dead book and finds an infinite
amount of burnt ash between the bindings, and when the ash blows in the
wind the lipstick says that every death in the world is equal to every
other death in the world which is equal to every birth in the world
which is equal to every act of dismemberment which is equal to the death
of a jungle which is equal to the collapse of the global economy; and
hey look there’s another lady falling out of a window; she looks about
equal to the poet hurled out of his country for words he wrote but which
did not belong to him and whose death is about equal to the girl who
was shot on the bus on her way to school this morning which is just
about the same as the bearded man whose head was shoved into a sac while
water was dumped over it and he died for an instant and came back to
life and talked and talked and that’s about equal to the steroid
illegally injected into the arm of a beautiful man who makes forty
million dollars a year for injecting his arms with steroids so he can
more skillfully wave a wooden stick at a ball, and in the ash we see the
truest democracy there ever was: hey look it’s a little baby found in a
dumpster how equal you are says the smiling lipstick to the civilized
nation whose citizens walk the flooded streets looking for their homes,
and in the ashes of the dead book the dead streets are equal to the
eating disorders of movie stars which are equal to the dead soldiers who
are equal to the homeruns which are equal to the bomb dropped by
country ABC over weddings in the village of country XYZ which is equal
to the earth swallowing up and devouring all of its foreigners which is
just about equal to the decline in literacy in the most educated nation
in the planet. There is no end to this book. There are no paragraph
breaks to interrupt the smiling lipstick that goes on and on in one
string of ashy words about how the declaration of peace is equal to the
resumption of war and how the bodies that fall are equal to the birds
that ascend and how the bomb in the Eiffel Tower is equal to the rising
cost of natural gas, and the murmurs of the voices in the mud are equal
to the murmurs of the expensive suits falling out of buildings and these
are equal to the silence that kills with one breath and coddles life
with another.