hey he's heavy, he's my brutha

if that's not jesus, after the cross

then i dunno what we gonna be able to offer up.

dayum man, can't you see he's the one who could

heeeeeeeeeul us.

















































*


i don't feel like feeling hopeful

about a hopeless situation.

how i feel manipulated like oj framed

for a crime he committed. he's gonna pull it off

cuz the glove don't fit and no one's more surprised

than barak on the first night in the oval office
weight of his ancestry split/dual slave-master cleavage

he sits in his chair, the virtual space where jefferson confronted

his sons from lilith, paid recompense worth thurmond's indiscreetness.

the sick slick of politic

oyah but this pic can't you see it?











































































































i mean, wtf? what marketing genius came up with this

prescience in a photo op? mostly she hates how

it feels like a history lesson she's already learned, like some exuberence

awaiting the knife. hail cesar, cesaer is dead. both of them doomed

to misspellings by anono internet scribes thousands of years in the future

a mote of mutation handling the radioactive ayahusca. whateVER.


i found the rat in the machine. it's firefox, they don't like my lack

of caps n stuff. but of course they're right. only by obeying certain conventions

of meaning and signification can we hope to communicate thru the written word.

the language-as-thought-development skool of signposts insists on boxing up meaning

because it's useful to be able to agree on red and red. some things might seem primal

like fire and ice but hey, how do i know your sensations and mine are alike? serial killer

with a soft heart, rabbit chewin a thistle. everything has its purpose you know, and that's

to feed something else.
































































but you know

he makes me hopeful. can't help it oh jezus

and kurst all rolled up like oreos.

yummy with milk. tasty with depression. a li'l sugar

and milkfat to bump the cycle into pinging a different commercial.








my sister thinks he's the antichrist. justin thinks << he's the anitchrist.

so who's right?

signs maybe point to no one, or more likely to obama according 2 a co author of left behind

((the rapture looks down at the implosion,) spaceship heaven departing for worlds only dreamed of till now

back to paradisaical earth by way of mice as men.
infected at an early age she dwells in sci fi concoctions
on sundays when rainfalls as memory soak
grass like morning dew. she's opened her blinds
changed the curtains from plaid to plumbago
blue, pond , bordered by silver with gold dragons, silky
panels the kittens who are left
love to slide along,
on the floor. made
for a girl's bed canopy, a spot
of menstrual blood like a brooch
on aunt obama's sunday go to meeting dress, fascinating
trainwreck, spots one sheer blue panel.
the hems are coming out, the material frays along the sides, like curtains are something
this material will be until scarlet
needs a dress to impress rhett.



sometimes her southern
female is all she has.

the uses of material change over time. one thing
becomes another. the internal dialogs
of the twelve people.

yes she's still chewin on that.


twelve signs in the zodiac. divide by four elements
and two hemispheres and there's three again. pesky li'l
catholic number. carbon's inner workings divided by 2.
the odd woman in. the uses of the middle.
the black the white and the in between.






















don't you love how the halo is red white n blue?