To all of the writers and poets — descent blue rain dark, dark heart what demon drives you? why can’t you put down the pen? arrest the impulse kill it with rationalism destroy it before it destroys you is it an angel or devil who speaks? or is it an envious ancestor trying to pull you back down into your dirty genetic soil…

In service to the few — the sound of rain, fighting, arguing money, always about money— you couldn’t age gracefully without it your body was something to use, squeeze, manipulate so was your mind, your eyes, your ears — you had only so many years clock in, clock out, dodging complaints, actioning sales, funneling profits to the top — above…

You heard it here first — It has been decided that judging the merit of a piece based on reading time will be scrapped in favor of proof of actual comprehension. The two-pronged argument from Coach went something like this: First point: Reading time can mean a lot of things: Toilet time. You’re on the toilet…

Just keep doing what you’re doing — the sky is falling, Frank don’t get off your couch, keep your hand in the bag of greasy chips your kids are dying, Frank, no need to turn the TV off, there’ll be other chances to sow seeds the earth is burning, Frank, it’s not your fault that the sun is getting…

Attempting to communicate — you were trying to get through to the board, the panel of politicians, asleep in their own stink of rich people’s interests when corpses no longer spoke loud enough, and were easily drowned out by the sound of silky green money pouring in from Lockheed Martin and the NRA you…

Sitting on the toilet and pushing like a pregnant woman — There was once a humorist who wrote stories for an online writing platform. Let’s call the platform, Medium Rare. Medium Rare used to be a fun place that featured many humorists and satirists trading stories, capers, and jokes like elders around a campfire, or friends at a pub, or kids…

To balance out the positive — It has been brought to Medium’s attention that if they are demanding less manufactured engagement from its writers, they need to walk their own talk and start sending less manufactured optimism by way of notifications every chance they get. The gist of the complaint with a thousand signatures was that…

Quietly interrogating you — Death came for you in the evening you told her, nice try, you’re not ready yet — go bother the neighbors she didn’t take the hint she had a drink in her hand and was looking festive you were in no mood for small talk you curled a noodle around your…

Without a map, compass, plot, or bonus — it isn’t your fault, said the Fates you were caught midweek, Wednesday, I think, lost, pacing back and forth in the work kitchen without a compass or plot, holding luke- warm coffee the same temperature as limbo while the traffic outside played a kind of hypnotic music, almost soothing, as…