I was walking in my neighborhood last night around midnight and I passed a young couple as I crossed the street toward my apartment. They looked like they’d recently graduated high school. The young woman was wearing very short shorts and a low cut tank top that clung to her in a very nice way. As they passed me she caught my eye and said, “sir, he’s going to fuck my brains out tonight.” In that split second our paths crossed I nodded, said “excellent idea” over my shoulder. I meant it, too.
The stable genius at work, early Sunday morning:
I wondered about the absence of spell check there. With a little research (just google “councel”) I learned that “councel” is apparently POTUS’s preferred spelling for “counsel” and he always spells it that way (on at least 14 previous tweets). Not a mistake, not a mistake!!! He will change the proper spelling of that fake word, have no doubt. MAGA! USA! USA!!!!
which arrived above this caption:
April 5th 2017 group… Including the beautiful sole survivor.
The beautiful sole survivor is the now banished Paintjob, eating turkey off the paper near her mother (now her feared enemy) and her three doomed little siblings.
Paintjob continues to survive somehow, she was photographed eating yesterday by Sekhnet who sent the photo with the caption “Yay!”
Mama Kitten, who was pregnant again by the time her kittens were two or three months old, showed up a couple of weeks ago skinny again. Sekhnet and I concluded she must have had a miscarriage. Then this breaking news photo came across the Sekhnet news wire. Mama nursing a single mouse she had carried by the scruff of the neck to the area of the garden where Sekhnet was working.
The ease of incoherence is awful
because it is so easy.
The idiot ease of it: effortless
no effort needed.
Incoherence makes no demands,
anything you can
pull out of your ass
will do, really,
there is no problem with anything
you might pull out,
the less likely the better,
actually, for purposes of
Meanwhile these affectionate ferals
born with two strikes against them
and five personal fouls,
eight of their nine lives wasted,
spend a few minutes in the sun,
chasing a delicious smell
then gone forever
like the Polar Ice Caps,
you’ll ever love.
People can’t change
my father always insisted.
Fundamentally, he said,
without a shred of doubt,
people cannot change themselves.
Fifty years later
as he was dying
his born-angry baby
standing quietly by his deathbed
with no apparent anger
made him think
Fuck, he thought,
looks like I may have been
wrong about that
I wish I hadn’t been so
about it all my life.
Then he died.
I have incorporated several notes I got from two discerning readers in the rewriting of the 3,000 word abstract of my long manuscript about the life and times of my father. Each note contained a bit of painful truth, and mingled with my own dissatisfaction with the shorter piece. Kept me up last night, forcing me out of bed to write the first few paragraphs which now begin the rewrite.
Here is the near 4,000 word version, which I believe is somewhat improved.