shredded tennis ball
green reporter embedded
batten on tokens

the sky full of promises
stark and impending pleasures


March through four dollar gas. March through five. What's the fucking problem? Like you had any other plans for that money.


Poem.


Alright it's "nuestra cosa" not "West Carcosa." But it could have been.


The Kind of Poetry I Want. (via Morfablog)


America is like that Chinese general who lost a battle because he couldn't tear himself away from the music of his favorite pet cricket. A toycentric civilization!--a wonder for the ages, certainly: but not a going concern.


Plutocracy reborn.