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"At one time we had only one writer who was even literate, and that was Ray Bradbury."

"Year's End

The state cracked where they left your breath
No longer instrument. Along the shore
The sand ripped up, and the newer blood
Streaked like a vein to every monument.
The empty smoke that drifted near the guns
Where the stiff motor pounded in the mud
Had the smell of a hundred burned-out suns.
The ceiling of your sky went dark.
A year ago today they cracked your bones.

So rot in a closet in the ground
For the bad trumpets and the capitol's
Long seasonable grief. Rot for its guests,
Alive, that step away from death. Yet you,
A year cold, come more living to this room
Than these intruders, vertical and warm."

—Weldon Kees

Manifesting Africanfuturism.

"Toad sat on the edge of his bed. 'Blah,' said Toad. 'I feel down in the dumps.'

'Why?' asked Frog.

'I am thinking about tomorrow,' said Toad."

—@frogandtoadbot.bsky.social

"...might as well call it and write an obituary for writing itself instead."