Excretia

Matriphagy

Some insect species eat their own young. Grasshoppers, spiders, nematodes. The mother will sit with her clutch of eggs for a significant portion of her life, and then when the little ones pop out and start squirming around, she will devour them. Heck of a life for that little baby bug, huh? You just get born, see the sun, the world for the first time. A giant creature that looks exactly like you lowers its mouth pincers onto you and crunches into your chitinous little head and murders you. Huh. That was weird. That was your whole existence. Better luck next time! Seems to me this is also the way of some momma’s boy humans. Those pale, milkish men who sleep soundly.

Ranking the Fingers

10. Right ring finger. This guy is just along for the ride. Mostly useless.
9. Left middle finger. Similarly useless on its own. Could flip the bird to someone in a pinch, I GUESS.
8. Left pinky. Once in a while, it’ll show up. Largely forgotten.
7. Right pinky. Can hold a small plastic bag from the grocery or department store when I’m hauling stuff in.
6. Left ring finger. Bears my wedding ring. Good job. Outside of that? What are your achievements?
5. Right middle finger. Can communicate a vulgarity.
4. Left pointer finger. Sits on the “F” key, and can do more than you’d expect, honestly.
3. Left thumb. Can rub a cat’s ear pretty well.
2. Right pointer. Picks boogers out of my nose, indicates things in the distance.
1. Right thumb. The GOAT. Most experienced grabber of the bunch. Strong.

Fog

Today it was humid and warm in the morning, and then in the afternoon a chill rolled in off the lake. It brought a rolling, wicking fog. Steam that sintered over the parking lots and streets. Ghostly hands grasping upward and then melting back into nothing over this tiny northern hamlet. Liquid cold lake, membranous gaseous intermediary layer, into the coiling grey clouds above. We’re distracted by facsimile when truth is so engaging. I caught a chill walking to my truck, and the haze was a waking dream.

New Names for Pokemon

Brandon

Greanbeen

Patrick Dempsey

Mexican Biting Rat

Bipedal Mexican Biting Rat (Gay)

Purpinator

Jeffrey Epstein

Trick-MIDGET On 67 (Furst 2 Phall)

James

Ol’ Sourpuss

Professor Sphere

Pleasurething

Fattie

Grombulosa

Fascists

These fascists are fundamentally weak, driven by material and sexual nuerouses brought on by a pervasive sense of inadequacy. They are losers, and their failure is the fault of somebody else. Fascism funnels their listless anger into a target; people who are different from them. Psychopathy and vendetta as a mish-mash lattice flopped over political ideation.

The truth is that these pin-headed, worthless geeks would be confined to menial labor in a just society. They’re given a badge and a gun by a ruined empire in its death throes.

There’s some solace in realizing that these wanna-be bullies, who probably were too chickenshit to ever confront a peer in their lives, will one day die. They will gasp and their vision will blacken, and they will know that nothing they ever did mattered, and they will feel only terror and regret at the moment their sentience breaches into the eternal. They crafted their own hell here on earth. A vast, horrible emptiness eats their soul. Instead of peace and serenity, it’s panic and regret. Well, at least you got to punch a Mexican once.

These pigs should know better. A pig won’t shit where it eats. And if you’re awaiting authorization from a boss figure to enact your fantasies, you are a maggot eating shit from the asshole of a corpse. You’re a convenient stooge. Somehow less than nothing, a failure of human experience.

Cats

The cat speaks like an old Polish woman
“Grawmp,”
she says
I’ll not abide a liar
I don’t keep a chair for a fucking fibber

Cats slip in and out of shadows cast by
The firelight
They are mostly here
but a piece exists in that other register
That grey space between here and hereafter
Tactile and yet hypothetical
They see it in pieces of fuzz
drifting through sunbeams in windows
They hiss
They have a civilization far different to ours

They’ve got a good thing going and they know it
Fat and safe
Watching just as well out the window
what the wind knows outside

The once and future king
The fat bellies and the sabre eyes
of deserts and wetlands
Can, but won’t
Knows, but doesn’t

Beautiful animals
children of the night