ESPN’s Jemele Hill Calls Out Donald “White Sheet” Trump

Look. Let’s get down to brass tax. Let’s “cut the bullshit” as they say. ESPN’s Jemele Hill rightly called out Donald Trump for being a white supremacist (oh, I’m sorry, economic nationalist *smacks head* Hang me by my nostrils, what linguistic folly have I engaged in?!)

Sarah Huckabee “Huck” Sanders said Jemele’s tweets were a “fireable offense.” Does this sound like muzzling of the media to you?

Paragons of journalistic integrity, including The Federalist and Breitbart, have pounced on her tweets like bloated pelicans. It’s very clear what’s going on here. There’s a notion floating around that says that we shouldn’t weigh in on partisan topics. Well, no pun intended, but what’s left to talk about? Seems that that the muzzling of the media so common in authoritarian states is occurring along the channels of corporate cowardice.

What about Trump’s diatribes concerning immigrants, the mocking of disabled people, and being a generally incendiary individual? Shouldn’t his words also be silenced? Shouldn’t he live up to his oath of office? Is there nothing in the world that can constrain him?

I’m done with mincing words here. Someone has to call out this jerkass for what he is. Look at what he has done. He’s taken the torch from the statue of liberty and placed it in the hands of a white supremacist.

“There you go, little guy. Be careful out there!”

Where that little guy will go is anybody’s guess.   But one thing is for certain. America, already a culture thriving off of crude humiliation, is becoming even more of a minefield of exposing hypocrisy and false equivalencies. One must find refuge in the barren, carnage-strewn landscape of social media. That is what the president has done. Yet the corporations, an extension of Trump, have started to silence their employees out of self-interest.

Good luck, America.

Year 6719

The year was 6719
Flower children loved
The scent in the air

Was so phenomenal
Truly the citadel of colorful spirals
And popping neon
Wrapping itself in velvety ribbons
Around the rib cage
Of a great fallen consumerist man

We didn’t know much about Vetnam
That equally colorful battlefield
It was a backdrop to Sashbry-Gaight
Our brilliant neighborhood in the sky

The jungle looked very tempting
But we didn’t want to leave civilization just yet
It needed to fall before we can flee

This was very draining
Don’t worry though
Because the sun soaks us up
And the music never stops ringing in our ears
In holy Sashbry-Gaight, the city of melody

Still Defining

You know, it still feels like I am defining this site in some way. Started it a couple months back, thought the domain name was catchy and just sort of winged it, trying to pigeonhole content into a theoretical framework. Well, it’s a learning curve.  Now I have to marry content relevant to the site name. I started with a theory but it would’ve made more sense to conjure a service that captures the attention of an audience than think of a site name.

Now I’ve made things a little bit harder for myself than was necessary. But then, the habit I get stuck in is refining ideas or discarding them in favor of new ones, only to stumble on the execution. The execution. The long hall.

My Achilles’s Heel is pretty worn by now.

What’s in a name? Torment. 

Blogging and Poetry

A word or two
A regular drip in the mornings
Something to occupy and sustain the mind
A little blogging never hurt anyone
The old adage comes home to roost

Blogging, where individuality
Expands to infinity
There isn’t enough room for no one
Just one more blog
The world needs another teardrop
Of the micro-fish

It swims upstream
Telling stories
Entertaining schools
From different planes of existence

“Another word” is the thin dividing line
Between obscurity and phosphorescent identity
Step into your blog
Step into another dimension

As a micro-fish
Become the sea
Absorb the sea


Patterns of the Sand and the Sea

No longer a he, it wandered the world

Observing the growth of shrubs in precarious sequence
So many things narrowly avoided death
3% was a glorious dimension where anything could happen

It didn’t want to say anything
To alert them to hidden patterns and possibilities
Talking was a thing of the past
Communication too

The sand turned into miniature golden tornadoes
But that wasn’t enough
Everything persisted and became stale
It decided to take matters into its own hands
To dive into the sea
Rusting like a fucking bucket

Schools of fish ignored him
Sharks sniffed cautiously before turning skittish
And fleeing
They sensed there was something predatory about the thing
It saw death but was never granted it

But soon it would rust
And all those sad possibilities wouldn’t reach even his metal brain

A Wasteland President, Part 1

“Today did an excellent job. But what about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is cancelled, sir.”
“Cancelled? What do you mean cancelled?”
“It’s just gone, sir.”
“Well, what do you we do now? There’s nothing down here. No enemies, no friends. Nothin’. Just us.”
“Just us, sir.”
“…Just us. Hmm. Do you think anyone is alive up there? Anyone worth talking to?”
“Anyone left up there will be heavily irradiated. It’d be very depressing to watch, sir. They might even ask you for money.”
“I can watch money burn. Why would I give it do them?”
“Precisely, sir. And more to the point, you couldn’t even explain to them that money is pointless in this new world.”
“That sounded poetic. You know what? You’re hired.”
“I know, sir. You’ve fired me a bunch of times already. Then hired me again. I quit. Things don’t look like they will improve.”

[secret service agent, the last of his kind, removes himself from this post-nuclear world]

“What do I do now? Well, that’s a good question. I hire the question. It will do an excellent job.”

[Trump steals rapidly depleting body heat from the dead secret service agent. It’s getting cold down here]


The Abyss at the Top of the Hill

It had won so many things
Victories seemed to cluster together
Becoming multiplicative and overbearing

The prospect of losing seemed even dimmer
A door was closing
Pinching off a shaft of light
But the room remained
Just dark and lacking in pluses and minuses

Sitting wasn’t an option
Nor standing
Nor hearing or experiencing
Seeing was a long shot
Best to let it be

It would have killed for a nice breeze
Settled even for the creak of that door
The light had grabbed mahogany’s arm
Rescuing it at the last moment

Now only the thing was left
Not a champion
Because lips couldn’t utter the obvious

Words couldn’t bestow titles anymore
They floated, air-like
About to disappear at least for the foreseeable future