Unfortunately, All Anarchists Alive Today Understand That They Were Breastfed Because It Was Good For Them


2014. Acrylic on canvas, 16 X 20″

2 days left to bid on the greatest middle talent painting ever.

Or this one, where you get seven for the price of one.

Meanwhile, a poem from the uncirculating publication, My Contribution To The War Movement. I shall consider serializing the book here in the near future. But first, a video about the true nature of squirrels.

Fragmentals While Practicing Spanish For Your Birthday

My sweet everlasting, temporary forever,
your soft flesh
makes this tremulous mass of guts I was born with wake up to work

Here’s a fine mess for us—
a woman
on a perfect day
wind and ease and leaves
a woman’s last arteries bleeding out today,
this perfect day,
the urge to paint her fake marble columns white.

I want the squirrels to eat all the women
who’ve given up any hope of love.
Who wants clean, attractive homes with expensive well-arranged stuff
only to later get mauled by squirrels?

¡Viva las ardillas!

Tienes veinte y ocho años.
In twenty-eight more years
the squirrels will be doing the exact same thing
without toilet paper.

Juanita. Juanita. Tu jugas en las hojas con su papa. Te amo Juanita.
Juanita. Juanita caminamos debajo de los arboles en dias azules…
Te amo Juanita.

The birds have got the whole truth. Quick now— everyone look the other way!

The real breeze comes from nowhere and has no home to go to.

Meteorology for the birds is the study of the old benevolent rock that crash-landed, smoking the worms out of their holes to a tremendous dinner.

All the little yellow fruits on her tree were dying. We walked by looking for money.

I don’t think a swiping sword across the stomachs of every man would make one squirrel cry. Do you?

Oh there’s so much I won’t do that I won’t want to do without you.

Oh my God you were born!
But all these old fishermen do is hook fish in the gills

I think you and I could use a couple winter months being tied to separate rocks by the lake. If we were forced in this way to hear our names called out enough times, along with semi-harmonious cries of writhing despair, begging, longing… If we were left this way to figure out for ourselves the weakness of being human, we might get a chance glimpse of what it’s like to live for five minutes as a squirrel, or a bird, or a sun, or a man, or a woman born to live on this earth for wonder and food.

There’s only one baby I know who should NOT have her parents arrested.

Ah Juanita, Elena, mis dos hijas, mis milagros… Soy el esposo de Maria, su amigo, su humana brisa. Somos de ninguna parte y tenemos no lugar de origen a ir.

Tengo hambre. I want some almonds.


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