the massacre

so a parang is a machete. so smuggling up the cambodian rivers can lead to love. or loss of love anyway. that'll be me one day, wondering why i'm not invited to parties, stealing dogs out of a misplaced sense of animal welfare, smashing bottles over my head to sharpen them. we're the forgotten, the old, the needy, the barely subsisting, and though you see us, you don't see us. get ready, i'll be there outside your ballroom, having drunk too much and wishing i was dead so that i could be alive.


but i'm not there yet of course, because i'm still doing people's dirty work and asking all the right questions which are the wrong questions. have you read the news lately? why is my drawer full of ambulance certs and not my wall, or my wallet? why do other people ride into disaster on the backs of dragons and i sit and observe? who am i to have done so much and so little?

a horse breeder of arabian studs, a security director who imagines headlines, and a man who ran every company he owned into the ground, this is the state of the world today. screw you SUV driving rich white folks who piled up and left and then villified those left to rot in a drowned city.

but i'm no better.

read this

and this

because we're all on our own

but what am i going to do besides sit and write some more?