Super Bowl
Wind howls, unseasonably warm and dry, yet cold: cold as ravens which
pluck our eyes from overstuffed trash bins that line city streets.
Flush! Flocks of birds wing during Super Bowl as if in response to our
feces painted across canyons while aluminum cans and pizza rolls swirl
down into the hole of emergence. Engulph, engulph! Twin arrows tear at
native flesh whilst we orgy at the feet of Nero and his sponsors! And
the very caretakers of our fields and homes, the very handmaidens of our
pretended hospitality, receive yet more of the racial sputum which we
pretend to wipe off our own rich, white, diapered asses!
February 9, 2025.
The Circular File