this one is for the ones
who never got
to take off the uniform
and it's for them i write this.

i wonder how many babies in palestine will be born in mangers because israel bombed all the fuckin' hospitals and all the innkeepers took shrapnel to the fuckin' face

i drove home,
late at night,
and saw a man in a wheelchair,
short a leg,
skint,
holding a Styrofoam cup,
with change,
jangling inside,
i didn’t have anything for him,
but thoughts on paper,
and a question,
never asked,
what do you think about all this?

This was Atlanta, one of its many beautiful hoods; and, after all, I’m from the city, been here all my life. Here or there in cities all over anyway. I know a thing or two about minding my own business.

i roll by them walking from the apartments on Hollywood Rd., and i think about all this.

Most days, I daydream about getting paid to write 500-1500 words a day for some newspaper or magazine. I wake from these daydreams and remember it’s 2025, I never got a degree, the job market for writers is dogshit, and I’m basing my desire to be a successful writer on nothing but a gut feeling that my stuff isn’t shit.

on January 12,
i had an ultrasound on my ball sack.

strife is a steaming paper plate of white rice, and store-bought rotisserie chicken.

in this one... Los Angeles burns, concessions are too high, i confess i'm bad at basketball, my pops almost drives into the inferno, and i reveal that i prophesied the flames.

Maddow is not Minerva, and I think I’ll kill myself if I find out some of you think Hannity is a hero for truth.