when this corporate-type handmade bludgeon of a weasel man does the usual, flips a hand-scratch note of utter dis-importance (hidden in scribbled nonchalance), this, this is a common practice. my first was fuscia pink, a bright colorful corporate stop sign, stop light flashing as you realize, “hey, I was supposed to maybe do something back there …” that cold swell of fear in stomach and slow trachea gulp

why am i supposed to talk to you? this is pre-designed composition death, and i am not a part of the de-humanization synthesis … i’d rather be silent or scream or tell you all the things that should be said and would be said and i will say, that will further nail my corporate ideation of success to a smooth, slick expensive coffin texture. they call it a receptacle so it has no meaning passed generic encasement of a thing, a general “no offense” meaning (less), doesn’t sound as bad, and is equal in its “no after affects” status … fuck this bureaucratic talk, death to babies is not “unfortunate casualties or circumstance,” is not “the drawback negative number” the other side of the fucking Roman swinging coin pendulum … you are not ceasar and we are not the barbarians of britannia and gaul however much we’d like to have their freedom in ship skin.

yeah, think free, accept less … darts are no longer thoughts and thoughts are no longer freedom because they have no feathered wings to tar anymore … they killed all the birds … or at least cut off their wings and made them kiwi or at least plucked all their feathers to disguise them as mcdonald’s chicken

mother: is that who you are, a fetal remnant?
me: not anymore …
mother: so what are you now?
me: a bird …
mother: what kind of bird?
me: a rare bird …
mother: did you know i ran into a bird?
me: oh?
mother: yes, and severed its head. all the kids at west call me the bird killer.

and so it goes on …