Yahoo! Search Poetry

letters-to-the-editorI wrote you a poem based on the search term “Satan’s Asshole” using Yahoo! Search and the recommended search terms Yahoo! provided. Continue reading

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This Was An Important Scene In a Film That Was Never Made.

letters-to-the-editorIt would seem in light of our treatment by our captors, that we have lost our humanity.

They tell us over and over that we are dogs.  They kick us, like dogs. They shoot us like dogs. And up until now, we have been all too willing to play the role of a dog. We cower and lick their boots, in the hopes that they will spare us their abuse.  But I have news for you, they aren’t going to spare any of us, we’re all going to be killed and thrown in a ditch. Continue reading

Can We Boycott Our Way To Power?

I think that if you could find a nonprofit, or a broad coalition of nonprofits, with a large base of support, a boycott could be a really good short term strategy that will be able to force concessions on a few items here and there.

But I think there are a lot of opportunities for a boycott to fail to create the deeper systemic change we are hoping for, and I think that in the future it will be necessary to pursue other strategies that are more involved than changing purchasing habits. Continue reading

A Tale of Steven Handscomb

It’s a normal night here at the Empire Dine and Dance.  I’ve never seen this man before, but he emerges.  A Hall and Oates song starts playing, but I couldn’t tell you the name of it, or what the hook is until it gets to the chords.  The man is standing there with a bottle of brown liquor held tightly to his lips and tilted far above his head.  He is jerking quickly back and forth.  Not dancing, but… jerking.

Suddenly, I realize that the song is coming out of his butt.  His name is Steven Handscomb.

How do I know that?

I also know that he manages a moving company.  Where did he get that bottle?  I look at the bartender, who doesn’t seem to care.  He is gazing at Handscomb serenely.  He has only the slightest smile hung from his approving face.

As Steven jerks back and forth, he moves his stiffly-straight legs across the floor, like a spirograph pen skittering on top of a card table.  We are now halfway through the song, and I recognize its chorus.  A bird rubs its back on the window from outside.

I don’t come to the Empire Dine and Dance regularly, but I come here often enough to know that this slowly descending disco ball is new.  A middle aged woman in the corner is showered with Nickelodeon slime.  After a moment, she laughs with a shocked expression holding her lips apart.  The spring equinox will come in 54 days, I recall.

The song ends, and by this time, Steven Handscomb has grown a mustache.  We’ve all grown mustaches.  As I fumble through my purse, looking for a razor, I notice that Steven Hanscomb is missing.  He is gone like the winter, and gone like his song.  But he has made my dreams.

Come true.