Problem Solution Com-plication

Problem: The Sun is disappearing again.

Solution: Consult the Farmer's Almanac.

Complication: Monsanto and Cargill have burned all of them.

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Hear This, Businessman

The people will rise. Up with people! Rich man, CEO man, we will allow you no more money or Lexi or diamond encrusted anything until you provide for those with no means to provide for themselves. We will not allow you to neglect them. It will be your privilege to redistribute. There is an alternative, and it's shiny and sharp.

Regardless of how ambitious you are in business, you will have to support lifestyles in conflict with your values, if you have any. If you want to grow wealth, surround yourself with luxuries, use people as commodities, you have a responsibility. Oh, you like talk of responsibility. Personal responsibility -- making good choices -- it's how you got where you are. But you won a rigged race. Society lay no obstacles before you. You cheated, and now you lie to yourself and us. We will temper your greed. That's what it is. Greed.

Now pick up the checkbook and step away from the lawyers. You'll find them useless here. Laws do not govern us, only compassion for the suffering and seeking to avoid the inevitability of the same fate.
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Problem/Solution/Com- plication

Problem: Understanding the social outcast.

Solution: Empathy.

Complication: Ridicule.
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A Socialist Outside City Hall

Sitting on the stone bench outside City Hall in my red T-shirt, I watch for police. They will come, for I represent disorder, but for now only trash blows down the street.

With a pen in my hand and social justice in my blood, I am obnoxious. I ask questions. I agitate. It's my job to hold your ass to the fire, no matter how terrific or powerful your ass, no matter how much shit it can spew and how fine-smelling that shit. I believe in the people. Your example corrupts their essential goodness. You call it rugged individualism, but I call it selfishness. I call it exploitation. I am right. You are wrong. You want duality? You got duality.

Think you can bribe me? I keep a coin in my pocket to remind me what money can do. I keep a condom in my pocket to remind me what sex can do. I like to press the coin into the condom's circle. Money, sex, humanism.
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Danger: Tapering Ideal

The alive should brighten and fade with poignancy and revitalize those near with gentle reminders of our own mortality and of breath's passion and crackle.

This swelling of hearts to tender creates special possibilities. Hands squeeze. We squirt delight in the face of fear and wring life from everything, even cold etched stone, but cannot help but replenish it with an innocent smile.

Of course this doesn't make money. If you're unable to live this way, if it hurts or costs too much, just keep a record so future generations see how we failed.
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Waking Dick Cheney

Dick Cheney rolls to the cool part of the pillow. If he were dreaming, how would you wake him up? By touching his shoulder? By gently kissing him on the lips, even if he could taste your morning breath, knowing that he wouldn't mind? By spooning him? Sucking his cock? He likes your morning breath on his cock. The congealed saliva, the nighttime build-up makes for less friction, and he likes the sound. His cock feels it. You suck his cock good. He likes your hair, not yet washed. “Oh, yeah,” he says silently, “this is like war.”

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George W.

Jesus Christ, can you imagine five million Americans voting on the basis of "moral values?" "Moral values" are an issue created by Republicans, which include abortion, gay marriage, stem cell research, etc, designed to overshadow the moral values denigrated by bombing un-American families, destroying un-American villages, and this apparently self-evident statement: un-Americans' lives and loves are not as important as money or Texas Justice!

I have often thought what I would say to Mr. Bush should I be in the front row of some taxpayer-funded-blood parade, and he emerged from his bulletproof limosine to shake some hands. I feel myself so overcome with rage that I cannot bear to do anything but spit. This bothers me because he is not worth my spit. It is not Mr. Bush who destroys the world. It is you and I, our appetite for gasoline and convenience, our sense of inadequacy brought to us by advertising, and the fact that America is designed for protection of wealth.

However,

I want my wealth protected because I am afraid of not having a wonderful home attractive to women (which I do not have). I am afraid of the impoverished, of their casual attitude toward violence, of their belief in God. I am afraid of those larger than me, of those with larger members than I have, of not having an equalizer. I am afraid of death, of meaninglessness, of most beautiful women. I am afraid of well-dressed gays, of cults, of animals that do not make a beeline for my crotch (and those that do). I am afraid that my mind cannot function without my body, which I neglect. Wealth seems the only way to combat these fears, and if it is not protected, what happens next?

Hypocrisy falls.
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