Tied Up Wrong

A bluebell crack.

The storybook matador lost in last week’s storm. Like a drone cyclone of hothouse hornets, come inklings of nuclear enrichment here and there—not good places, but nowhere is good for instant vaporization. I’m in a horse drawn cart in a colorless wasteland.

The news, all of it, is dire.

Even this item: A beetle lives in dank Slovenian caves, and is named for a genocidal tyrant—Anophthalmus hitleri. Fittingly, it has no eyes and is trump-colored yellow-orange. Blind pestis. Yesrinia pest-us. Ain’t we a scourge.

Roving packs of weevil matchmakers kidnapping transit bus drivers … when they’re not punching them out.

Timeout!

No more frontier desperados. No more off-license licentiousness. Let’s get it together, dudes! Clamber on and straddle the peace pipe, folks.

Straitjacket soothsayers tied me up wrong. They’re so full of pain for their people, they have no space for my people. So I’m thrown out of my ancestral land because they have the market cornered on straitjackets.

So now I’m the exorcism matinée. Come one, come all. Bring phone cameras. Bring your favorite influencers to record it.

And the frustration detective says:

Ain’t this the life!

What I’m Reading:

“Many tongues twisted in their mouths when
she went, leaving behind only   
the smallest tooth of wickedness.”

— Joyce Sutphen / “The Exorcism”