Place. Limits. Liberty.
Rock Island, Il
The day for greeting my swarthy brethren with “Xristos Almosti!” has come and gone. (A Greco-Rus hybrid response might be “Alithos Notyetski!”) The best part of Palm Sunday, aside from the fact that it inaugurates our dolorous
Everything we are as persons can be expressed in terms of production and commodification.
You’d have to call this job rebarbative.
He was a prose writer of immense talent.
AM radio shouts at me, first the nut-jobs on the right, then the nut-jobs on the left.
Let’s be honest: the posts are terrible.
“Support your local Muslim,” she says to me brightly.
Son of a . . . What the . . . Holy . . . !
The eyes roll.
Where’s my wanton ambling nymph?
The ghost of Freud whizzes by me.
Ignorant posteriority has its price in the enterprise of repatriation.
The indignities mount.
Is nothing sacred?
I’m in one of those ridiculous backless hospital gowns.
If it were my ankle, we’d operate.
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