Fuck You, Fifty Shades

I blame her.

E.L James of 50 Shades of Grey.

She did it, unwittingly of course.

She was just trying to turn a buck

With a bit of earnest fiction, I’m sure.

But she unleashed it.

The American subconscious.

Seething all this time, culminating

In this climactic rape scene, 

The public just wanting it, 

Conditioned to accept it as love

Rape, breaking down, power loss

Submission to might–in the name

Of love, the father, and that not-so-

Holy ghost misogyny we all love

To hate and hate to love.

In the name of the grandest

Circle jerk, Americans,

Perpetrators and victims, watch

Stroking themselves as they 

Witness, their own interests die

And with them, their lives.

And so be it. 

Get off while you can.

The party’s started.

When the gang rape 

Really gets going, full thrust

They’ll be no stopping it.

Witness and weep.

Or get out.

Fuck off.

 

Credit: Miskatonic Institute of Horror Studies

Message in a Beer Bubble: Ten for Today


Happy hour. A hearty hoppy beer might make things go right for a short while anyhow. Maybe even release the vise grip on my brain. This tension headache brought to you by your local, fucked up telecommunications service. No tv, then no internet, and no rhyme or reason. “We’ll overnight that modem to you, but it will take 3 to 5 business days.” What do you answer to that kind of math?

But at least it forced me to work at my favorite watering hole for some atmosphere, compared to my usual, dull writing environment: dusk-lit room, dilapidated desk over-cluttered, bed beckoning from behind my back, and puppy chewing on my bare feet as I try to focus on a screen that sometimes allows me to reach the world outside–when the internet hasn’t drifted in then out. Today, like yesterday, it’s all out.

And then there’s the election. It’s worse than anything I can remember in my public awareness age. Yes, even Watergate. This trumps all, pun intended. The banana republic antics. It’s hard to stomach any more. It’s like stupid times infinity, as we used to say. We’re sliding speedily down the ice hill in reverse. I can’t watch–but like that carnage on the side of the road, I must. No entertainment. All sadness and nausea. There’s an ache in the pit of my stomach that threatens to swallow my entire body, engulf it in burning bile. 

Or is it just me? I can’t tell any more. As I look into the foamy, golden crystal ball of my immediate future, cold and wet to my clasped hands around its glassy trunk, I ask, “Is it just me?”

She answers from inside a beer bubble, “It’s always been just you.”