Thirty-six Views of Mount Baker

three punjabi men have a conversation in the rain seeking shelter beneath the overhang of a nearby concession stand while death grips’ bitch please plays for a huge open venue somewhere close by

There seems to be a lotus blooming in my askbox. Let's all fold our hands behind our backs maturelike and view it for a moment

Fav quote: History isn't written by the losers

My roundness in all its glory

Interview with the Vampire | 2.04 | I Want You More Than Anything in the World

photographs by Deb Powell

Year built: 1974 Photo: Yakov Savchik

Imagine the air so thick with wokeness you can mold it in your hands like clay. It smells of ozone, ozone and oud and a bit of wild sage. It sticks to your hair a little. The sun is too bright. Jeff Davis has been dug up and hanged from a pawpaw tree in Kentucky. On Wall Street, a leading firm tries to juice its diversity quotas by manipulating a female Arab exec into developing dissociative identity disorder. The malarkey is discovered and the firm liquidated by the Secretary of Labor, a small Indian man with shining eyes and a beautiful smile. All is well. The exec is made Undersecretaries of Neurodivergence. Neurospicy. Listen, Jack. They told me I was mad. Some of you guys are alright. Don't watch the State of the Union. (The Zohrandate of Heaven settles uneasily across the Hudson River like the woke fog of morning, like a python about to consume its aging keeper.) All is well. Don't try to understand the press releases. Mandela is here. Somewhere in Indiana, small Black children watched over by serenely poststructuralist schoolpeople throw a brick through the window of a police station. The sound tinkles across the country like laughter, like song. All is well, and all manner of thing shall be well. God is in their heaven, and everything is vaxxed on Earth.