FUCK THE DAMN BALLROOM by John Bruni

Tariffs, graft--BALLROOM!
Epstein, greed, shootings--BALLROOM!
Fuck the damn ballroom.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

RIVER FUGUE IN A♭ by Andre Peltier

Sometimes when the sun is rising and the dew has fallen on the world, sometimes when I sit and wonder, sometimes when the Earth is spinning and the tunes are lost to time, we watch ice storms down the oaks, we watch the oaks crash to the icy Huron, frigid Erie, the St. Lawrence and the North Atlantic. The fallen oak drags its amber leaves in rushing currents. The fallen oak, like chamber music in chambers of the heart, is washed by the pump of receding glaciers. And we all fall down, and we all clear those hurdles. And we watch as coffee spoons swirl and twirl and squirrel away their ever-loving song. Sometimes in the wake of winter when the winds of the plains blow back, sometimes when I stand and stumble, when the moon eclipses every star and the flames of tomorrow burn bright, it’s unclear what we want. We want the empty matter of life, the universe, the empty matter of everything. And like worms after the storm, we wallow in muck and gloom. Like the worms after a storm, we are stra...
Read more

from SICK, POOR, AND STUPID by Brad Liening

We cry havoc and let slip opinions online A new praxis of anger and yearning Like shaking our fists at the yawning emptiness of privatized outer space Or the churning guts Of Sleeping Beauty Can you even conceive of the dump she took upon waking up 5000000 comments and no end in sight But still a pillar of clouds to guide us by day A pillar of fire Indefatigable source of consolation and inspiration By night   Brad Liening is the author of You're Doing It Wrong (Scud 2025). He was born and raised in the great state of Michigan but currently resides in Minneapolis and at bradliening.blogspot.com.
Read more

HONUTS by Jack Phillips Lowe

After work, Buchman drops in  at his local watering hole, a studied dive called  The Triple Zero, to drown the day in boilermakers. Tyson, the bartender,  polishing a beer mug with  a stringy red towel,  inches down to Buchman’s lonely seat at the end  of the battered oak counter. “I can see,” Tyson says,  “you had another shitty day  in retail sales. Big surprise.” “Yeah,” says Buchman,  between sips of Old Style. Tyson sets the empty mug down  on the bar and drapes the towel over his shoulder. “You done any thinking about that million-dollar idea  I offered you halfsies on?” Buchman downs a shot of Bushmill’s. “Which one was that, again?”  Tyson grimaces and sighs. “Damn, Buchman, you got to start thinking big to move up the ladder. Time’s running out for guys like us.  Do you think I want to be here,   pouring drinks, until I die?  The idea is called. . .Honuts.” “Honuts,” echoes Buchman. “Come on, I told...
Read more