When I say someone is a “serious writer,” I do it secretly during a private, one-sided conversation with myself. Because the public sharing of artistic output is often so randomly and arbitrarily judged, who really cares what I think?
America has either been denying black
Americans access to all manner of water to drink or it has let us drown; drown in filthy hurricane
water or, as in Flint, Michigan in the tainted water flowing into the
tubs and sinks of poor blacks and whites there.
Maine governor debuts plan to combat heroin epidemic with old-fashioned racism; record Powerball jackpot is chance to become God, despite what haters say about odds; streetcar hours pique interest of argumentative Cincinnatians and more.
Hilarious weed-smoking sloth makes smoking weed look fun; Kasich does something that kind of makes it sound possible for convicts to get jobs; feds mock lack of sensible immigration policy by making jokes about Santa's reindeer and more.
I have a healthy respect for death, as a marker of absences and a gauge of time.
Since 2015 knocked me to my literal
knees, then on my ass for what looks like the long haul, I wouldn’t say
I’m obsessed with death but keenly aware and unafraid of it.