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Under the windowsill flowers, my father, stark like
math without calculator, sitting so still and nothing
but a. . .
“Lynch whenever works best for you.”
I mean, “Lunch.” It’s too late. So come
archived images of black bodies, hot.
In a regional town, an old woman died. Her husband, a retired factory worker of seventy, walked to the telegraph office and. . .
Woke bae Justin Trudeau, who had been transcendent in his socks, hid away from his creature’s-feet.
Would the Holocaust have happened if Moe Howard was Chancellor of Germany? The Gulag, if Stalin was swapped out for Stan Laurel?
Your friend has a new girlfriend. So what? Stop worrying about your little boys' club and grow the fuck up.