Propaganda states
Propaganda state
Propaganda bifurcates

Propaganda praise
Propaganda prays
Propaganda preys

Propaganda hijinx
Propaganda hijacks

Propaganda obfuscates
Propaganda concentrates
Propaganda replicates
Propaganda elates
Propaganda relates
Propaganda correlates
Propaganda denigrates
Propaganda inflates
Propaganda all-kinds-of-ates

Propaganda lays
Propaganda lies

Propaganda protects
Propaganda deflects
Propaganda infects
Propaganda elects

Still the one it f$&king sucks not being able to get anyone to read: On Dragons

If home is where the heart is, and you have no home, where, then, is your heart?

I've got to get to Arizona
And see the desert smile
But I mustn't leave these church bells
To the boys in the corral

Half-way now to Arizona,
I can feel his muscles rise.
With his goosebump riddled hair
And a peanut shell for Parthenon,
A blanket sky with stars for dawn,
But I just can't leave the look
I saw in Izabella's eyes

Her eyes control the vacancy
Behind my wounded sight
But Arizona calls
To mend my frailty.
For inspiration and desperation
Alone control our plight
And I'm half a mile from Arizona…

Totally recognizing how useless it is to have all my favorite essays at the top of the home page. They gots ta go.

Further confirmation of the previous post’s claim.

There is no better time than pissing in a toilet. It is the only time you really know where you are going in life.

If necessity is the mother of invention, who’s the father?

Cover page for my collected poems when I was in high school.

The other drawings (besides Barney) that I found inside that folder

The cover of the folder within which I found the random drawings from 1994.

When you are 14 years old and your mom has been keeping kids in the house to earn a living for as long as you can remember.

Pretty confident every poetry writing high school kid coming up in Georgia has written at least one poem on a Waffle House napkin.

If I could see through my walls of lazy faith
I would agree that my thoughts are days away
I lay here flushed in this field of daisied clay
Waiting for my love to light the way
And pushing with my pen, I contemplate my sin
And aggravate my mind to be a saint and invite it in
For through the water I wade
Until the scene has decayed
I have not been cleansed
But lick my rust and peel away

Some more over-the-top notes out of the 340 page journal for Perpetual Groove. These are from when I was writing the MIDI file loading and saving routines.

Just one of the kajillion things you can make out of a Turk’s head knot.

The unboxing

Guess I started worrying about the death of American democracy earlier than I thought.

I wonder if prayer has evolved.

Whoever first added the bottle opener to our pocket knives and multi-tools was spot-f$&king-on.

I mean …