A Post-America public service kind of post I hope will encourage and entertain in the course of educating. Or something.

I used to hang my facemasks over my music sheet stand close to my desk. Last week I put them in my winter sock drawer.

Wherever you see this flat, generic art, you can be sure you’re being lied to about something.

More notes as the smoke clears in Post-America.

Sitting poolside, enjoying the decline.

Notes following a landmark Independence Day, 2021.

All the people I’d wanted to impress with my poems and novels and stuff left this Earth a long time ago. I have no idea who my audience is.

...or something better beginning.

So much has already disappeared down the media’s memory hole, but there’s so much too many of us cannot, will not forget.

These are our world's leaders. Don't like it, build your own world government!

I’m not saying never, but it’ll be the next best thing.

A poem of repentance.

More than a legend passed. More than an age. An entire reality went over the Rainbow Bridge with Otis T. Cat.

I could riff all day on this, and as full of cuss and coffee as I am at this glorious Sunday dawn, I just might.

Oh, they had to get me started. Which is a good thing, considering how long this blog has been dark.

…because the fact that Rock is dead, once and for all, does not reflect well upon us.

December is the strangest month on our calendar.

The moon wastes no time climbing the cold black bones of the pin oak I could have watched burn yellow forever.

We've seen so many things change slowly, now all at once.

It's been years since you've suffered the need to tell people what you're up to.