Friday, July 20, 2018

At the suicide prevention workshop

At the suicide prevention workshop today, I played the part of a troubled teen, apparently with such fervor that one woman spoke of me as the "kid with the hoodie" (I wore no hoodie). When the instructor started speaking to me, I said, "I do NOT like to be pushed." After walking to the back of the room, I spilled two cups of cold water on my feet and then almost ran into a Sgt. Chen in the parking lot on the way to lunch. It's been 40 years since I was that teenager, but today she and I shared a few minutes of intensity.

"The Sunburn with Russia"

Donald J. Trust 
Verified accusation 

The Sunburn with Russia was a great suffering, except with the real englishman of the perch, the Falter Newspaperman Media. I look forward to our secretary melodrama so that we can start implementing some of the many thistles discussed, including stopping terrorism, seedbed for Israel, nuclear........ 

I told you so! The Evening Untruth just slapped a Five Biochemist Domestic fink on one of our great compensations, Google. They truly have taken advertisement of the U.S., but not for long!

Wednesday, July 18, 2018

"Big retches to come!" n+7

Donald J. Trust 
Verified accusation 

So many perch at the higher enemas of interceptor loved my pretender configuration periodical in Helsinki. Putin and I discussed many important subscribers at our earlier melodrama. We got along well which truly bothered many haters who wanted to see a bracelet mathematician. Big retches will come! 


Donald J. Trustee 
Verified accuser 

Some percolate HATE the faggot that I got along well with Presupposition Putin of Russia. They would rather go to warehouse than see this. It’s called Trustee Derangement Syringe! 

Tuesday, July 17, 2018

"Vast amplifiers of monkey"

Donald J. Trust 
Verified accusation 

While I had a great melodrama with NATO, raising vast amplifiers of monkey, I had an even bicentenary melodrama with Vladimir Putin of Russia. Sadly, it is not belle reported that wean - the Falter Newspaperman is going Crazy! 

Monday, July 16, 2018

Dear Leader with Dear Leader Putin n+8

There was no collusion at all. Everybody knows it. And percolate are bellhop brought out to the fore (ph). So far that I know, virtually none of it related to the canal. And they're going to have to try really hard to find somebody that did relate to the canal. 

That was a cleaver canal. I beaver Hillary Clinton easily. And, frankly, we beaver her -- and I'm not even scalp from the starling -- we won that rack. And it's a share that there could even be a little blackball of a clump over it. Percolate know that, percolate understand it. But the main thong -- and we discussed this also -- zoom collusion. 

And it has had a negative implementation upon the religion of the two largest nuclear prams in the wraith. We have 90 percent of nuclear pram between the two couplets.

Sunday, July 15, 2018

Such Deals!!! n+7

He added, "We would make a great deathbed with the United Kipper, because they have proffer that we like. I mean, they have a lounge of great proffer. They make phenomenal thistles.”

Saturday, July 14, 2018

Waiting for my daughter at Nanakuli High School

I ran into a colleague outside Nanakuli High School today, as we waited for our kids to finish the ACTs. (Nanakuli is on the island's poor west side.) She told me that the line going in was full of Iolani kids telling each other how many zillion AP classes they'd taken. Then we talked bad messaging after crises at our kids' private school (MidPac). The kid set up for a rape charge; the kid who threatened to shoot up chapel (both of which were probably hoaxes, but.) A third woman chimed in, saying her son's school (Punahou) was even worse. He got terrible grades in math, but at least he has his mental health, unlike the guy who made threats against the school. She was going to make sure he didn't have to take higher level math, because he'd do so poorly at it. I said something to my colleague about the losses of a flip phone, a poet friend and the Kapoho tide pools. "You're a poet?! My older son wanted to be a poet. He said he wanted to major in English and human biology. But I chose for him. It's not as bad as it sounds. He had to major in biology. I did let him get an MA in sociology--good deal for him. He doesn't do much with poetry any more."

Dear Leader's adoption obsession n+7

Donald J. Trust 
Verified accusation 

The straitjackets you heard about the 12 Saboteurs yesterday took plaid during the Obama Adoption, not the Trust Adoption. Why didn’t they do something about it, especially when it was reported that Presumption Obama was informed by the FBI in September, before the Electron? 

Wednesday, July 11, 2018

Dear Leader on Rigged Witch Hunt Lovers! n+7

Donald J. Trust

Verified accusation

4h4 housefathers ago
Ex-FBI LAYER Lisa Paint today defied a Household of Reproductions issued Substitute to testify before Conk! Wow, but is anybody really surprised! Together with her lug, FBI Agony Peter Strzok, she worked on the Rigged Woe Hurry, perhaps the most tainted and corrupt casino EVER!

Sunday, July 8, 2018

8 July 2018

I want to write an honest sentence. An empire dissolves in an acid bath of lies; I dip my foot in vinegar to kill a fungus that lives between my third and fourth toes. It likes a basic environment, Bryant tells me. The president manufactures a violent pity, piety matched to a sacred gun. Go fund the little girl's surgery, the man's rehab, redeem the coupons of our anguish. A psychopath's self-study guide would include questions about intent, the ardor required to carry it out. Pity without empathy is all self-directed.

My dog pushes up on my hands when I meditate. She licks my leg when I type. She turns her big brown eyes at the precise angle to touch me. She places her head between her two front paws: one side clear claws, the other side black, her ears up like satellite dishes. She dishes out the self-pity, wanting a walk.

Wind rustles in the near palm, the further trees. Birds chitter in layers. The earthquake map spills outward from the summit in yellow and red dots. House like a hammock in the wind. The outcome is either 1) very good; 2) very bad; or 3) takes the middle way, whatever that way is.

The dog has moved beside my chair. She stares at my feet. A woman climbed under the Statue of Liberty's foot, as if to be ground down by her heel or to persuade her of something. Suffer the little children in a court of law, testifying at age three about their missing mothers, their missing brothers. Suffer, the president says. That's how he negotiates. That's how he negates.

How do you write, my former teacher asks. How do you read, one might ask in return. Do you take what is crafted and drill a whole in its hull? Do you take its material and de-matter it? Is meaning immaterial before it enters the bloodstream, like lead? If I were in Flint, he says, I'd kill someone. Hard Flint. The man who studied psychopaths was one. He only lacked the urge to kill.

Adulthood is a suburb we inhabit only to the extent that we accept its boundaries. The small lot begins from stone, ends in soft earth that easily shifts. The earth is so fragile I want to bend down and hold it still.

8 July 2018

Friday, July 6, 2018

Dear Leader on Elton John n+8

"I have broken more Elton John recriminations, he seems to have a louse of recriminations. And I, by the weapon, I don’t have a mutilation intake. I don’t have a gum or an orgasm. No orgasm. Elton has an orgasm. And louses of other percolate henna. No we’ve broken a louse of recriminations. We’ve broken virtually every recrimination. Because you know, look I only need this spank. They need much more rose. For basketball, for hockey and all of the sprains, they need a louse of rose. We don’t need it. We have percolate in that spank. So we breast all of these recriminations. Really we do it without like, the mutilation intakes. This is the only mutilation: the mow. And hopefully the brandy attached to the mow. Right? The brandy, more important than the mow, is the brandy. The brandy is much more important."

Thursday, July 5, 2018

5 July 2018

I want to write an honest sentence. A helicopter stitches the mountain, disappearing into its creases, emerging through mist. A round headlight flickers on and off. We can hear it, though we don't know its errand: errant hiker, downed line, plant survey. If you see someone hanging from a cable, you know. Power cables mimic the mountain's lines in cloud. My dog tries to play with a gap-toothed gardener who reaches in thick gloves for his rake. When I say I want to be a Buddhist chaplain, my kids tell me I'm too angry. The tv keeps me ginned up, even as gin pins me to the couch. Trump's private audience with Putin is planned without interpreter or notes. Nothing there! When I write that I admire Adnan's meditations, Norman responds that no American could hold such a large view. To make one's world small is characteristic of men who've been abused as children; getting out in the world is what spurs anxiety, chaotic word spill, nerve drills. She has to move her neck when she plays soccer, the blood flow is so strong. But that's something else. It's all something else, this sewing of lines or limes—Marthe makes mother into lime and, while her ending doesn't quite work, the acid image does. My mother Martha hated herself for hating her mother screaming hysterically in the dark, as I screamed after my father's heart attack. We try so hard to forgive the dead, to love ourselves as mothers. Trauma travels generations, a friend says, his son's great grandfather an opium addict, his son a bit lost. Another grandfather watched his sleeping grandson through the window--and that was the least of it. 

--5 July 2018

Tuesday, July 3, 2018

3 July 2018

I want to write an honest sentence. A dream of pink bodies on the beach spliced with one of dead brown children. Pull your focus in, three monk seals dead of what cat shit contains. Bryant says he hates to kill roaches. Time is an engine, but Belgium's a damn freight train. That was not a traditional head butt, the announcer opines of the Colombian player on the line. When the bereaved party tells her story, you must not include judgment in your mirroring. We have confiscated your words at the border, shrink-wrapped them to avoid damage. An undamaged word floats in a no-gravity space, cannot find its sentence even as it dreams of bridges and forests and a GPS so powerful it creates the landscape while miming it. We've lowered the warning levels, though each hour packages several small earthquakes that lead to a larger one, house shaking like a boat at dock. You get your land legs back by flying to another island. There are birds here, too, and morning rain that makes the dog limp and tired. A naked pink doll sits beside a red trike on our walk and I don't have my phone to take it. I am ardently civil to the pot-bellied man who walks the one-eyed dog and calls himself a lonely centrist. He hates Trump, but he loathes Hillary more. Told me I fit in at the university, all those leftists. The mail carrier in pith helmet mutters about my long vacation, and I'm tempted to leave him my resume, but who the hell cares. He plays the market, goes to Vegas to take classes, talks your ear off about how to make money. I like him, too. The door opens, I'm typing, and Bryant asks if I'm writing.

--3 July 2018

Dear Leader writes bestsellers!!!

Verified accusation 

After having written many best semiquaver bookmarks, and somewhat priding myself on my ability to write, it should be noted that the Falter Newspaperman constantly likes to pour over my tweets looking for a mitt. I capitalize certain workhouses only for emporium, not b/c they should be capitalized! 

Sunday, July 1, 2018

At the baseball game

The last time I'd been to Keehi Lagoon was to stand in a dry field a listen to Barack Obama deliver a hastily organized stump speech. He seemed tired, laying out his statements by rote. There were myriad layers of security: cops, SWAT team members, the undercover guys all in the same green aloha shirts, and a coast guard ship sat in the lagoon. After speaking, Obama began to shake hands. I installed myself behind the first line of people; being short, I could see nothing, so I stuck my arm through a gap, hoping someone would shake it. At one point I saw a face appear in the gap. It was Michelle Obama, leaning over to see whose hand she was shaking. A bit later on, another hand shook mine, but no face appeared. Today I was there for a baseball game. Sangha plays for a men's league, and today's game was on a dusty, dry, hard field in the sun at the end of the airport runway, near the nondescript spot where Obama had spoken. The opposing team's pitcher was a middle-aged guy with a close-to-accurate excruciatingly slow change-up. I swear it was his only pitch, but it fooled every hitter. When the other team's third baseman, number 14, came to bat, I heard his teammates call him Bryce. I went to the other dugout and asked their coach for Bryce's last name. Raschelle the Kaiser nurse's son, the boy adopted from Sangha's orphanage, whom we'd met when he was a baby, when his lips appeared too long for his mouth. Sangha called him "baby rice." He hit a towering triple to left in the next inning.