President Trump is the Afterthought of Postmodern Progress

Encounters, brief as highway exchanges, saved on fascinated tongues, rolling Rs, or selling short the T, to complement a verbal fascination when language confided in description: Homebody lifted a glass filled with cheap bourbon and set it down on the corner of his table, and bolstered from lessening standard animations, his limbs procured to flail, puncturing speech with gestures to ensure the audience was on him, influx of caution revealed its conclusion as his fingertips toppled the glass, bourbon pooled in the corner of his table, while the plastic barrier bordering the ledge, no taller than a centimeter, prevented it from spilling to the ground.   

Audience demanded a very American hubris, the kind instructing apologies to occur after brushing a stranger’s shoulder in the frozen vegetable aisle of the supermarket, (friction between consumers), or a promise to spay and neuter a house-pet, or simply to state please while asking for vegetables during dinner.

Homebody tore a square of paper towel from its ream, took a bow and used the towel to soak up the liquid, days progressed, the smell of bourbon wafted from his garbage and Homebody thought: ‘oh yeah, I should dispose of this mess outside.’ But abandoned his thought for the smell reminded him of life now and he stared at a robin’s nest through his kitchen window, facing his backyard, and contemplated saturating the eggs in the basket with his touch, so the mother had an excuse to leave.

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