If naming the source solidified authenticity then it would be so, but anyone stepping out of their vehicle, loose leaf receipt stuck to the heel of their shoe, could’ve done it, continued walking, impervious to the receipts removal, as it anchored for a split second before being carried off by natural winds. From there it scampered down the sidewalk, intermingled in a potpourri of fall-colored-foliage and a white flag which had stamped on its frame Pesticide Application: Please Keep Off, before it settled in a pile of leaves, designating surrender.
(Voiceless rubble sustains the ultimate function of Wu Wei.)
But the receipt sparkled like dust inside a sunbeam snuggled there beside the rusted colors of fragile leaves. A curious party bent over and rescued it from that mass of bones, read off the purchased items.
“Pregnancy test,” he said. “Someone new coming around.”
He crumpled the paper into a ball, carried it for a few steps to a city sponsored receptacle and discarded the paper, granting it the name of trash.
Assuming the role of interested elector, invested in Biden exploring his skin contrast before the vanity, lights fixed to exemplify blemishes and inviting makeup application, to default Nixon’s rejection of media scrutiny (bright lights described him perfectly), Trump’s impulse the same standards as Biden’s old-man-censorship. This is the real objective of Debate Night. A performance much like Westminster, only the collar is white and the leash is held by wise cracking moderators, sponsored, in part, by American interests, reflected better in the advertisements played between breaks than those brave enough to watch two white men stumble through an obstacle course of universal grammar, tweets and rumors of amphetamine abuse.
What’s left to figure out about these caricatures of a divided nation?
1st Segment Supreme Court.
Podiums measured six feet apart, set before a backdrop of blue squares scribed with the Constitution, hung overhead, bald eagle in angry repose appearing to tear Old Glory like it was her prey held under talons and picked clean by a clean yellow beak.
Chris Wallace appears nervous, hands shaking.
Trump walks out, smile and nods.
Biden clenches his fists and humps the air, asks Trump, “how you doin,’ man?” They both look tired.
Trump isn’t sniffing. His answer is concise, boring and he sounds like a politician.
Biden thanks Chris Wallace and Trump, voice is gruff, he holds a pen in his hand which he uses as a vessel for empty gestures. To quote, “idle hands are the Devil’s playground (workshop).”
Trump interrupts Biden and he lets him. He was advised to do this and allow Trump to reveal his ignorance, but it’s backfiring. Biden comes-off weak if the interruptions continue and Trump knows this.
Chants of SOCIALISM! Lenin sighs.
Numbers they spout announce like gibberish when voiced without context.
Trump is trying to confuse Joe. (It’s working).
Trump hinders any question, utilizing salesperson technique of blabbering nonsensical jargon…until the consumer’s ears bleed.
Biden is hopeful the electorate peers behind the curtain. He’s not wrong…
Trump isn’t debating. He’s rambling.
Biden tells Trump to shut-up.
2nd Segment. COVID
Biden has a compassionate tone, like he’s a doctor explaining to a patient they have stage four cancer. He knows what words to highlight in a taller tone.
Trump says Biden is wrong. Biden bites his cheeks. Later on he chuckles.
H1N1-did Biden save us?
Are vaccines political?
Bleach in the veins and sarcasm cleans the words.
Fear mongering is capped, muzzled and abbreviated by Biden’s taller tone.
February was long ago. We weren’t scared then?
Reopen the economy? Who died? PPE. Bank bleeds.
Trump furrows. Smirks.
Biden chuckles. Shakes.
Trump thinks he’s dominating. Biden wasn’t built to combat bullying. He’s a schmoozer (diplomat).
MASKS!..masks are needed…
“Wherewithal to open businesses.”
Dr. Faucci quotes presented like Google searches to confirm I’M RIGHT.
Rallies are where crowds go to die.
3rd Segment The Economy.
V-Shapped recovery vs K-Shapped recovery.
Rich white men describe what goes on behind closed doors. SHUT IT DOWN.!.
Millionaires are doing well.
“You folks at home…how are you doin’?”
Who lost their jobs? We must get hamburgers.
750 dollars paid in income tax.
(personally I paid 800+ in taxes last year and I made less than 33,000)
Biden passed tax laws to allow Trump to skimp on paying taxes.
TAX CODE is a four letter word.
WORST PRESIDENT AMERICA HAS EVER HAD!
Discussions about what’s possible. Politicians favorite reality to flourish-in.
Who deserves lower taxes? What makes the economy boom?
Class structure, obliging coinage, asses the 99% as faux-copper presentation, while Washington’s silver eyes reflect light and expose the dark recesses of human containment (addressing the bottom of a purse, underneath couch cushions, (or the classic) fell out of the wallet into the borrower’s back pocket).
If faces mounted on metal plates are homage to the accomplishments these humans achieved, consider that Washington owned slaves and Lincoln freed them…no wonder parents gift their children with pennies, advising them to “make a wish” and toss them into a publicly owned water fountain, bequeathing onto the tosser the limits of imagination, (American dream eats its heart out). But myth foretells of discovering a head’s up penny as an indication of good luck, the empty gestures are strewn about like pollen stolen from a weed’s bloom, copper dawn breaches the Senate Chamber and debates are had about the fate of Lincoln’s luck, consider a world where only the slave owners are valued as accomplished currency and it’s understood, to the victor go the spoils.
Contemporary culture, outfitted in consumer designs situates a new meta-narrative of objects creating reality, positioning societal empathy to voice the lamp’s function (illumination devised as pretty!), essential to sentience.
Earth happenings enhance these features and are representative of expected relations, failure to which stands in the understanding of nature’s follies, or the batteries dying, or the politician stuttering on their soapbox, failing at the lecture which procures their riches.
Herein, the meta-narrative fails.
The objective of language is the process of stealing from nature’s essence to punctuate sentience.
Standing at the edge of a cliff and peering over to one’s doom pales in comparison to V.R. simulating the same. Off the edge. To Ego Death (the difference). To reality (the claim).
But creating the function, parallel in motion is like teaching a robot about dancing and explaining the nuances in performing a plie, as opposed to a curtsy. The” Blank” fills it all as movement, it’s language which knows the difference.
Meta-narrative gives meaning to grocery aisles, inserts the words: “I prefer this brand” to embrace subjectivity and finally out-wits the end, but fails to outlast time.
Compact cars align the cul de sac, spine parallel along a pine tree, semi-truck careens into the neighborhood and its frequency transfers to wood, while the truck rounds out the horseshoe and vibrates the trunk, shakes her spine like a yacht navigating nervous waves.
Spine enters indoors, her clock-face wields a mustache, but she thinks the clock is frowning. Spine begins whistling to the tune of her favorite car commercial in an attempt to brighten his mistakeofafrown.
Spine has a porch light which contains a pebble shaped hole on the glass casing surrounding the bulb. Mama robin discovered this break and built a nest inside. At night spine turns on her porch light with the intention of using the heat from the bulb as a catalyst to ignite the nest in flames. For a week now she’s failed.
A landowner taking pride in their manicured lawn has origins tied to Marxist communism, these property owners hired peasants as landscapers, typical duties like hedge trimming, lawn clipping and planting flowers occupied their day. But it was another task which prompted Marx to take notice and begin his philosophical analysis of labor, the collecting of twigs. Instead of discarding them as trash, like instructed, workers took them home and used them as kindling to heat their shanty. Once the landowners caught wind of this activity they began removing the peasant’s fingers and arms, replaced them with gardening tools to remind them of their purpose in life.
Marx was strolling about on a sunny fall day when he witnessed a man organizing leaves into piles using a rake fastened to a stub where his forearm should be. Befuddled, he approached the man and stammering his words asked what happened to his arm.
“Mr. Rothschild took it from me…said he needed it to feed his hounds, ‘Something delicious.’ As he put it.”
Marx was gobsmacked. He felt faint and stumbled a few steps, caught his balance on a fence, bordering the Rotschild’s estate. “This…I have no words…no words…”
After he regained full awareness, set off for home where he filled his inkwell to the brim, dipped his quill in it and began writing what became known as the Communist Manifesto.
White Suburban Man grunts as he plants his hands at his sides for leverage, lifts off the couch and waddles to his living room window. He leans forward, his beer gut presses against the glass, preventing his facial features from doing the same. He surveys his lawn, salutes it and watches while a neighbor walking their dog pauses to allow the animal to piss on the lawn. He attempts to open the window to shout them off, but he’s too late. The animal is finished and down the block, away from earshot.
Warehouses stockpile sentience and colonize government sponsored land, as stayed discussions on methods of survival illicit standardized conformity compared to a slouch, missing teeth, conversations with the wall and bursts of frustration accumulating in violent acts, adding to the calamity of housed consciousness in competition for bread.
Stale glucose crumbs litter the ground and espouse crescendo crunches as weighted steps demolish their tiny frames. Bunk-beds pressed to walls dawning yellow wallpaper, complimented by a hole made from a child’s crooked fingernail, who discovered a tear in the print and pinched the jagged edge, tugged at it like they were turning the page of their Bible looking for answers.
Reruns of Keeping Up With The Kardashians played on the television, in their playroom. Sentient-B lifted a plastic stegosaurus and marched it along the windowpane, gale struck the glass and shifted it within the frame, echoing spastic clicks from the window, setting the ambiance for the dinosaur’s controlled stroll. Sentient-B paused and stared at the screen, studied plump lips, glossed in pink, shimmering under a mix of camera flashes and the L.A. sun. She imitated the pucker, held the pose, turned her head and caught her reflection in the pulsating window glass, shrugged and continued with her adventure, sans her companion’s extinction.