They Said ‘No’ to Our Voice

The U.S. House of Representatives voted to ban TikTok yesterday. An 81% consensus, 81%! POTUS has said that he would sign the bill into law should it get through the Senate.

Our political representatives can’t come together to tackle healthcare, corporate price gouging, the housing crisis, poverty level wages, college loan debt, the border question, food insecurity, or work toward investing in our nation, its people, or its future. The moment 170 million Americans began talking to each other, however, realizing we weren’t alone and that we could change things, then they acted—to divide our voices.

They said ‘no’ to our voice.

(in)Justice and Monsters

Monsters lurk the lines of my fiction because it is how I cope with a world on fire. I remember as a child learning about the Civil Rights Movement and thinking, “why did that happen? Why did they hang those people? Why did they kill that man speaking up for justice?” I was confused but assured “it was over. Justice won.”

It’s not over. It never ended. The problems of inequality and injustice persist, not only for Black people, but for non-white, non-heteronormative, non-Christian, non-conservative humans. More people are pushing back, demanding justice, but those in power, the same who murdered MLK, Jr., Medgar Wiley, Lemar Smith, Harvey Milk, and countless more, have reignited the fires of hate motivated violence in an attempt to end the push.

For many years, I was ignorant of the unfathomable depth of inequality and injustice in America. I was naive, and so surprised by the number of voices rising to the provocation of power—not to resist that wicked power, but to uphold its scaffolding and institutions, to protect the bloodied hands of the powerful.

Comedian, playwright, and novelist Ben Elton once said: “With privilege comes responsibility, you must understand that.” I wonder if this is why so many disenfranchised people are rising up to protect and defend the atrocities of the powerful. They have benefitted from the current institution. They are privileged in this arrangement, and so they feel it their responsibility to uphold it—ignorant of how the same system is also killing them.

After two decades of work, I have become conscious of my privilege, but my responsibility—my duty—is not to the system, not anymore. My obligation is to humanity. I do what I can to ease suffering in small and seemingly insignificant ways, but these little acts add up quickly.

If we could do our small part together, at once, the impact would be a stone in Goliath’s brain. We would rock the world. Imagine, for one week, we refused to participate in capitalism—get only the barest of essentials from the most ethical businesses. It would be a strike at the wallet of power. They’d feel it. Now imagine if we maintained that pressure.

Right now, orcas in the middle of the ocean are sinking the yachts of the wealthy. It is an ironic twist to witness whales campaigning to “Save the Humans.” Truly, things are far worse than we realize. But if the whales can do their part, should we not do ours?

The monsters wandering between page and pen are how I cope with a world on fire. These creatures can be stopped. Their objectives can be disrupted and subverted. I can save the world from them, but the real monsters, those monsters can only be stopped if we work together.

Deep State Files: The Vaccine

I was forced to receive the devil’s juice just before it was released to the public. I was part of a Deep State Disinformation Task Force sent to undermine the effectiveness of Hydroxychloroquine. We knew Hydroxychloroquine was effective against COVID-19, but we needed the public to buy into our “vaccine.” What we were given wasn’t the same as what we gave the public. We had all been deceived.

Days after I received Beelzebub’s Bottom Sweat, I began seeing things—people—no one else could see. I heard things no one else could hear. A collective tortured cry seemed to persist in the distance, always lingering just over the horizon. Soon I was visited by a strange being that revealed the “vaccine” had sealed my soul for the great archangel, Lucifer.

In exchange for my soul, the being had imbued me with the ability to see through the veil and into the lands of the dead. All I see, all I hear, are the tortured souls forsaken by God, a perpetual reminder of what awaits me in the next world. Everyday, death haunts me. It looms over me with the promise of hopelessness and despair.

My body has begun aging at an accelerated rate. The only things slowing the acceleration are COVID-19 boosters and the crushed skulls of aborted fetuses. If I could go back and do it all over again, I would have gone outside at the height of the pandemic and licked every handrail just to prove to science that God rules and the devil drools!

But I can’t go back.

All I can do is tell my story and hope it might save you.

Ask Jesus to come inside you and leave the devil at the door.

An Ode to Garry

I pray you slip in the shower,
and no one finds you.
I pray you get drunk
and think,
‘I can make that jump.’
I pray you walk off into the sunset
and disappear,
forever.
I pray your birthdays
are full of empty chairs.
I pray you never receive a visit
from the ghosts of past, present, or
future Christmas.
I pray you choke on air
and die—
before deleting your browser history.
But most of all,
I pray
whatever happens,
happens quickly.

We Never Wanted to Look

Based on true events.

A black student, resolved never to let them
make him feel lesser, is expelled when he
stuffs slurs back into the mouth of some
privileged white kid. The white kid finds a
rally coming to his aid, pouring out
sympathy for the injuries delivered by the
savage, the tiger, the animal, the thug he
provoked—they’re just so loud and violent.

In the same breath, kids on the football
team reenact the brutal qualities of their
fathers as they wrap stones in sheets of
paper and chuck them at the queer kids
when the adults aren’t watching, and I
swear, these mother fuckers are never
watching. This way, when the queer kids
open up their wrists in the hope of ‘better
luck next time,’ the adults can claim they
never saw it coming.

In a classroom, Mr. Peterson, a nominally
qualified science teacher, tells the
brown kids that systemic racism is a lie—
racism, he tells them, ended with the
civil war, biology was settled in six days,
and the most important question you can
ask yourself is: is there life after death? I
wonder if he knows the number of kids
racing to uncover the answer because of
people like him.

The spirit of cruelty is alive and well, here.
Cultivated by a system and culture caught
up in the march of June 1929, when over
three-hundred klansmen made their way
down Draper Street to insist this small
town is for whites only—with the exception
of that one black family they allow to live
on the outskirts to prove to the world that
they’re not just a bunch of bigots.

Broken mirrors and skipping records have
a lot in common with this place. We are unable
to see ourselves with any honesty,
unable to get up and change that goddamn
minstrel tune we’ve been playing since
1873. We’re afraid to look up because the
trees have eyes. We know this because we
hung them there, like the brown Christ we
nail to a tree annually, on every Good
Friday. Is it a wonder, then, that the image
of breaking the shells of rainbow colored
eggs is lost on us?

Look, there are a lot of things you can try
in our small town, just not love or
compassion or mercy or acceptance,
because that—that is just some anti-
American, communists bullshit, and we
don’t take kindly to that sort of thing
around here.