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Mechanized, proceeding on reflex, a dead hand grasps the pistol grip. Without bearer, it squeezes off 5.56 at the silhouettes. They fall: instant feedback. Like dopamine impulse belt-fed from your living room to the battlefield. Don’t think. Must not think. No time— only silhouettes; down range; trying to

An eon twisting down a spiral stair into the depths of the cosmic vault. A trillion flames raging, yet devoid of light. This mortal coil sloughs off like a ribbon of film melts on the projector, disintegrating on the screen. It bubbles and cracks, ethereal fat in the pan.

The signal in my head, it buzzes in codes and keys like bionic botflies burrowing, lapping at the host, eating ones and zeros. I’m a geometric grid of honey holes and black eyes that gleam in the night when they wriggle about and feed. I itched to the bone,

a poem

Reflections on Ron Paul's "The War on Us" Conference

We will prevail...because there is no other option