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But instead, the ghost of a girl hed never known.
Somewhere in there is a diatribe that takes on Trump.
You want to kill me because I dont really believe were the best country in the world?
(p. 151)
I dont know if I ever really tell the truth, much.
I wonder sometimes if truth might be more habit than virtue.
(p. 71)
Some of them see us and some of them dont.
But, they all see our sins.
On Hillary:Not charismatic enough for you folks?
Isnt it true that you never wanted qualifications?
You wanted a star, you wanted to be charmed, seduced, entertained.
(p. 150)
Alluding to Trump:…
The bloated blond high priest and the pavonine of branding.
And helping the retro-party, so inviting of the stupid, to conscript the even stupider.
(p. 100)
Many American people in pain and rage elected you.
Many Russians did too.
Your position is an asterisk accepted as literally as your alternative facts.
Though the office will remain real, you never were nor will be.
(p. 149)
Tweet me, bitch.
Another debate over guns.
Bob sometimes doesnt know what the fuss is all about.
It seems to him that words are as lethal as any weapon.
Words, unburdened by background checks and available at all times to all persons.
Situations where media interest is minimal, lacking as they do the entertainment value of a warm gun.
Yet, to no avail.
The world has replaced its identity with electronics.
You, old man if you dont mind me calling you that are from a generation of SELF-love.
Our only self is … well … selfies.
He thought of her beauty and the lure of her chocolate legs standing at the trailers screen door.
One way or another, he would fill ol Cowboys boots.
Like the heart, brain, liver, or kidneys, skin too is a vital organ.
That we are shamed for our love of skin is a bias toward brain minus organic kin.
That Bob was born to explore makes neither he nor teenage black chick whore.
Their masses of fans as happy as hustled, bustled, and rustled sheep.
(p. 119)
