Ex­ec­u­tive Or­der 13769, Jan­uary 27, 2017


i’ve been wait­ing my whole adult life for some­one to block­ade Check­point 5. for witches to come and sage and salt this place. for work­ers to get paid union rates to dis­man­tle the Scantrons piece by piece. I want mush­rooms to biore­me­di­ate all the pain & agony & sweat & bull­shit & bore­dom & money & grop­ing. how many gal­lons of ter­ror sweat are soaked into th­ese floors. how many times has some­one I loved been waved over for a “gen­i­tal ab­nor­mal­ity.” how many times has TSA groped my friends’ wheel­chairs and swabbed their pros­the­ses. I’m sick of it. I could’ve spent the spoons I spent pray­ing and ar­mour­ing and try­ing to pass on a novel or a son­net se­ries. I’m sick of it.

but here we are the im­prob­a­ble fu­ture a mil­lion emer­gent but­ter­flies get­ting on tran­sit and head­ing to the air­port fly­ing / stay­ing

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