Luchy
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Bing was a Crooner
Have you heard?
Now you can make better decisions. With Bing, the new "decision engine" from Microsoft!
Ads for the new Google-competitor from Redmond actually suggest you can change your life with this wonderful Bing thing--avoid getting a Mohawk, for instance (I think that's what they were driving at)? Or learning to play guitar at the age of six or seven? Bing will help you decide.
How exactly does this astonishing new decision engine work? Maybe I am missing something, but I could swear the decision engine, having responded to my quest for an answer about "clean energy", gave me--and let's not get too excited waiting for the revelation here--a list of links with the words "clean energy" in them! And the top spot in the "sponsored" section was for the clean energy giant we all know as ExxonMobil.
I don't have a problem with ExxonMobil--somebody's got to sell me all that gasoline I use--but if I can have just a brief word with the guys over at Bing, I would like to tell them that they need to fire their ad agency.
I don't have a problem with Microsoft, either. They've managed to produce a suite of tools that somehow satisfies about a trillion people last time I checked and there's not a lot of smoke belching out of the smokestacks at Microsoft HQ either. So it isn't as if they don't create a pretty popular and a pretty green product out in the land of Gates.
But the ads for Bing are nothing less than insulting. Okay, MSFT wants to have a Google-killer. Good luck with that. At one point they thought MSN was going to kill the Internet (you can choose not to believe that, but it's a real-live data-point from the mid-nineties). Aside from a wonderful spin-off called MSNBC, I can't see where they created anything better than Hotmail with that gargantuan effort.
But back to my annoyance with Bing, and how the ads are insulting. What's with "decision engine"? That's not what it is. It would have to be far more sophisticated to approach that realm--something like an expert system (still a chimerical goal for visionary developers) that would somehow divine your intent and deliver wisdom.
It's like calling a car an airplane. Bing is a search engine--it's just like Google! The notion that we should be encouraged to "Bing and then decide" is worse than cute and silly. In my opinion, calling Bing a "decision engine" borders on misrepresentation and falsehood.
But then, Microsoft has always seemed to have a tin ear for marketing. That's a whole 'nother blog post.
For now, just remember that Bing was a Crooner popular back during World War Two. He was not a decision engine.
--Renaissance
Now you can make better decisions. With Bing, the new "decision engine" from Microsoft!
Ads for the new Google-competitor from Redmond actually suggest you can change your life with this wonderful Bing thing--avoid getting a Mohawk, for instance (I think that's what they were driving at)? Or learning to play guitar at the age of six or seven? Bing will help you decide.
How exactly does this astonishing new decision engine work? Maybe I am missing something, but I could swear the decision engine, having responded to my quest for an answer about "clean energy", gave me--and let's not get too excited waiting for the revelation here--a list of links with the words "clean energy" in them! And the top spot in the "sponsored" section was for the clean energy giant we all know as ExxonMobil.
I don't have a problem with ExxonMobil--somebody's got to sell me all that gasoline I use--but if I can have just a brief word with the guys over at Bing, I would like to tell them that they need to fire their ad agency.
I don't have a problem with Microsoft, either. They've managed to produce a suite of tools that somehow satisfies about a trillion people last time I checked and there's not a lot of smoke belching out of the smokestacks at Microsoft HQ either. So it isn't as if they don't create a pretty popular and a pretty green product out in the land of Gates.
But the ads for Bing are nothing less than insulting. Okay, MSFT wants to have a Google-killer. Good luck with that. At one point they thought MSN was going to kill the Internet (you can choose not to believe that, but it's a real-live data-point from the mid-nineties). Aside from a wonderful spin-off called MSNBC, I can't see where they created anything better than Hotmail with that gargantuan effort.
But back to my annoyance with Bing, and how the ads are insulting. What's with "decision engine"? That's not what it is. It would have to be far more sophisticated to approach that realm--something like an expert system (still a chimerical goal for visionary developers) that would somehow divine your intent and deliver wisdom.
It's like calling a car an airplane. Bing is a search engine--it's just like Google! The notion that we should be encouraged to "Bing and then decide" is worse than cute and silly. In my opinion, calling Bing a "decision engine" borders on misrepresentation and falsehood.
But then, Microsoft has always seemed to have a tin ear for marketing. That's a whole 'nother blog post.
For now, just remember that Bing was a Crooner popular back during World War Two. He was not a decision engine.
--Renaissance
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Gravity
See the man.
Alone on the subway platform.
Note the crazed hair, a nimbus around his head,
a halo teased by distracted fingers
for hours while he hunched over his book.
His cardigan, buttoned by its sole button,
frayed and evanescing into flocculent haze.
Cat’s hair clings to him,
interweaving white and dark into the interstices.
The force of static alone
knitting an exo-sweater in the atmosphere around him.
He holds his broken-backed book an inch from his eyes,
his free hand absently plucking random cat hair.
Holds them
singly
at arm’s length,
releases them.
They drift, in dense currents of subway air,
falling back into the gravity and mass of his body.
Mark Aiello
Alone on the subway platform.
Note the crazed hair, a nimbus around his head,
a halo teased by distracted fingers
for hours while he hunched over his book.
His cardigan, buttoned by its sole button,
frayed and evanescing into flocculent haze.
Cat’s hair clings to him,
interweaving white and dark into the interstices.
The force of static alone
knitting an exo-sweater in the atmosphere around him.
He holds his broken-backed book an inch from his eyes,
his free hand absently plucking random cat hair.
Holds them
singly
at arm’s length,
releases them.
They drift, in dense currents of subway air,
falling back into the gravity and mass of his body.
Mark Aiello
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Tehran a-Twitter
Journalists have been under virtual house-arrest as the mullahs in Persia try to squelch what started out as a stolen-vote protest but is now evidently a youth revolution. Youth revolutions, as we know, are tough to squelch without either pots of money to bundle kids off to college and the suburbs, or a deep roster of brutal bench-players ready to come on the field with brickbats and piano-wire.
As the mullahs whirl and wobble in the wind of protest, and as journalists speak sotto voce into secure phones, what's kept CNN and the rest of the West informed are the so-called "social networking" technologies now come of age.
Witness Twitter--of which much fun has been made when, say, an Ashley Tisdale-level celebri-star lets her followers know her hat-size. Now it is the single best source of immediate news coverage on the scene of what is certainly the most important political movement in Iran since they took the hostages. Like a thousand tiny salamanders slipping through grasping clerical fingers, these brief missives from the angry streets are letting the world know of thousands on the march, men and women, of beatings, of tear-gas, of open revolt against the foundational, turban-bedecked figures of the regime itself.
Witness Facebook--where the opposition leader Moussavi has pronounced his readiness to commit himself to martyrdom. Proving itself more than just a place for posting pix of beer-pong escapades, Facebook has now given voice to perhaps the most profound promise every posted to it.
During the new Iranian revolution Facebook and Twitter, streaming out images and commentary banned by the regime, have combined to make quite obvious the power that the atomization of mass media has long promised.
Facebook and Twitter prove that media--and information--really do want to be free. And they prove that when in the hands of those not just longing for freedom but with little left to lose, they become powerful weapons beyond the control of even the most sullen official opprobrium.
We have yet to see what happens when the youthful string of Iranian frustration plays out to its fullest length. But however it does so, we know even now that "social media", heretofore considered a lightweight in the world of communications, will have helped define it.
--Renaissance
As the mullahs whirl and wobble in the wind of protest, and as journalists speak sotto voce into secure phones, what's kept CNN and the rest of the West informed are the so-called "social networking" technologies now come of age.
Witness Twitter--of which much fun has been made when, say, an Ashley Tisdale-level celebri-star lets her followers know her hat-size. Now it is the single best source of immediate news coverage on the scene of what is certainly the most important political movement in Iran since they took the hostages. Like a thousand tiny salamanders slipping through grasping clerical fingers, these brief missives from the angry streets are letting the world know of thousands on the march, men and women, of beatings, of tear-gas, of open revolt against the foundational, turban-bedecked figures of the regime itself.
Witness Facebook--where the opposition leader Moussavi has pronounced his readiness to commit himself to martyrdom. Proving itself more than just a place for posting pix of beer-pong escapades, Facebook has now given voice to perhaps the most profound promise every posted to it.
During the new Iranian revolution Facebook and Twitter, streaming out images and commentary banned by the regime, have combined to make quite obvious the power that the atomization of mass media has long promised.
Facebook and Twitter prove that media--and information--really do want to be free. And they prove that when in the hands of those not just longing for freedom but with little left to lose, they become powerful weapons beyond the control of even the most sullen official opprobrium.
We have yet to see what happens when the youthful string of Iranian frustration plays out to its fullest length. But however it does so, we know even now that "social media", heretofore considered a lightweight in the world of communications, will have helped define it.
--Renaissance
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
ALL POETS ARE THIEVES!!!
Heartworm, a small press out of Philadelphia, has just published Chris Leo's FEATHERS LIKE LEATHER. This volume is a magnificent miscellany of lyrics, sketches, vignettes, stories, squibs, and unclassifiable (and all delightful) lessons of a multilingual lexicon. Aesthetically, this book is gorgeous-- a perfect-bound spine that rests gracefully in one's plying fingers, paper stock that indicates that this tome is for the ages, and a cover illustration by Andrea Ambrogio, who must be, should be, painting large canvases over New York City to cover its new steel and luxury-atrocity edifices. Leo's mischievous and musing mastery is apparent throughout the various pieces, pieces which, when contemplated coherently, make for a streamlined narrative. The first printing is already sold-out; the press will make more available in July. Grab a few for yourself and any readers, bards, or ballladeers you know. The website for Heartworm is at www.theheartworm.com. J/C
Thursday, June 11, 2009
A Modest Proposal
There is no compelling reason for any car company to build more than a couple of thousand cars a month for the foreseeable future.
They should all switch to building mass-transit vehicles,including buses, light rail, bullet trains and airplanes with bigger seats.
For the next ten years, we should learn the one lesson Cuba has to teach us (besides some great musical riffs): fix the old cars. Keep them on the road. When everyone is driving a ten or fifteen year old car, and when our nation is crisscrossed not with highways but with much-more-efficient mass-transit of every kind, then the car companies can go back to building pleasure-mobiles.
In particular, General Motors, which we now own much of, should begin doing this right away. No more Chevys. No more Caddies. During World War Two they stopped building LaSalles and instead built the Sherman tanks and B-29 Superfortresses that cemented our position as a world power even up until today.
Now we are sucking down foreign oil like nobody's business, and the suburbs have proven a bad idea soon to be depopulated in an emerging, less-wasteful economy, and we have succeeded in creating some of the ugliest landscapes in the world with our obsession with parking lots and malls; and it is time to call an end to it.
General Motors, your orders are as follows: no more cars for a while. Buses and trains are what we need.
--Renaissance
They should all switch to building mass-transit vehicles,including buses, light rail, bullet trains and airplanes with bigger seats.
For the next ten years, we should learn the one lesson Cuba has to teach us (besides some great musical riffs): fix the old cars. Keep them on the road. When everyone is driving a ten or fifteen year old car, and when our nation is crisscrossed not with highways but with much-more-efficient mass-transit of every kind, then the car companies can go back to building pleasure-mobiles.
In particular, General Motors, which we now own much of, should begin doing this right away. No more Chevys. No more Caddies. During World War Two they stopped building LaSalles and instead built the Sherman tanks and B-29 Superfortresses that cemented our position as a world power even up until today.
Now we are sucking down foreign oil like nobody's business, and the suburbs have proven a bad idea soon to be depopulated in an emerging, less-wasteful economy, and we have succeeded in creating some of the ugliest landscapes in the world with our obsession with parking lots and malls; and it is time to call an end to it.
General Motors, your orders are as follows: no more cars for a while. Buses and trains are what we need.
--Renaissance
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
ALL POETS ARE THIEVES!!!
Like most participants in this still nascent twenty-first century, I am a citizen in search of an identity. Therefore, I fret little about identity theft. No, it doesn't occur to me to become concerned about the pilfering and appropriation of my "information." Nevertheless, I am besieged by passwords, codes, and pins for my various on- and off-line activities. So far I've managed to accrue passwords, codes or pins for my work email, my personal email, my banking statement, my student loans (3), the door to my workplace post office, my Amazon account, my Alibris account, the site to which academic recommendations are kept on record for me, various sites to which I send academic recommendations for students, several online music sites, my Netflix account, and on and on. It has become difficult to remember all of the passwords, codes, and pins and the very little identity which seems viable is being vitiated by the mental effort of recollecting what password goes to what account. Locks and keys are replacing any lyricism in life and it's become dire enough that one thinks seriously about committing identity theft against oneself to see what happens. Or doesn't. J/C
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Please Stop Taking Pictures, Please
Too many people are taking too many photographs.
I blame the digital revolution--in which data storage has become geometrically cheaper each year, thereby enabling more and more photos to be taken with better and better resolution at almost no cost except the purchase of the camera itself.
(Disclaimer: occasional snapshots have my complete support, especially when populated by family members smiling and hugging.)
My problem is with the quintillion photographs that are destined to mean not much to anyone, including the photographer. To me, it seems these photographs are being taken, often by travelers weighed down with brand new-looking SLRS, in pursuit of what I imagine to be "experience" or "sensation" or perhaps bragging-rights.
I believe, perhaps like an old-fashioned Photographer might, that one has the right to take photos (save snapshots) only if one understands what type of relationship one is taking to the subject matter.
No longer part of the scene, the person behind the lens has removed him/herself from the experience and has sublimated the direct experience for the flattened, miniaturized memory. This can create the comfortable sensation that all the world is just an arrangement of shapes passing by our rangefinder (or by proxy, someone else's). Grandeur is reduced to banality; compassion and empathy to passing interest; awe to intellectual criticism.
Ultimately the great digital photography revolution is creating a race of lonesome hunters, each seeking to capture some solitary image cropped and presented to one's self (and others) as the essence of experience--in total ignorance that the actual experience of plain "being" has passed them by.
When traveling, I recommend the type of camera that can fit in your pocket--if that. This way you don't need to worry about that brick of digital circuitry hanging like an albatross around your neck. Postcards often work well as a substitute for all but the most spectacular photos you might take yourself. Of course, be certain to record you and your friends and loved ones in those special places you've visited.
But other than this--please get your face out from behind the camera and spend some time being fully present in the world you inhabit.
--Renaissance
I blame the digital revolution--in which data storage has become geometrically cheaper each year, thereby enabling more and more photos to be taken with better and better resolution at almost no cost except the purchase of the camera itself.
(Disclaimer: occasional snapshots have my complete support, especially when populated by family members smiling and hugging.)
My problem is with the quintillion photographs that are destined to mean not much to anyone, including the photographer. To me, it seems these photographs are being taken, often by travelers weighed down with brand new-looking SLRS, in pursuit of what I imagine to be "experience" or "sensation" or perhaps bragging-rights.
I believe, perhaps like an old-fashioned Photographer might, that one has the right to take photos (save snapshots) only if one understands what type of relationship one is taking to the subject matter.
No longer part of the scene, the person behind the lens has removed him/herself from the experience and has sublimated the direct experience for the flattened, miniaturized memory. This can create the comfortable sensation that all the world is just an arrangement of shapes passing by our rangefinder (or by proxy, someone else's). Grandeur is reduced to banality; compassion and empathy to passing interest; awe to intellectual criticism.
Ultimately the great digital photography revolution is creating a race of lonesome hunters, each seeking to capture some solitary image cropped and presented to one's self (and others) as the essence of experience--in total ignorance that the actual experience of plain "being" has passed them by.
When traveling, I recommend the type of camera that can fit in your pocket--if that. This way you don't need to worry about that brick of digital circuitry hanging like an albatross around your neck. Postcards often work well as a substitute for all but the most spectacular photos you might take yourself. Of course, be certain to record you and your friends and loved ones in those special places you've visited.
But other than this--please get your face out from behind the camera and spend some time being fully present in the world you inhabit.
--Renaissance
Sunday, June 07, 2009
Speaking to the sun
the title you asked me to pencil in
above the picture you had drawn, your head tilted
for ten minutes or more, intent on creating a garden
more perfect than the one we had worked in all morning.
Done entirely in orange crayon, with sunflowers
and a farmer and the sun itself
all the same size and color, and all
smiling to each other like neighbors
over a fence.
Each drawn with a certain weight -
sunbeams and flowerstalks in the same confident strokes
as the ones that framed the lone human
you’ve allowed into your garden.
Even the balloon around the words
you have her speaking, now that you ring
my title with your fat orange crayon -
all the same, now you’ve forever linked
the speaker with her words of one moment.
And it is suddenly apparent that you’ve created
that alchemical moment, that I’m forever spelling
my way towards and never achieving,
and your garden, your art become the place
I wish we lived, where every element
is perfectly evident, where our words
will not let us throw them away, and remain with us
warm and honest in the ringing air.
Mark Aiello
above the picture you had drawn, your head tilted
for ten minutes or more, intent on creating a garden
more perfect than the one we had worked in all morning.
Done entirely in orange crayon, with sunflowers
and a farmer and the sun itself
all the same size and color, and all
smiling to each other like neighbors
over a fence.
Each drawn with a certain weight -
sunbeams and flowerstalks in the same confident strokes
as the ones that framed the lone human
you’ve allowed into your garden.
Even the balloon around the words
you have her speaking, now that you ring
my title with your fat orange crayon -
all the same, now you’ve forever linked
the speaker with her words of one moment.
And it is suddenly apparent that you’ve created
that alchemical moment, that I’m forever spelling
my way towards and never achieving,
and your garden, your art become the place
I wish we lived, where every element
is perfectly evident, where our words
will not let us throw them away, and remain with us
warm and honest in the ringing air.
Mark Aiello
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
ALL POETS ARE THIEVES!!!
My personal computer has been on a gradual decline for quite some time. Then the curtains closed or rather the screen went black the other day. I've ordered a new laptop but it hasn't yet arrived; only sporadic access to this machinery has restricted the flow of rhetoric and rant on this here site. So my apologies.
But let's digress and retort and rant...
Kindles, resembling those old toy scribal standbys, Etch-a-Sketch, might one day be used by me but will never meet my books or bookshelves. There's just no reason for them to know one another and upset each other's essential natures...
I love dust jackets, they're like dinner jackets for books, and Kindle lies naked.
How profane.
Pages have splendid threaded textures, Kindle has metallic surface. What's more aesthetically pleasing?
I can write in books and reflect on the comments of my former, naive self. Where should I preserve my marginalia on/in Kindle? In my handwriting? Just some thoughts... J/C
But let's digress and retort and rant...
Kindles, resembling those old toy scribal standbys, Etch-a-Sketch, might one day be used by me but will never meet my books or bookshelves. There's just no reason for them to know one another and upset each other's essential natures...
I love dust jackets, they're like dinner jackets for books, and Kindle lies naked.
How profane.
Pages have splendid threaded textures, Kindle has metallic surface. What's more aesthetically pleasing?
I can write in books and reflect on the comments of my former, naive self. Where should I preserve my marginalia on/in Kindle? In my handwriting? Just some thoughts... J/C
Sunday, May 31, 2009
There is a set of numbers that equals You
Somewhere the series exists.
It’s just that no one’s discovered it yet,
though it may be only a matter of enough lab hours
or sufficient monkeys banging away at copious typewriters.
You are adequately described
by comma after cool comma
in a series maybe a mile long.
You might have heard it once
in the late night call of a numbers station
broadcasting from somewhere off the Labrador coast
and didn’t even know that it was the dit dot dash
of precisely your own heartbeat,
the periodic table that is yours alone,
the recipe for the boy that your mother has always thought
was beautiful, that spells out everything brewing
in the chemistry set you’ve carried all day,
every day. You, my friend, are knit of pulses
and vital stats, of ounces and mass
and instances - all numbers on a map
that looks just like you. Is it humbling
to think that even your deepest thoughts
during maudlin sunsets were pure output,
were just pennies fallen down the tubes
of some hyper-Fibonacci sequence?
All algorithm - your love of redheads, vanilla,
racket sports and mystery novels -
all predictable. Try to relax and listen
to the whispering song of those sigmas and deltas,
and be lulled even by the little subtractions
that happen to your equation every day.
Mark Aiello
It’s just that no one’s discovered it yet,
though it may be only a matter of enough lab hours
or sufficient monkeys banging away at copious typewriters.
You are adequately described
by comma after cool comma
in a series maybe a mile long.
You might have heard it once
in the late night call of a numbers station
broadcasting from somewhere off the Labrador coast
and didn’t even know that it was the dit dot dash
of precisely your own heartbeat,
the periodic table that is yours alone,
the recipe for the boy that your mother has always thought
was beautiful, that spells out everything brewing
in the chemistry set you’ve carried all day,
every day. You, my friend, are knit of pulses
and vital stats, of ounces and mass
and instances - all numbers on a map
that looks just like you. Is it humbling
to think that even your deepest thoughts
during maudlin sunsets were pure output,
were just pennies fallen down the tubes
of some hyper-Fibonacci sequence?
All algorithm - your love of redheads, vanilla,
racket sports and mystery novels -
all predictable. Try to relax and listen
to the whispering song of those sigmas and deltas,
and be lulled even by the little subtractions
that happen to your equation every day.
Mark Aiello
Friday, May 29, 2009
Sonia from the Block
I don't know whether or not I agree with the way she ruled on the New Haven firefighter test. I don't know whether I believe a Latina woman will automatically come up with a better decision than some white dude (and I don't know if I much like the word "Latina", which for me has a whiff of condescension about it).
I don't know whether she got some kind of break somewhere because she's Hispanic, but I do know that lots of white kids got breaks because they had connections and she is where she is and unless you're Clarence Thomas, you don't get that far because you always managed to be the convenient racial choice--you probably had to be pretty much better than pretty much everybody else. They don't give away grades at Princeton, I know that, and they don't give you the Yale Law Review editorship because you batted your big brown eyes at somebody either.
I don't know whether her so-called brusque manner is going to impede her ability to adjudicate on the highest court in the land (I pretty much doubt it will); but I do know that I am not surprised she might come across as blunt or sharp, because if you grew up in the Bronx and you live in the West Village that makes you a New Yorker and chances are you don't take a lot of shit from people. Sometimes New Yorkers get accused of being rude but mostly it's that we're impatient with morons. Maybe she has a little of that in her--I don't really know.
I know one thing, though. I am supporting her. Not because she is Hispanic, or a woman, or because she is Obama's well-considered choice. No, I am supporting her because she is from the Bronx. I don't care what anybody says, the Supreme Court needs somebody from the Bronx. Somebody who knows where Jerome Avenue is and knows what it's like to stand on an elevated train platform on a winter afternoon. Somebody who knows how bad traffic can be on Fordham Road on Saturday. You get the picture: somebody who knows the sights, sounds and smells of the real world. Plus, she saved baseball, for heaven's sake!
Sonia from the block? Maybe she is. I don't know. But let's go for it.
--Renaissance
I don't know whether she got some kind of break somewhere because she's Hispanic, but I do know that lots of white kids got breaks because they had connections and she is where she is and unless you're Clarence Thomas, you don't get that far because you always managed to be the convenient racial choice--you probably had to be pretty much better than pretty much everybody else. They don't give away grades at Princeton, I know that, and they don't give you the Yale Law Review editorship because you batted your big brown eyes at somebody either.
I don't know whether her so-called brusque manner is going to impede her ability to adjudicate on the highest court in the land (I pretty much doubt it will); but I do know that I am not surprised she might come across as blunt or sharp, because if you grew up in the Bronx and you live in the West Village that makes you a New Yorker and chances are you don't take a lot of shit from people. Sometimes New Yorkers get accused of being rude but mostly it's that we're impatient with morons. Maybe she has a little of that in her--I don't really know.
I know one thing, though. I am supporting her. Not because she is Hispanic, or a woman, or because she is Obama's well-considered choice. No, I am supporting her because she is from the Bronx. I don't care what anybody says, the Supreme Court needs somebody from the Bronx. Somebody who knows where Jerome Avenue is and knows what it's like to stand on an elevated train platform on a winter afternoon. Somebody who knows how bad traffic can be on Fordham Road on Saturday. You get the picture: somebody who knows the sights, sounds and smells of the real world. Plus, she saved baseball, for heaven's sake!
Sonia from the block? Maybe she is. I don't know. But let's go for it.
--Renaissance
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
ALL POETS ARE THIEVES!!!
A poem for the state of California, having legally overturned same-sex marriage:
Ecce Homo
you who confuse
sacrament & genital
righetousness & rite--
pull down your pants
& my duel-sexed piranha
will take a bite &
within its serrated teeth
your genitals will make a wreathe
of red righteousness & rite
as you sacrifice your life
for "your" sacrament
which bans banns
for queers undeserving
who murder babies & spread death
or so you would have it, you on the picket
without a crotch with which to stick it
much less a mind... J/C
Ecce Homo
you who confuse
sacrament & genital
righetousness & rite--
pull down your pants
& my duel-sexed piranha
will take a bite &
within its serrated teeth
your genitals will make a wreathe
of red righteousness & rite
as you sacrifice your life
for "your" sacrament
which bans banns
for queers undeserving
who murder babies & spread death
or so you would have it, you on the picket
without a crotch with which to stick it
much less a mind... J/C
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