In the Aeroplane over the amber waves of grainy historical photos

The plane is too cumbersome to fly on its own: It is held aloft on updrafts created by slash and burn agriculture and the greasy dreams of flatulent fast food addicts. The spiky haired idiot with the giant glittering watch and the hardback NYT bestseller is upset by a crying baby; I wonder what makes the idiot think that his ability to use words makes his whining any more tolerable than the child’s. We’re leaving a trail of exhaust across the sky above the agents of a false national modesty that chafes like a rusty chastity belt: Let me be the Jaws of Life that might loose the family jewels for a fucking of historic proportions. Sometimes not cutting onions makes you cry; sometimes Danny Glover’s is the voice that speaks to you in the darkness. Loaded leftists have loose lips that let slip “Revolution” with a capital R: Trapped deep down inside many Loving Hearts are itchy trigger fingers. And should these Hearts be broken...