I’m A-OK being a lazy bastard because being honest with myself and everyone around me is a fuck-ton easier than lying. I don’t have to remember which story I told to whom and when or what version that I told. I just tell the truth. No need to think about the person I’m talking to, what they know or don’t…just the facts. But…also associated with being lazy…I don’t necessarily say everything I’m thinking…

“Do I look fat in this?”

“Honey, you’re a beautiful woman in anything you’re wearing.”

…I’m lazy, not an idiot.


My words will do you no good
even though
I have too many for me to use alone
my words will tell you that
you are beautiful
strong and
they might be true
honest, predictable
but they are my words, they
were born of necessity
of a need to describe
define and
…not to save
not to create light where
darkness prevails
not to replace empty
with full
they are my words so only really
apply to me
I don’t own them, have title or deed
to the results
the endings or the beginnings
I share them…gladly…
with 7 billion others
and extend rights and responsibilities
to you
and you
and you
because this I know is true:
it is words, your words,
the ones deep inside
words that are yours
the simple ones you believe
with everything
with conviction, with fatalist consistency
it is these that define you, make you
who you are
strong and
I am happy to share.


Largely unimpressed by destruction
we play games on little machines
unaware of all, too focused on detail
we hesitate to date, mate, procreate
because Pilates and dog grooming and crounuts
fill time, spill time into rivers we dam
with shit, anything to level the holes we
call souls we call that empty stretch of road
that never takes us home
we live our lives without thinking, without
depth because depth would mean caring
and caring is antithetical to knowing
“knowledge without facts” because opinion
said loud and mean enough means just enough
to shut down the debate
a sound bite, a TV advert for the latest
president…toothpaste, deodorant, whatever
and largely unimpressed by destruction
we play games on little machines
watch people die on the business end of bullets
too busy to let our hearts beat, our skin crawl
from the sheer madness we bath in
every time we look at our little machines
we reject whole groups of people because
we don’t know why actually
just because…
from the insanity we know what living today is
but so not different than our parent’s yesterday
just televised 24/7 to those little machines
handheld anesthesia gladly taken, inhaled
though eyeballs, through time, we are numb
gladly and purposefully numb
still looking for salvation without the overhead,
without unnecessary guilt,
we’ll gladly pay sale prices
as long as we’re told where
and when and what and how and
and largely unimpressed by destruction
we play games on little machines
for that makes sense to a generation removed,
without rules, without accomplishment
that line which demarcates triumph and failure
the needed difference to know what alive means
or merely playacting it out without consequence
sad and alone, over 7 billion of us now gather together
strung like Christmas lights across the planet
our little machines upgrading as we speak
…a globally collective conscious
mourning the passing
of what used to be called human love
because isn’t produced on video screens
because it’s too hard
because actual death has no do over…no prize to win
because as long as its generated in pixels
because depth would mean caring
largely unimpressed by destruction
we play games on little machines

The How

A cop only needs “reasonably objective” belief that his or another person’s life is in danger in order to use lethal force, or in other words, he’s got to believe you pose a mortal threat in order to shoot you. So the hinge of this swinging door is “reasonably objective” which is entirely based on the cop’s perceptions, beliefs and bias’s.

The question is, where do these perceptions, beliefs and bias’s come from?

  • The first obviously is the cops upbringing, his place in society and the people he grew up around. If a cop grows up in a racist household then there’s a really good chance it rubs off on him.
  • The second is the where he works and the people he works for. If the police force or sheriff he works for continually reinforces the fact that being a cop first and foremost is unsafe and they need to be hyper aware of their surroundings, that death is on the other side of that open police cruiser door, chances are the cop will be a hair trigger away from violence.
  • Finally, the third is from the media who unwillingly or willingly promote the fact that being a cop is a dangerous. Massively so, and that cops lives are in danger every second of every day.

Now, it’s tough to do anything about the first situation but in the case of the second and third, it’s easy to see why they are that way and what we can do to try to change them.

In the second, when police departments train their cops and promote that violence is just a second away, they are intentionally instilling that fear in order to create a feedback loop. They specifically seek out candidates for being cops who are especially susceptible to that fear. People who have inferiority complexes, guys who feel powerless in their daily lives and who seek the power of the state and the gun as a replacement.

The feedback mechanism is created in order to constantly enforce the notion that police departments need more resources, more and better (more lethal) weapons. It’s why police departments have grenade launchers and tanks. Without a credible threat of ever increasing violence, police departments have no reason to grow or increase their weaponry. They also have no reason to push for ever more laws and regulations for them to enforce. They have no reason to support the state in its quest to control as much of its citizens lives as possible.

Again, finally, we know that media outlets need to sell advertising space so they need as many eyeballs and the attention of as many people as possible. They know puppies and kittens don’t get them that attention so they promote things like “The War On Cops” which is factually the opposite of what is actually true (it’s never been safer to be a cop). The media slant is pervasive and broadly broadcast so it’s a part of everyone’s lives.

All of that fictional fear creates cops who needlessly and tragically base their daily decisions on something that doesn’t actually exist and then they make split second decisions on these perceptions, beliefs and bias’s.

It’s not about racism, black or white…it’s about institutional enforcement of the police state that is killing unarmed men. If police departments stopped teaching fear, the media would have nothing to report, if the media has nothing to report then possibly families and communities would drift away from instilling racism in their kids…who might one day be a police officer.

Nothing will change quickly but understanding the “why” will get us to understand how to do the “how”.

And we know, more than anything, the “how” has to be done.



And we wish it was all about
the love…
the minutes sliding past, the pools
of blood, we wish that the door
never opened, letting a piece
of the black night fly in
letting an evil darkness prevail
replacing the stars in the bright sky
with simple shadows,
where once was a person
forty nine
once was an idea, a life…
lay the tatters of a broken heart
body and soul, torn by
an evil wind with guns and games
no winners, no mercy
a call to a god left waiting, for
an answer that would never
come…to the blood blackened
the holes in drywall
in arms and legs
in skin, in the moment
between being and being gone
a place where music was the point, where
rhythm was the essence, where
lazy life conducted itself
like a lover, a mother, a brother
a skewed stain on tiled bathroom floors
on dance floors
on doors
all to call notice
we wish it was
all about

end zone

I was talking to a friend the other day when he said that he really liked someone—loved them actually—and he knew them for a long time but that she had friend-zoned him and that he was really frustrated. I called him a fucking dumb ass. He got kinda real mad at me but I explained to him what I meant and he sorta settled down. At least we’re still friends I think.

I said that she hadn’t friend zoned him, he had done it himself.

You see, I said—and we were drinking so it was a long, round about conversation that I’m editing here for length—you get to make the choice. Regardless the circumstance, regardless the girl, regardless anything else in the universe…you get to make the choice whether to stay or go.

She already told you her choice.

Now, I said, I’m assuming that you actually told the girl how you felt—that you truly and deeply loved her—and that you’re not pining away, unrequited and silent in all your butt hurt glory. And that when you told her this truth, she then said that she didn’t feel the same, that she loved you as a friend but didn’t feel anything romantic, that kind of attraction just wasn’t there.

Thus, what you call the friend-zoning.
But that’s actually not the case because you can just walk away. You can choose not to suffer the daily trauma of being in love with someone who is not in love with you. You simply have to choose whether her friendship is worth that trauma because she is NEVER going to feel different.

That bell has rung and can’t be un-rung so you either get over it or you walk away but please PLEASE stop saying that she is doing this thing TO you…you are choosing this course of action every day, knowingly and willingly. You are doing it to yourself. You can accept it, be a friend and pursue someone else for the romantic love bit you’re looking for…
…or just goddamn walk away.

But whatever you do, and this is where the drinking bit showed itself the most, just shut the fuck up and get me another beer.

Peaky Blinders

Did I mention, yeah, wait…I did mention it but I took a gander at Peaky Blinders season 3 on Netflix around about 9 last night and was immediately sucked in. My mind scratching and clawing at reality as an unstoppable force of sheer visual magnetism and sophisticated savagery dragged me kicking and screaming…begging for the dull boredom of a Wednesday evening in front of the telly…but it would not let go. It just would not let go.

End to end, I watched 6 one-hour episodes, back to back in one massive story arc of epic proportions, until I lay trembling and disoriented on the couch at 3 AM. If you’ve never seen the show, have never been mortally wounded by the complicated treachery of the Shelby’s or Birmingham circa 1922 then I apologize for alerting you to the possibility but go, go now and watch season 1….watch season 2…DO NOT leap unprepared into season 3 as you’ll likely not survive. I have barely just done so…and it’s been 14 hours since and I am still sorting out the return to this muted, ordinary thing called life.

I did not, could not imagine the depravity and utter rapture that I felt—after being drawn gasping over the white hot coals of season 2—being superseded by the incredible and magnificently executed Machiavellian plot twists and deep rooted psychosis invading every sensory organ I possess…which was season 3. I could not imagine it because I am merely mortal, I am merely a vessel for which the genius and horror came to rest briefly. Came to stain the core of my soul with the blood of brothers, lovers…the gore that is splattered when family combines with honor which combines with vengeance and the ignoble politics of class warfare.

I cannot tell you anything about the show—no plot points, no hints, no details—because once started I know I would not be able to stop and the retelling, like any myth or religion, will grow to twice the size as when it started. I can only tell you that, in the days before…you need to eat well, to drink water, to make sure your loved ones are well and safe and hidden away.

Peaky Blinders. given the slightest opportunity, will grab you and it will not let you go, it’s teeth grinding into bone as with bulldog force it refuses to release you back onto this mild wonderland that is life outside of Birmingham, England in the year of our lord, nineteen hundred and twenty two.