I knew what to say, in those moments, and how to say it, because I knew him. He was my dad.
The battle lines are everywhere, when they should be squarely in front of us — between us and the fascists who would destroy us.
There is no middle ground between good and evil that we can afford to settle for.
We deserve joy in our lives, but the themes we indulge matter.
This is just one manifestation of a march to a much more terrifying place.
It’s springtime for fascism and the “resistance” is currently comprised of a bunch of leftists reenacting the last scene of Reservoir Dogs.
Tonight, I need this page to be a wall I can chalk a poem on, before walking away.
There is a grief that precedes tragedy, when loss is on the horizon.
From one cluster fuck to another: What does hope look like at the end of 2016?
There comes a point where critiquing the absurd becomes an even sillier act than the one being called into question.