Mas Tortas Para los Trabajadores
Meditations on Life, Love, Revolution, and Evolution from the foolpump Research Institute
I sit on the sea wall beneath the Roger Casement statue. I look out onto Dublin Bay toward Sandy Cove. I can see the James Joyce Martello Tower at the end of the curling shoreline about a quarter mile away. I think I see the Forty Foot, too. But I’m not sure.
I stand up from my seat. A pain missile fires from my tailbone. It shoots down my right buttock ...
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The engine roars then fires a cannon blast. It shakes and shudders like a wagon on a washboard road, rattling brains, teeth, and all notions of order and propriety before melting into abject silence.
"Ock! The experience is just the seed," he says, "The story. Well, echhh, the story, 'icc, that's, ccup, the tree."
Birds sing high on a wire, in the trees, from rooftops. They speak of things unbeknownst to me...
One must concentrate on writing. One must concentrate on THE writing.
I fall from the rideshare car at ABIA; methinks it was a Lyft - fucking hate Uber - well, I hate Lyft, too,
I have seen the future of music, and it is a small Irish woman clad in stark white pajamas.
In a failing city in a failed state...
Mas Tortas Para los Trabajadores 