Pizza Pie

Pie here…

Get yer hot pie here…..

I wrote a Valentine's poem years ago. It was aimed at the marketing industry. The dynamic of buying love. What a fucking sell.

I'm willing to bet a dollar (tehee) that not one of us has ever loved for money. We've craved power, loved prowress, hungered for belonging and needed meaning, but we've never loved for money.

Only fans get love for money.

Honey.

Like good lil worker bees, we shake at the knees when confronted with the judgement of our desire. Our backs ache as our legs shake like an overweight bird on a wire.

Again and again we profess our unwavering commitment to some obscure ideal. Profess, and proceed to commit with such complete zeal.

I truly miss you Neal.

There was a fourth of July I celebrated by getting drunk with Neal while we paddled a canoe. I woke up with a broken hand.

So, I went down to the Berkshire Medical Center. I ended up in the emergency room waiting room with four other men who had broken hands.

Happy birthday America.

Our flag stands for the right to destroy it.

Lovely irony.

Like pie in the eye.

The irony of self awareness.

Love is all we need.

You matter.

Never give up.

Dirty Intel 2020