Many have become comfortable posting a collective pat on the back that begins as an author’s minor infraction that is run through a writ large and heart felt mea culpa massaged to message; we the (readers) are better than hoi polloi that heathen the heat of the internet and turn it into the hate and Hades that we all must confront. And of course many respond, to note a nod in kind, while the author proceeds to check their Facebook page, again.
It’s some maudlin mustard of a condiment making the meal, and becoming as “tear here” pre-packaged as, “Our thoughts and prayers.”
There’s little real life to the post, because life is served raw, and where they see ruckus they fear riot, unaware of 4chan and gamersgate and bots that Twitter trend or that Jefferson’s, “In the Course Of Human Events,” rant started the whole damn country, while Luther nailing simony to wall, started it all, and by the by, y’all, who uses simony in a sentence. Or for that matter… a Flash Fiction.
SHELF LIFE-PROSE POEM
Liquored up and quiet as a lawyered up Saturday night suspect… When some Sunday morning radio reformer is giving witness to the ways of the Devil..including/ the product placement possibilities of a public renunciation of my sins
Who is the patron saint of marketing, I mutter, then made instantly sober with white lighting realization that my particular and growing demographic has a never-dying interest in the shelf life of simony.