why laundry not stop a poem

Katie took me out to breakfast and I was most breathtakingly rubbed into my stupid whiteladyness and I’m sore about all what happened as a consequence (all I did was go to the fucking bathroom!!! that’s all I did), and everything went sideways. I came out and the waitress was telling the Haida guy, who had been conversing with us, to leave since he hadn’t ordered anything and then she asked him to prepay and shit got ugly. No yelling, just dark clouds of ugly.

Katie’s fine, our convo fantastic.

Then we went back to our previously scheduled lives.

Then we reformed for a Value Village run. Got a box of books out the door. Got out the house. I finally got an old lady friendly nightgown that is literally two sizes too X for me so it’s gonna be like a big blue gunny sack and happy I am about it. Also picked up a bunny hug for brO and wild socks for me and then.

Ran a laundry.  Tried to grok that I had experienced a racist incident, that I feel like I could have done something about and I fucking froze, I froze like a prey animal.

Capitalism is preying on me, it’s preying on my will and my mind.

The short version of the homily is done. I’ll leave it another week and come back at it, but it’s done, and I’m not going to have any last minute changes of heart on that subject. Writing for pay is a different proposition, yanno.

Now I must transfer laundry from wet place to dry place. NEW NIGHTY YAY.

And Jeff et my leftovers, per plan.


Wow. Upsidedowndulous day.

Hoping to get a nap and then get out tonight for the Capilano Review ish launch; the art in this issue is so wonderful I LOVE IT. It’s so feminist. So unruly and unflinching and playful and bitey.

I need to take myself on an ‘artist date’ and see it tonight from 7 to 9 but maybe a nap first.



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Born when atmospheric carbon was 316 PPM. Settled on MST country since 1997. Parent, grandparent.

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