But what units are the budget contraint in?

waiting to be inspired

...There are instances when I finally loose myself, moments where the narration in my head ceases, my ego stripped away, myself left bare and empty, filled anew with the words replanted from the page to my soul, bypassing translation and becoming fact, becoming me, filling my veins and capillaries with something new, something that I can stomach, something yet cancerous. That is why I read, for these infrequent transcendent moments where I find my foot tapping out some chthonic and primal rhythm, my body rocking in step, hovering over the page drinking it straight to my blood. Sadly, I find very little in current prose or poetry that fills this need. Recommendations to the contrary are welcome.

They did say please...

Custudy Hearings 2.0

Statement of Purpose: (DRAFT)

I want to put together something that attempts to capture the zeitgeist of this generation. The technology, the digital voyeurism, the guilt, the nihilism, the private life and the shit that fills it, the rejection of the American dream: we do not want to produce more, to have more, but rather want only to loll around and love and be loved more. We dare to be ironic but are too apathetic to realize that we already are. We are a sham generation. We will be shorter, fatter, dumber, and poorer than those who came before, and will achieve this through increased hours, heightened use of technology, increased efficiency, and all the culminations of modern health and science. We pushed into office a president of change, and seemingly did it with ever giving a thought to what that meant. We no longer have the bible, but believe rather in the infallible invisible hand. The market it supreme. Hail the market. We just need to fix the market. The market did not fail us, we failed the market. This is the now and this where I want to intercede.

The Manchu State

The ichor of callow lords coursing verdant, spilt for us,
Splayed in doffed raiment of flaxen hemp and fustian might,
The vatic pride of prescient wisdom of the pending fall,
It is all too much for me tonight.

The world is too flat and hot and crowded they’ll say,
No reason to sire those who cannot play,
Or lift a spoon without the guilt of this;
Their footprints mashed and without bliss.

We are the new Qing Dynasty, with bounded carbon-feet,
Hobbled still with awkward hope and trenchant grief.

...wait, the wine glasses cost the entire month's rent?