“Rationality is uncool,” he laments; “it isn’t seen as dope, phat, chill, sick or da bomb”; no attribute of will is more unlikely to be deemed “to rule”; it’s like an outcast in some middle school. You cannot even argue that you cannot kill in pure percentage terms sufficient mill- ions of men to match the Earth’s once miniscule murder rate; Cain’s Abel was one full quarter of the world, for instance; wouldn’t you rather take the odds in Auschwitz with those awful chances? It’s fall. Across each campus days grow shorter; undergrads still kiss and fuck and fake enthusiasm for science’s romances.
Every job will be automated until four remain: lawyer, farmer, dentist, soda jerk; whaleman, scrivener, and grocery clerk; rabbi, car mechanic, David Blaine; professional impersonator of Mark Twain. The rest will be done by one Mechanical Turk with an indefatigable appetite for work; its million metal arms will never strain; its million pinprick eyes will never droop; of course, it’s operated by an actual man from a windowless room in drowning Bangladesh; he gets one thirty second break to poop and eat his lunch before the beautiful tan attack dogs are released to tear his flesh.
When exactly I should retire, or will retire has many complex parts to it: a chronometric set of gears that fit through genius acts of unimaginable skill and ratios whose maddening math would fill vast desert racks of servers cooled and lit by carbon burned by who came after it. What tyrant lizard left by being ill, or turned from prey to watch a meteor descending through the North-American sky? The seas may boil; the air itself may burn; the liquefying stone may crack and roar. A life’s lived best not knowing it will die, instinct alone, and never paused to learn.
Geriatric millennials born
between 1980 and 1985
are best positioned to lead teams that will thrive
in the hybrid workplace; they will never mourn
the lost kitchenette, or get mad at the porn
their OnlyFans teammates left on the shared drive
while fooling eye-movement monitors during a live
webinar; well-trained in irony and scorn,
they’ll do their boomer bosses’ bidding, but
half-heartedly; they’re busy making .gifs,
polluting the Slack with fake nostalgia for
the nineties, pretending they don’t mind the gut
they’ve got from crafty IPAs and spliffs,
barely forty at death’s beatific door
An expert I spoke with highly recommends that America needs to appoint a reality czar: no more lying to your buds at the corner bar; the rack for all of your weirdo Facebook friends. Plenipotentiary in all his means and ends, affixed to Christlike truth like the wise men’s star, remit of heights and depths, the near and far corners of creation, where time or being bends beyond the expanding cone of present light, the baryonic effluence of matter, and the dark deep gravities of truths unseen, unfelt, perfectly wise and gifted with prescient sight, Osiris, God, ayin sof, and holy ark, proclaim on high what he who smelt it dealt.
We’ve got to get checks of fourteen hundred bucks
on top of the six hundred that we’ve already sent;
thirty times twenty that the proles have already spent;
seventy Jacksons for all the lazy fucks.
Sure we said two grand. [Rolls eyes, and ducks.]
Savvy citizens knew what it meant:
one down payment and then one month of rent.
Have we mentioned how much the Republican Party sucks?
Even your saintly Sanders now agrees,
and would you gainsay your wintry mittened-man
by means-testing current truths against the past
positions changed for new realities
gestated in your short attention span?
Enjoy the money. It will be your last.
This could not be more Orwellian.
Simon & Schuster is cancelling my book.
Where a business-flyer otherwise would look
for such civics, now shelves the Machiavellian
secrets of the boardroom, or Hudson’s selling him
mere Mentos. The woke mob won’t brook
my bold dissent. Why? Because I took
my voters’ insurrectionary whim
seriously? My job is to ventriloquize
exactly what the lumpen want to hear,
smuggling their sordid gripes into the fort-
ress of power with my Yale mouth and dead eyes,
alchemizing gripes into career.
This aggression will not stand. See you in court.
What books should Biden read? We went and asked some of our best of midlist middlebrow semi-celebs, and some replied. But how can one find time to read when one is tasked with convincing a doomer culture to put on masks, building past glory back, and better, now, projecting the saintly calm of a teenage cow. It’s enough to make one wish for a starving asp to clasp against one’s own bared breast, the servants, in their startled Greek, aghast, while at the harbor, underpaid stevedores who don’t know Ptolemy from Rameses are loading wheat as they’ve done for the last two thousand years; a bored scribe snores; a librarian pilfers some scrolls and coins and flees.
I declare and verify under plenty
of perjury: I cannot tell one lie;
they must be numbered as stars in the southern sky;
gorgeous as guys on Grindr claiming they’re twenty-
something long into their salted, empty
middle thirties; arthritic, old, and spry;
a shout as loud as a lover’s sleeping sigh.
Bullshit for the art of lying’s cognoscenti:
the facts contained in the foregoing complaint
are each correct and true, except when not;
valid to a point, believable when viewed
at the proper angle, under properly faint
and fading light: how Faust’s blood bought
not youth, not beauty, but the right to not be sued.
In the battle for the soul of America, democracy
prevailed. It hauled its agèd ass across the line
winking and grinning the entire goddamn time
like a dying parent, who, despite your plea,
has spent his retirement on the lottery,
commemorative coins, fake vintage wine;
still mean as hell and obsessed with rising crime;
mad at taxes he doesn’t pay and free
goodies he thinks that someone else has got;
terrified of change and terrified
that nothing’s gonna change except for worse:
here’s what his democratic soul is not:
in love, nor young at heart, nor quite alive.
Each waning angry moment is a curse.