i hate writing

in lieu of polls to distract 

i think of the thousands of people that died crushed under rubble the last two years. the stillness of their bones as life clung to their minds. two minutes prior they were sound asleep, in a dream of somewhere else, a different life yet the same as theirs with symbols of vehicle and anatomy, depth and gravity. and then that hiss and boom and the building came down and in the building were mom and grandpa, seven children, six grandchildren, a sister who hadn't realized she was pregnant yet. all not dead, just crushed and bleeding under tons of cement and dust. where are my keys? where are my glasses? 

i think of the thousands of people on socials world wide that don't think about gaza. not the millions, just the thousands, several hundred in each nation. where is my phone?

every time a good thing begins to unfold in the world a band of ugly little jews will appear to stop it. an ugly little jew is anyone who doubts. doubt is the sum of the seven sins, they are same in crushed gaza corpses as in the applied physics in the abacus apparatus developed for and marketed as sex rating tool. the body count. 

thousands of them, obsessed over data of memory availed by corpse to machine. the tally of terrorist targets as proof of power. kills shots over time from the like no like binary of dopamine bits, the xo timeline spots, as if the past isn't a messy combination of love making and regret. where is the piggy bank i hid in the wall that just exploded?

the tens, the scores. x marks the spot with a dot dot dot. the men who war and money."you cannot show me a task that is beneath me" is the way forward. roger that.

it's all beneath the rubble.