Commentary is a failure to act;

or is to comment a true verb? I disguise my displeasure in fancy word-swords, scabbarded by vagaries and taken for extoll. Dumb fronds whisk Le Guin with left hands, starkly harnessed to assertions that writing is a fact. Shown and felled by the lumber, two-by-stored envy burns slights as tattoos until it’s a pancake morning again. Eat! Categorically imperative if you’re an animal-brained bird whose seedlings won’t break through eggshells until the compost rots down and sobs. Too much, piled on, I bear until burden-energies waggle hat fingers in their puppet show to take class structure and capital schisms head-on with that protest work ethic (until Union Jack stakes his reputation to the picket shrine). Staple your fragments to that long sentence, imprisoned by its own narrative legitimacy to walk back its planks, party by party.