Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, Culture Clash, Politics

Donald Trump Isn’t Real REAL


“The brightest memory fades faster than the dullest ink.” ― Claudia Rankine

Ma says I should be more active. Blog more. Write more. Say things that mean something, especially since it’s 2016. She’s afraid that if I don’t write, things will change for the worse. In other words, she’s afraid she’ll be erased from existence. Get lost to the cosmic dust of Internet obscurity.

[For those of you just tuning in: ma and I aren’t real. We are make believe. Learn more about us here.]

That’s the thing with ma. She’s hard to understand and doesn’t understand this: she’s an invention. A figment of my fictitious imagination powered by a mind that’s flawed and unreliable, yet ma’s as real as the scar on my chin, a chin that doesn’t really exist nonetheless. Ma is the boot in the face of a face that doesn’t exist. And the boot, well, it doesn’t exist either. 

“And that’s the thing,” ma says. “You’re too psychological. Things like that shouldn’t concern you. Even the ‘real’ are delusional. Whether you’re real or not, doesn’t really matter any more. What matters is what you got to say even if what you say isn’t tangible or touching.”

I tell ma we’re not real just like our words are not real–and no matter how hard we try to mean something and to make that something become meaningful–our lives don’t matter.

“That’s fucking bullshit,” ma says in her piercingly unreal voice. “Our lives don’t matter. That’s why it’s so goddamn important that you make sure they do matter.”

It’s Sunday. Ma is drinking a warm can of Murphy’s Stout. Its caramel skin coats ma’s imaginary esophagus as I sit across from her studying the scars on her face. These postulates correspond to some truth hidden buried in her face. A kind of magical, twisted intellect informs her inappropriate worldview. Her wig is sad and ageless. Her only face since as far back as I can remember.

“Donald Trump isn’t real REAL,” ma says. “We make him real. We give him the time and space to exist in our culture, our politics, and we grant this to each and every one of us. We give him airtime and air hockey. We give him meaning out of all other possible meanings that could exist in his place. Use that space to create new possibilities.”

In many ways, ma is right even though she is flawed. She’s like the women left in these photographs. (Go ahead, click the link. It helps illustrate what I mean.) Without ma, or her words, even though those words or conjured up in the mind of a menace, at least she (sort of) exists. Occupies a finite space that could be occupied by someone else even more self-serving and maniacal.

“For now,” ma says. “Keep writing even though you feel like you’ve got nothing to say because nothing is something that silence can’t trump.”

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Politics, The Mother, Themes

Listening To A Liar: A Response to Thomas Sowell

Dear Thomas Sowell,

I’d call you a liar but mom says I shouldn’t cast stones or darts, so I won’t, yet. When I read your essay “Listening To A Liar”, which was published on, I thought your pants were on fire. I listened to you Mr. Sowell and all I heard were jingle bells. Mom says never smackdown anyone who has a PhD, even if they’re not smarter than you or just trying to be controversial, but she’s got a PhD too yet she’s totally bonkers and not credible at all. I make my own decisions.

In any case, I get the sense you, Dear Thomas, are hellbent on fanning the flames of fear and hypocrisy as you stoop down to your cable television logic. I must admit, up front, you have the right to your own opinion, but you don’t have the right to your own logic. I want to assure you this is not an attack on your freedom of speech, but you will probably see it otherwise. Instead, I would like to address 3 points: your ad hominem attack on Barack Obama’s character, your total disregard for facts relevant to the healthcare debate, and your relentless assault on intellectualism in general.
Continue reading “Listening To A Liar: A Response to Thomas Sowell”

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, Family, Kermit the Frog, Politics, The Mother, Themes

Dear America

For 7053

in daily speech, where we don’t stop to consider every word, we all use phrases like ‘the ordinary world,’ ‘ordinary life,’ ‘the ordinary course of events’…But in the language of poetry, where every word is weighed, nothing is usual or normal. Not a single stone and not a single cloud above it. Not a single day and not a single night after it. And above all, not a single existence, not anyone’s existence in this world.    Wislawa  Szymborska, Nobel Lecture 1996


I’ve got white toast in the toaster and a mojoless rump roast in the oven. Mom’s late for work again and she hasn’t had supper yet. Thank god kids can cook otherwise mom would be nothing but chicken skin. I think she shouldn’t have sex in the afternoon because it makes her want to nap and smoke cigarettes. “I needed it for Chirst’s sake,” she claimed, angrier than before she got some, wild salmon eyed. “Rump a hump ba do.”

“Have more respect,” I said, sick of her cock-a-doodle-do. “I’m not a number you know.”

Dear America, why are you so afraid of 7053? Have you lost your marbles? Have you drunk too many high-fructose Cokes? Gotten use to rape as a weapon of war? Was it the way Rosa P. sat upright in the face of gods and guns? Was it because she believed in you? Looked like me and you? Looked like Aung San Suu Kyi in retrospect?
Continue reading “Dear America”

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, Politics, The Mother, Themes

Dear Babylon

Dear Babylon


I’m sorry but Mom said I should never apologize for disaster or the hanging gardens, mass graves. “The dead are dead,” she said, smoking. “They’re dead.”

I told her to go to hell but she refuses persecution, tin woman, all hands down. I love her and all but she doesn’t understand Hammurabi’s code or the power of the Euphrates, a crown of thorns, or Karma. She doesn’t understand the connection between Babylon and Unitarianism, Christ and Christmas— that is one couldn’t have existed without the other. I’m just a thorn in her side and a snitch, a girl-child, the Wicked Wild Witch of the West.

“Someone is wearing Nebuchadnezzar’s crown,” I said “Someone is having sex behind the Ishtar Gate, fucking below the gates of history.” “You’re fucking nuts,” she said. “Stop watching Star Wars.”  (I didn’t really say fucking but mom did and I thought it would have a bigger impact when you read it.)

Dear Babylon, I apologize for the war, yes, the current war. I apologize for the tunnels, the scraping and the leveling, the digging and cutting beneath your toes. I’m sorry for Abu Ghraib too but I’m not supposed to be political, at least that’s what they say on TV, hush money. Rose-colored glasses.

If the prisoner dies in prison from blows or maltreatment, the master of the prisoner shall convict the merchant before the judge. If he was a free-born man, the son of the merchant shall be put to death; if it was a slave, he shall pay one-third of a mina of gold, and all that the master of the prisoner gave he shall forfeit. Hammurabi’s Code No. 116

Dear Babylon, I’m sorry for the pot smoking and the Marlboro light butts, marine life. I’m sorry for the pit stops and urine breaks. I’m sorry for what is still buried beneath the desert, the possible secret sex tapes and torture memos, Coca Cola bottles and our beloved Burger King. I’m sorry for my apology but I have to make it seem pro-West to avoid stones and witchcraft, hunters and werewolves. God bless.

If any one place his property with another for safe keeping, and there, either through thieves or robbers, his property and the property of the other man be lost, the owner of the house, through whose neglect the loss took place, shall compensate the owner for all that was given to him in charge. But the owner of the house shall try to follow up and recover his property, and take it away from the thief. Hammurabi’s Code No. 125

Dear Babylon, who will claim your corn? Who will recover your trinkets and artifacts? It’s hotter than hell, I’m sure, but I’m here to say there are no excuses for trenches or 500-ton bombs, strippers or wholesale prostitution, unless taxed. Mom bought me a new bra today but somehow it doesn’t support me the way I expected. Burn baby, burn. Victoria Secret and spandex don’t mix and Marines are my secret hope, Sweet Lips. If they only knew I love them as much as mom does.

Dear Babylon, where is Helen of Troy? Mom’s cigs and six pack? The Twin Towers of Babel?

Yours truly,

Almost Dorothy

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, Politics, Themes

Dear Mr. Rush Limbaugh

For Al Frankin

Dear Mr. Limbaugh,

Overweight, yes, but I tend to think it suits you well, like mascara on a nationalistic pig, a cheap trick that works much better on radio than television, full hips. I love your lips and the way you cast a spell and perform magic tricks on stars and witches. You must be a sweetheart in bed, spread eagle and open to any style. I assume you like to bark—woof woof. Please, Mr. Limbaugh, have patience. The best part comes next.

I found the passenger record for John Limbaugh, a guy from France who arrived at Ellis Island on May 6th, 1900. The ship he sailed, La Champagne, was built by Compagnie Generale Transatlantique, St. Nazaire, France, 1885. It was shipwrecked off the coast of St. Nazaire on April 28, 1915. He was the only Limbaugh to land in America as far as I can tell.

la champagne

My Aunt Shelly prefers cigars to men just as much as you prefer them to women. She’s a lunatic, of course. Sometimes I think she’s really a man like you, all meaty and full-throttled, and just as erratic. Mom thinks Aunt Shelly’s a lesbian, which I guess makes you one too. But that’s just not true. In fact she loves men just as much as she loves pork, at least that’s what Aunt Shelly said. Mr. Limbaugh, do you like men?

Mr. Limbaugh, please be frank. Are you French? I will love you the same, my soft mound of clay, planet napkin full of lust. Didn’t our ancestors arrive in the same boat?

I promise the possible. I swear I won’t interfere with your past radio transmissions, which are headed for black holes in outer space anyway, which must be why you’re like a spinning hulked up Black Eyed Pea of a neutron star on speed, or worse—Britney Spears on MTV. Show me a world without dance and I’ll show you Apocalypse.

Captain America, I know, I’m a mess just like you and Apple Pie. But I don’t pretend to know the future of the Statue of Liberty. I’m wearing a cute long sleeve white cotton dress today, embroidered tulips. My grandfather always said women have two. It’s already 10 AM and I can see the moon faint. I’m wearing red sneakers and a carnation corsage. My favorite color is ecru.

Sweet Pea, Mom and I are getting ready to hit the Unitarian Church before we head to the Universal Church of Christ. We’re not religious but she likes the concept of multiple partners and the power of doughnuts.

What do you think the future will be, Mr. Limbaugh—illusion or spin? Shadows or stones? By future I mean will it be pretty much fair. Gay rights or Armageddon? Healthcare or cannibalism?

Mr. Limbaugh, are you related to the Limbaugh from France, the guy who traveled thousands of miles across a sexless ocean for a chance at liberty? Would you recognize your pretty little face in his? Would he recognize you in his mirror?

Mr. Limbaugh, I beg you to cancel your tour of the West. I’ve captured short wave transmissions of sexed up senator vampires and Christian kings plotting your end. I won’t judge you so harsh Mr. Limbaugh if you gave up. I’ve got fetishes just like you.

Yes, I’m trying to keep my eye on you but you move too fast in the nightlight my little playboy bunny. I’ve said this before—I love the chicken dance. I love the way it unleashes the inner goddess. Want to have some fun, Mr. Limbaugh? Sit and listen to R.E.M. Sit and mind the cars passing outside your window. I know you’re just a boy but I suspect you like to dance even though you won’t admit it. Beyonce wishes you were a better man. But I wish you were just a girl full of love.

Truly Yours,

Almost Dorothy