On bounced rent cheques and teary-eyed excuses
Thursday, February 12, 2026
The Epstein Rosetta Stone Redux
Saturday, February 7, 2026
What I Will Accomplish Today
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It’s not wake up, brush my teeth,
look in the mirror and pinch my fat.
It’s not check the weather on my cel.
It’s not get dressed, take a statin pill
and an adult multivitamin.
It’s not make a tuna fish sandwich
with extra mayonnaise, packed with a V8
and three chocolate cookies for lunch.
It’s not take out the garbage
and drive ten kilometers in heavy traffic to work.
It’s not switch the radio station five times.
It’s not stop for gas.
It’s not make a pot of coffee,
pour a cup, one sugar.
It’s not text the plumber
that I have the cash I owe him.
It’s not answer emails,
and make a deal on the phone.
It’s not make a buck
to put some away for retirement.
It’s not check my news feed
and wonder if any of it is believable.
It’s not get angry
at the corruption, scandal, inhumanity.
It’s not drink a second cup of coffee, one sugar.
It’s not eat my tuna fish sandwich
and wonder if I’m getting enough protein.
It’s not finish the quarterly sales report,
a week past deadline.
It’s not avoid the boss.
It’s not check my news feed again,
and rage, again.
It’s not fantasize about having sex
with a cute coworker.
It’s not think about visiting
my sick brother this weekend.
It’s not sit in a management meeting
and take a few notes.
It’s not pay my daughter’s school tuition online.
It’s not wonder if I’m wasting my life.
It’s not slip out of work early.
What I will accomplish today
is write a poem.
Friday, February 6, 2026
The Epstein Rosetta Stone
It turns out the Epstein files may be the Rosetta Stone of depravity and corruption among the global ruling class.
You probably know what the Rosetta Stone is: a slab of rock dating from 196 BC, inscribed in three scripts—ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, Demotic, and Ancient Greek. Because the text was essentially identical in three languages, it became the key that allowed scholars to decipher hieroglyphs and, in doing so, unlock Egyptian civilization.
What we are now beginning to understand about Jeffrey Epstein is that his story is not merely about a wealthy sex trafficker, serial pedophile, and probable extortionist. It is something far larger.
The Epstein files function as a legend—a map—of global networks of power, personal connection, and influence.
Networks of wealth, power, and privilege are nothing new. In pre-industrial societies they were organized around monarchy, hereditary nobility, land-owning aristocracy, and religious institutions such as the Church. Power was usually exercised within relatively limited geographic boundaries—local or regional, if not national.
The political, social, and economic revolutions of the post-Enlightenment, post-industrial world challenged those rigid and well-defined systems. One measure of modernity’s success was that societies became less formally stratified and access to wealth and power was, at least in theory, open to far more people. Social classes persisted, but mobility became possible.
What we are now realizing—perhaps belatedly—is two things. First, that the modern aristocracy is far wealthier and more powerful than any ruling class in history. And second, that in the age of global capital, the reach and depth of their influence is vastly greater.
The Epstein scandal exposes that, at bottom, they remain much what they always were: entitled, debauched, privileged, selfish, grandiose and above-the-law. Only now they travel by private jet instead of by ship and are more globally interconnected than any elite before it.
Another unsettling implication of the Epstein material is the degree to which global-interconnectedness of elites fostered national security risks—not only in the United States, but across the world, including the UK, France, Norway, Russia, and farflung geopolitically marginal places like Djibouti.
It is therefore unsurprising that a substantial portion of the roughly six million files remains unreleased—almost certainly the most damaging portion.
Yes, these revelations will inevitably fuel dangerous conspiracy theories about world order, particularly antisemitic ones, and that is deeply regrettable.
More troubling still, for those of us who are not inclined toward conspiratorial thinking, is the further erosion of already-fragile public trust in institutional democracy.
Now that we have the Epstein Rosetta Stone, we can better decipher the networks of transnational elites. What remains unclear is what societies can realistically do about them. In the US, the political impact so far appears quite muted. In the UK, it is more volatile, threatening even the survival of a fragile Labour government. Yet even that would not guarantee meaningful change.
The recent past offers little reassurance. After the 2008 financial crisis, systemic failure was exposed in full view, yet high-level accountability amounted to precisely nothing. Elites have long proven adept at absorbing scandal while preserving the structures that protect their privilege.
The urgency cannot be overstated. Mechanisms of democratic accountability were designed for national institutions, not for transnational elites whose wealth, influence, and loyalties operate beyond borders. Exposure does not equal reform, and transparency does not reliably produce action. The Epstein files may clarify the architecture of power, but clarity alone does not tell us how—or whether—that power can be constrained.
Thursday, February 5, 2026
Love Transactional
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I loved you for your body,
This cannot be denied.
As I do with everybody,
Both open and implied.
There cannot be another way,
But to forsake transcendent love.
A body is, what a body may,
This I'm certain of.
Trust me, love, this is no game,
Of hifalutin minds.
Love yearns not for any name,
But for one whose body shines—
The glory of our very being,
For love is love exchanged.
Desire is a psalm we sing,
In bodies not the same.
Love, my love, is to transact,
Believe not in love transcendent.
I loved you once then held it back,
Then grieved for love that went.
A Grammar Mistake Mistaken for Metaphysics
You are given life. You are not given purpose.
This is a hard pill for many of us to swallow. We struggle to digest it.
Purpose, at best, is something people assemble after the fact. For some, it is personal and idiosyncratic—a loose mixture of desires, experiences, temperament, and luck. For others, purpose is said to preexist: assigned rather than discovered.
In this latter view, purpose comes from God, embedded in some vaguely defined “Divine Plan.” Any purpose not derived from it is considered inferior or mistaken. Failure to accept this purpose is framed as a moral defect; acceptance, as virtue. Everything that happens—joy, suffering, success, catastrophe—is declared “meant.”
A divine purpose must be absolute. If it comes from the creator, deviation is impossible. Such a purpose is important enough to justify killing and dying, which is why it also requires an afterlife. Without eternal compensation, the arithmetic fails.
I enjoy talking to religious people. I have several ultra-orthodox tenants, and every Friday a group of Lubavitch boys comes to my office to bring me closer to my faith. Our conversations usually end the same way, with the question that matters most:
“You really believe this is all there is—and then we die?” They mean it rhetorically.
I always feel strange answering yes. It sounds incomplete, almost arbitrary.
But I have no other honest answer.
The purpose of life is to live. This is not inspirational; it is tautological. Life does not require justification beyond itself.
We often describe life as a journey—birth, progression, death. But a journey implies a destination. That implication may be nothing more than a habit of thought: a grammar mistake mistaken for metaphysics.
Life may not be linear at all. It may be self-contained. The organism that is born and the organism that dies are not moving toward a goal; they are undergoing a process—growth, maturity, decline. No different in principle from plants, insects, or any other living system.
Life engenders process, not purpose. Minds invent purposes.
Hence the familiar substitutes: an afterlife for the righteous, spiritual missions, the Kingdom of God, tikkun olam—the repair of an imperfect world designed by a perfect creator. Or their secular equivalents: wealth, status, credentials, legacy, family. All serve the same function. They place life at a distance, something to be earned or completed, rather than something already happening.
But the only purpose that does not collapse under scrutiny is the one that does not need to be pursued. It is not ahead of you. It is not earned. It is already occurring. It is part of your very nature: the fullness of being alive.
Life persists even in cracks in pavement. It does not wait for meaning, permission, or explanation. Psychological constructions—expectation, obligation, narratives of purpose—often interfere more than they help.
Reduce the distance between mind and body. Reduce the demand that life justify itself. As the barrier drops, so does anxiety about purpose.
What remains is not meaning in the grand sense, but something simpler and harder to refute: being alive, fully, and without judgment.
Wednesday, February 4, 2026
A Rat In My Garbage Can
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Lifted the lid as I do
every Friday to drop in
the week’s sack
for the truck’s prehistoric jaws
to devour and disappear.
There it was
at the empty bottom,
lifeless, lying on its side
like a deflated football.
Not like looking down
a cavernous wishing well—more like
a jack-in-the-box ambush.
I reeled,
my labyrinthine mind scurrying
for an answer:
it tumbled in while
sniffing for scraps
and couldn’t climb back out.
Small furry survivor
of the T-Rex-killing asteroid,
done in by a dumb
plastic bin
from Home Hardware; thump.
I imagined the frantic,
futile claw-scratch scratching
against the bin’s
smooth cylindrical walls.
Had to smirk.
Next thought:
where there’s one,
there are many.
I peered through the fence
at my neighbour’s yard,
rows of containers
behind his shiny,
brand-new black Porsche.
It wasn’t the first time
I’d surveyed his trash
like a detective scrounging
for clues of ill-gotten gains.
While I stuck conscientiously
to a one-bag-a-week quota,
he always had two,
sometimes even three and four—evidence
he was an uncaring waster,
always a bit of a jerk, really.
And a menace.
My empty bin trapped the rat,
but it was my neighbour
who invited it
with his extravagant
consumption.
That’s when I heard
the inevitable truck’s roar,
rusty brakes screaming.
Darkness crossed
my sunny soul
like an omen eclipse.
We’re all doomed.
Monday, February 2, 2026
To Be Free
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I didn't choose my identity,
it chose me,
like eye colour and hair,
length and shape of nose,
height and brains;
a common refrain.
The many choices life offers
are more or less lies.
If you don't believe me,
just look at any photo;
all the smiles.
I was given money,
and didn't care about money.
I was given love,
and didn't care about love.
I was given life
and didn't care about life;
Still I tried and tried.
So they taught me
about God,
but it wasn't enough -
I needed something hot
like the burning sun,
something cold
like the icy moon -
I could not believe
in words,
and yet repeated words;
how absurd
to be free.