I’m sorry you’re dying. If I wasn’t locked up in jail, I promise you I’d be doing something to stop this insanity.
Dear Destroyers of Everything Beautiful,
Fuck you! I just spent 6 hours locked in a jail cell reading the Wall Street Journal. Your attaboy! Your feel good newspaper. I read your numbers. Sure you understand millions, billions, and trillions but for the people making 5 cents an hour to $7.25 these numbers don’t seem to have a relevancy. For those not making any money, for those millions, they’ll just starve.
Your stock market made it back to 10,000. Great. You made millions when it crashed and now you’re making double that. Good job, you’re so smart.
Money is no longer made out of paper but 75% cotton and 25% other. Is that so you can launder the blood that it soaks in, that is soaks up. All so you can have a penthouse and a monthly visit to Cambodia for a taste of a new seven year old.
Wall Street use to be a place to auction slaves, now you trade them, how clever of you. I hate you. I hate you the way a poor child’s stomach hates hunger, the way a seagull hates the 5lbs of plastic that fills her stomach. I despise your greed the way a tree despises the tearing of its flesh from a well oil lubricated oil powered oil forged chain, I despise you the way an electric-less Iraqi village despises the oil that lies underneath it. I wish you lied 6 feet underneath me. I wish you were dead like 200+ dead zones in the oceans you have created. I wish you were deprived of oxygen the way you have deprived 8,000 square miles of once living ocean in the Gulf of Mexico.
I wish I could make an application for your I-phone that would give you the cancer from the production of its internal 32 GB hard drive, instead of it going to the Korean and her family that was forced into starving or producing. Or an application to turn whatever shit excuse for music you listen to up to a 250 DB to blow your ear drums and cause you to hemorrhage and die, in the same manner you kill whales in the ocean looking for more oil, oh, I mean Soviet submarines.
I know your house. It’s the big one on the other side of town. When I get out there will be empty forty bottles scattered on the ground and gas in your beamer to siphon out and one more cocktail to top off your drunken slumber making sure this time you don’t wake up.
Written from Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)