I sat on the porch all day writing. At least, I think I did. The days are like the winds easing through a hush of naughty cedar pine, the hills of Dunsinane, Nurse seems dead. House to house, the wind of it. The moon is down. It blunders. The wind blunders. It whispers through the temple when the darkness is stilled with cats in every room. Down the hall, the clock strikes truth like a footman with a broom. The temple haunting knows I’m stupid. But, I am not that stupid. The wind will push you off a cliff and laugh. Each room, another execution. Each hyena. All the teeth can crunch up bone. The deep damnation and it was a missle silo dug into the earth where photons are in pain. This was Kansas. Drifting Sand Kansas. Kansas where neither seed or time can speak. The wind is far too loud. Big Kansas. Cosmic queries and Motel Six. If you kick up dust in Kansas, what you will find are the ancient remnants of seas of blood. Kansas has soaked up every drop. People. You have a problem. It’s called the Slaughter House Kansas. How many animals have you eaten today. How does this one get played out. The developing world wants meat. I do not know how morality works. I do not think I even know what morality is. I know this: There will be the people who will voice a demand for things to change. There will be the people who will fight change to the death. Let us pretend the meat industry is corrupt. Just pretend. It will end because it has to end. There will be no escaping it. The planet simply cannot support the wreckage and the waste of it, and there is a tragedy in this, too. More children will live. We don’t need any of them. Enough. Protein is going to be ordinary. Whatever, shape that takes, and there are many possibilities, protein cannot take the heat. No one can afford this Kansas blood is on our hands. We did this. We were addicted and we died by the hundreds of millions of years of it, our Valentine eyes ran red with it, just another bell curve. I love to fight over moral issues whether people denounce me in the New York Times or not. I am thinking that not responding is a kind of response to how many versions of revenge can you squeeze from one small lemon. Three witches. Times ten. It only glistens at the tip.