Darrius said he visited Willis’ Fani home less than 10 times before she hired him. Cell phone records show the real number to be 35. Is the judge just trying to pile up the evidence to get Fani and her corn pone disbarred? There sure seems enough to prosecute them both for perjury, let alone to boot them off the case.
I know nothing about this poet, but I like this one.
“Too late or not too late”
by Timothy E.G. Bartel
There comes a sense as Fall is lengthening
That you are too far in to draw your mind
Back out to summer, or to what you thought
In spring. The leaves are much too brown, and in
The mornings there is frost as often as
There’s not. You’re made complicit with the year,
With its accomplishments and with its guilt,
With all the things concluded in its span:
A book that’s finally read, the argument
That never got resolved, a failure to
Explain yourself to those who were confused.
I’d like to say: it’s not too late for you—
There is no snow upon the roads just yet;
There’s light to still repent and not forget.
Happy Friday, GN, and all your cats!
Happy Friday, Gerbil Nation!
Good morning, Sven!
That’s all I got. Off to read the headlines.
Hi, Paddy.
I see more evidence released today that Fani Willis lied her butt off. Sad.
Darrius said he visited Willis’
Fanihome less than 10 times before she hired him. Cell phone records show the real number to be 35. Is the judge just trying to pile up the evidence to get Fani and her corn pone disbarred? There sure seems enough to prosecute them both for perjury, let alone to boot them off the case.Numbers are racist and an artifact from the white patriarchy. I wonder if Wade was maybe banging someone else there or a neighbor.
Be interesting to see how this one plays out.
I know nothing about this poet, but I like this one.
“Too late or not too late”
by Timothy E.G. Bartel
There comes a sense as Fall is lengthening
That you are too far in to draw your mind
Back out to summer, or to what you thought
In spring. The leaves are much too brown, and in
The mornings there is frost as often as
There’s not. You’re made complicit with the year,
With its accomplishments and with its guilt,
With all the things concluded in its span:
A book that’s finally read, the argument
That never got resolved, a failure to
Explain yourself to those who were confused.
I’d like to say: it’s not too late for you—
There is no snow upon the roads just yet;
There’s light to still repent and not forget.
I like it. Thanks, Sven!