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Seventen Bishop newsletter:

We exist in a society of excess and boredom. One feeds off of the other. Entertainment fills the voids of the everyman who looks to overexposed media for an answer but that answer is pure fiction. There is a need for humanity to find a happy ending without really wanting to invest blood into getting it. So we have periodic happy endings in the buy of objects we wonder why we ever obsessed about. Money manages to be the root of happiness for most. Is there a happiness in a PDA, a plasma screen television, a room in an overpriced roach condominium?

There are those people that actually do not want these modern conventions of temporary happiness. There are people that exist that do not want to work only to save to buy something that goes out of business or out of fashion or becomes antiquated in a week.

We have complaints. We have ideas. There is a corpse with a beautiful back lying in the mud that once turned over is nothing but a worm riot ready to be rung out of it's gore.

Certainly, the bus will take you to work. There you can earn a paycheck. Then you can buy into your catalog house greed. We want nothing from that existence.

There are poems about grandmothers and molestations. Sunsets and safety. Flowers and what we should have done.

SevenTen Bishop is in the realm of dissatisfaction. Standing still on the median of North-South motion. East and West are there for dissection. SevenTen Bishop wakes up on the first day of work, empties a briefcase and shows up late. SevenTen Bishop realizes that while it is broke it was much more appeased living away from training manuals and managers.

Existing two inches off of a twelve-inch ruler.

Fighting advertising. Fighting the push. No, not interested in a graph now or ever. The Dow Jones and the War can fight just not on our turf.

Beneath the news, beneath the baseball game, beneath the club, beneath the bass, beneath the supposed consensus, we are the distorted mirror of truth. The other half. The worm riot.

Sick of the media, sick of the President. Nothing represents SevenTen Bishop but SevenTen Bishop. Waking up in the dark, asking the floor if we were invited to stay there. The floor just smirks and shrugs.

What are we supposed to do but write? What are we supposed to but create? We're not going to pick up guns. We're not out to murder. We're giving the world the benefit of the doubt that it can read and can understand. We're not a planet satisfied with tackling our neighbor or blowing up a job.

As much as we'd all like to think that we are not in peril, we are building skyscrapers in hell. The populous created a government, a Jesus. This Jesus is looking out for quick cash and high fashion. It's time to question this government, based on this bible and truly understand what's best. What will put therapy and Prozac out of business?

We are it.