Sleep Fissures (ROUND 2)
scent of the day: Nose Rest Day
My stalker has had my Substack banned once again. I’m not going to dress it up as a “technical issue” or pretend it’s just bad luck. This is part of a pattern: someone keeps trying to erase my ability to publish by abusing reporting systems and leaning on the fact that platforms often choose convenience over fairness.
I now know who it is. It is the same person who contacted my family in the early 2010s as well as my my academic institutions throughout the 2010s. It is the same person who got my Substack banned the last time--yes, right after I announced, as my Thanksgiving thanks, that Substack was the only place that would protect my free expression even in this dark time of Orange Hysteria when my optics alone (to say nothing of my artistic content) renders me not worthy of the same protections as other people.
Until this is sorted, my personal website is the primary home for my writing.
I’m still working through what happened with Substack, but I’m not waiting around for permission to keep writing. If a platform can be pressured into disappearing a writer, then it was never a real home in the first place. It was a temporary convenience.
If you’re a reader, thank you for sticking around. If you’re a creator, then let this be a reminder: build something you control, even if you also publish elsewhere.
I’ll post updates here as things develop.
— Michael
Sleep Fissures
1
The mom—amoxicillin bottle four, baffled by what could keep doubling a toddler over
with olive discharge as foamy and fevered as her vomit—guts the home of all culprits:
scented soap, bubble bath; junk foods, synthetic panties too tight—all, save Mr. Malik.
2
Spread preschool self tatted to her torso so that both bald pussies converge (an overlap
perfect as the Gumby he put in her ass and the clay that makes him up), all grown now
she can see—cervix ravaging the mewling load of each avatar— the kid inside the perp.
“We need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”—Kafka (against the safe-space cancel culture pushed by anti-art bullies, left and right)
