America’s Mouth Is Full of Blood
Field Notes From Under the Shadow of Babel
For a more formal text dealing with this idea, it’s here: The American Schismogenesis and is part of a section of the same name.
My hands gripping the armrests like I’m falling out of a republic.
Metal scrapes enamel. That specific sound teeth make when hygienist finds the tender spot. My mouth stretched wide by latex fingers and chrome instruments. Can’t speak. Can’t swallow. Can’t look away from the ceiling TV where CNN scrolls red banners about political assassination.
“Just a little pressure here,” she says, digging deeper.
Minnesota lawmaker dead. Husband dead. Second lawmaker critical.
The suction tube gurgles pink water. Taste of iron and mint. My tongue trapped under dental dam while democracy bleeds out on mute television. Perfect fucking symmetry.
Phone in pocket buzzes against hip bone. Can’t check it. Hands gripping armrests like I’m falling out of a republic.
“You’ve got some buildup on the lower incisors,” hygienist continues, oblivious or indifferent to the news crawl. “Have you been flossing?”
Assassination at 2 AM. Man dressed as cop. AK-style weapons. The details drip into consciousness like novocaine, numbing everything they touch. I try to nod about flossing but the tools prevent movement. Democracy’s molars crumble while I can’t even close my jaw.
Melissa Hortman. Dead at scene. Multiple gunshot wounds.
The overhead light burns retinal afterimages. Hygienist hums something unrecognizable. Country music or hymn or both. Her gloved fingers taste like institutional latex, that specific medical flavor of enforced vulnerability. I breathe through my nose. Count ceiling tiles. Try not to think about how this same helplessness scales up to continental collapse.
Different genres require different physics of meaning.
— Genre Wars: Same Corpse, Different Movie —
“Rinse and spit,” she says, withdrawing tools.
I lean over the tiny porcelain bowl, pink foam swirling down drain. The TV shifts to aerial footage of Brooklyn Park. Police vehicles arranged like immune cells around infection site. Different channels already encoding this into incompatible narrative structures.
For Fox News viewers, this is an action thriller. Heroic citizens fighting tyrannical government. “Politically motivated” means justified resistance. The suspect becomes protagonist in their telling, a patriot pushed too far by socialist overreach or a marxist gone too far.
I mean, does it even matter, really?
For MSNBC, it’s horror movie. Democracy under siege. Fascism’s death squads activating. “Politically motivated” means terrorism. The dead lawmaker becomes martyr for reproductive rights, for sanity itself.
For the religious networks, it’s Book of Revelation fanfic. Assassination as birth pang. Divine judgment on Babylon. Bodies aren’t victims but props in cosmic drama where earthly politics dissolve into spiritual warfare.
Same bullets. Same blood. Different movies playing in different skulls.
Hygienist returns with polishing paste. Gritty cherry flavor that makes me gag. “Your gums look inflamed,” she notes. “Stress can do that.”
Stress. Right. Just stress causing the inflammation. Not systemic infection. Not the whole mouth rotting from inside.
The news mentions “No Kings” protests cancelled after shooter found flyers in his car. Same day as Trump’s military parade. His 79th birthday celebrated with tanks while democracy gets executed by cosplay cops at 2 AM. The coincidence feels scripted but I can’t tell which genre we’re in.
My phone vibrates again… Probably my daughter… Probably scared… Probably needs reassurance I can’t provide with mouth full of medical apparatus and heart full of institutional dread.
“Almost done,” hygienist says, though I didn’t ask.
The hygienist was right about one thing. Once it recedes, it doesn’t grow back.
— Atmospheric Pressure: Democracy by Barometer —
The suction tube sounds like storm drain during flash flood. Pulling away blood and saliva and whatever else accumulates during routine maintenance of decay. I think about pressure systems. How violence doesn’t create weather but reveals differentials already present.
Assassination as cold front meeting warm air. Political murder as tornado touching down where conditions were always perfect for vortex.
On screen: Governor Tim Walz calling it “politically motivated assassination.” Like naming the weather changes it. Like “terrorism” versus “resistance” versus “judgment” aren’t just different words but different realities occupying same coordinates.
The polisher whirs against molars. That specific dental frequency that penetrates skull, makes whole skeleton vibrate. I close my eyes but still see afterimages of the news. Bullet holes in democracy’s front door. Investigators combing suburban lawn for shell casings and meaning.
*Room smells like fluoride and fear. That institutional mixture of healing and harm.*
Hygienist switches to floss, sawing between teeth with practiced violence. “You really need to do this daily,” she scolds gently. “Preventive care is everything.”
Preventive care. Right. Like we could have flossed away fascism. Like democracy’s gingivitis could have been avoided with better oral hygiene habits.
We’re all patients now in democracy’s dental chair.
— Extraction Theater: When Cleaning Becomes Pulling —
Phone buzzes insistently. The hygienist notices my anxiety, misreads it as dental fear. “Just a bit longer. You’re doing great.”
Doing great.
Republic hemorrhaging on live TV while I lay here with mouth propped open, unable to speak or scream or even properly swallow my own spit.
Different Americas process this through different story engines. In the thriller version, deep state finally pushed patriots too far. In the horror version, stochastic terrorism bears predictable fruit. In the religious version, angels and demons duke it out over Minnesota suburbs.
None of these stories can speak to each other. Different genres require different physics of meaning. You can’t explain a horror movie to someone watching an action film in the same theater. The screen might be shared but the movies are fundamentally incompatible.
The TV shifts to Trump’s birthday parade. Tanks rolling through D.C. while hygienist picks at stubborn tartar. The contrast feels scripted. Deliberate. Like someone’s writing this collapse as performance art.
“See this?” She holds up the pick, tiny speck of calcified plaque on the tip. “This is what builds up when we skip cleanings.”
The metaphor assaults me with its obviousness. Yet, its subtlety has no bottom.
I think about Melissa Hortman championing abortion rights. About the suspect’s writings targeting lawmakers who protected reproductive freedom. About how certain Americans encode women’s healthcare as literal baby murder while others see forced birth as state violence.
Same medical procedures.
Different movies.
Incompatible realities breeding incompatible responses.
My daughter texts again. I feel the phone’s weight against my hip like a tumor I can’t examine yet. The hygienist runs her fingers along my gums, checking for pockets where infection hides.
“Some recession here,” she notes clinically. “Once gum tissue recedes, it doesn’t grow back.”
Like trust. Like shared reality. Like the ability to process identical events through compatible narrative frameworks.
He doesn’t mention the news.
— Oral Report: Democracy’s Dental Records —
Finally she steps back, peels off gloves with that specific snap of released latex. “All done. Doctor will be in shortly for the exam.”
I sit up, mouth tasting like medical cherry and existential dread. Check phone with numb fingers.
“Mom are you seeing this? Are you safe? Please respond.”
“They’re saying more lawmakers might be targets.”
“Mom please.”
How to explain I’m at the dentist while democracy gets root canal without anesthesia? How to say I’m safe when safety itself depends on which movie you think you’re in?
The dentist enters, younger than me… fuck me, when did that happen?
He’s cheerful despite the wall-mounted horror show. He pokes around with that tiny mirror, hunting cavities while state legislators get hunted by men in fake cop costumes.
“Looking good,” he pronounces. “Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”
Whatever I’m doing. Watching republic’s teeth fall out while maintaining my own. Flossing through fascism. Scheduling cleanings during civil collapse.
He doesn’t mention the news. Maybe hasn’t seen. Maybe has and compartmentalizes better. Maybe lives in genre where dental hygiene and political hygiene occupy different universes.
I nod, rinse again, gather my things. The hygienist hands me a new toothbrush and sample floss like communion wafers. “See you in six months?”
Six months. Like we can plan that far. Like democracy has that kind of prognosis. Also, I’m moving eleven states away in a week. I just don’t want to deal with it now.
“Sure,” I lie. “Put me down for December.”
Walk to parking lot on unsteady legs. Mouth tastes like prevention that came too late. Phone rings immediately when I get in car. My daughter’s face fills the screen, eyes wide with inherited anxiety.
“Mom, thank god. Did you see...”
“I saw, baby. I’m okay. Are you?”
She’s not. None of us are.
We’re all patients now in democracy’s dental chair, mouths forced open while the drilling starts, unable to speak or stop the procedure or even agree what operation we’re undergoing.
Different channels play different movies about identical murders. Assassination weather settles over Minnesota like fog made of bullets and competing interpretations. The periodontist of history notes our democratic recession, how the gum line of trust pulled back so far the roots show, how what’s lost won’t regenerate no matter how much we floss going forward.
I drive home tasting fluoride and fascism. The radio explains how the suspect wrote lists of targets, all lawmakers who protected abortion rights. How he dressed as authority before executing it. How weather systems of violence were always building, waiting for right pressure drop to manifest as storm.
My mouth feels too clean for such a dirty world. I run my tongue over polished teeth, feeling for rough spots the hygienist missed. Finding only smooth enamel while everything else decays past saving. The cherry flavor fades but the blood-metal taste lingers.
Time for preventive care passed long ago. Now we’re into extraction territory. The only question is which teeth get pulled and whether anyone agrees on what we’re replacing them with.
I park outside my apartment. Sit in silence. Feel the absence of plaque like the absence of shared reality. Both requiring constant maintenance. Both neglected until the rot goes systemic.
The hygienist was right about one thing.
Once it recedes, it doesn’t grow back.
❌❌❌❌❌❌❌ 🜏 ❌❌❌❌❌⛧❌❌❌❌❌ 🜏 ❌❌❌❌❌❌❌
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