Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral

Jacob Esau is a writer of Syrian descent who’ll soon be accused of 
	“INFILTRATING YOUR COMMUNITY” 
		as he goes— 
 
	(“Hey! 
		Citizens! 
My family and I are citizens now! 
Hands off me, motherfu— 
					Current papers? 
	What do you mean? 
		What—what papers? 
No, I don’t carry pr— 
				Oof! 
You jackboot thugs! 
		Did you seriously just kick me to the ground?!
Hey. 
	Look. 
		Listen. 
I didn’t mean it.
Why don’t we both just calm down here? 
		Maybe you didn’t hear me? 
I’m a citiz—
		In where? That van? Yeah, okay, no. 
				Now I know you’re joking.
Where the hell do you think you’re gonna take us anyway! 
Hey. 
No. 
Don’t you dare point that gun at—”) 

—meandering between the middle and eastern regions of Tennessee, which are the two beautiful places he considers home. As a Mideast Tennessyrian, he envisions the coming day when he will be imprisoned in some unnamed totalitarian state while writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip. 

He will publish these comics on his jail cell walls with just an audience of fellow inmates and prison guards to guffaw at his life’s work, their barks of elation only drowned out by the cracks of rifle butts and night sticks against his skull. Until that torturous, fortuitous day comes to pass, he will begrudgingly settle for selling little dramatic scenes told in the form of comic sonnet zines, just like the one you are holding in your hands now. 

To read more and to offer your financial support for what may end up being his future legal defense fund* (hahaha?), consider subscribing and sparing a dollar or two, won’t you?

*or his funeral