Saturday, July 10, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
"Turn of the Night" by Alex King
Drip, drip, drip goes the sink. Or is it a sink? I am much too lazy to investigate the source of my insomnia.
On, and on, and on it goes. Or is it all in my head? I constantly wonder if anyone else hears this terrible noise.
Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub goes my racing heart. Is someone there? The drip drop of water has stopped.
The old house creaks, the floorboards tremble. Has someone saved me?
On, and on, and on it goes. Or is it all in my head? I constantly wonder if anyone else hears this terrible noise.
Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub goes my racing heart. Is someone there? The drip drop of water has stopped.
The old house creaks, the floorboards tremble. Has someone saved me?
"Untitled" by Riley Lundgren
I wake up suddenly. Its dark but I can sorta make out what's around me. I come to and resize Im in my room laying on my bed. Looking over to my desk to see what time it is. 4:24. Just missed it. I close my eyes and hug my pillow like its my girlfriend to start falling back to sleep. In a second Im instantly up again. Same way, same feeling. But now its 4:32. I move around and sit up from my bed. "What's the deal?" I say to myself. I usually can sleep fine threw the night. Trains can roll by and I wouldn't open a wink. Why now? I stay seated on the bed still feeling fatigued from waking up earlier. Silence and the sound of me breathing fill the room. As I lay back down and rest my eyes I try to focus on things that will put me back into hibernation. I think about apples and dogs. Baby animals and school. Peaceful boring crap. But my eye lids snap right back open. Clearly there's something my body is telling me that I don't see. At that moment my bedroom door creeks open. Just enough to make noise but not enough to see threw. It just barely sat on the crack of the door and the frame letting no light threw. My eyes became fixated on it. Im now scarred out of my mind. The littlest things always get to me. At this point normally i would just go back to sleep. But from the other two times of being awoken I decided it was time to investigate. I mustered up some courage and grabbed the nearest bat like object i could find and headed to my door. With a hockey stick in one hand I reach for the door knob with my other and swing it open. Instead of finding what i was hoping to be nothing, I found darkness. The bane of my existence. Still determined to play detective I proceed on down the hallway from my room. I pass four other empty rooms on my way to the end of the hall. All the rooms are vacant because we had planned on moving to new york. But then my wife and kids died in a freak armadillo accident so i sold all there shit and kept the house. Bad choice seeing as how they could come back to haunt me. As i reach the end of the hall I flick on the light. It gets bright and my eyes adjust to the new found source. As i come to I see an empty kitchen. Empty of people, but not sounds. Something is a matter. Hit. Hit. Hit. My mind does that wondering thing again and I become paranoid that Im not the only one. Even with the lights on I still feel unsafe. I walk around the rest of the house franticly. With each other room i step in i do the same thing. Turn on lights. Hold hockey stick tight. Look pissed. But in all of them nothing. The sound still remains though. I can just hear it. Hit. Hit. Hit. Some on time more than others but always hit, hit, hit. The sound gets more faint as I get farther away from the kitchen. I start my way back to there. "Ill never get to sleep if I don't figure this out." I reach the kitchen and look around. Nothing. But that sound. That sound is still going. Hit, hit, hit. I look around some more, this time determined. As I scan my eyes past the sink I see what it is. The faucet. I stare with my jaw to the floor as if the most beautiful had just walked by. How stupid am I. I reach for the valve and turn it all the way. I watch the nozzle to see the drips come to a halt, but they don't. They keep dripping. Its broken. I stare wondering why and how this started. To tired to care I head back to my room. My body stops me halfway and my ears being to bleed from the sound of that dreaded sink. Hit, hit, hit. I turn around a stare at it once more. Watching each one drop and brake as it hits the steel sink. The water starts small but builds itself around the open circle of the faucet. Hit. Another drops. I stood watching it happen. If this goes on I wont be able to get to sleep. But i stand like a zombie watching. Hit. Another one. Hit. Once more. With each drop I start to resize ill never get to bed. Hit. The water forms up again slowly, into a perfect circle and then drip. Hits again. I stood for another twenty minuets watching. As I contuine to stare wating for the next one, it never came. It stoped. No water was coming out. I let out a sigh of relief and curl up on the ground where i stood. As I close my eyes i start to go back into my dreams. Slowly slipping back into candy-land I let out one more yawn and Im back asleep. When I came to in the morning the faucet wasn't leaking. I had kill the beast and survived to tell the tale. Feeling accomplished I move away from the sink. As I head into the next room I go stiff from shock. Some asshole robed me.
"Drip Like A Faucet" by Will Lewis
Like an endlessly dripping sink, she continued to walk.
Step.
Step.
Step.
"She's enduring - I'll give her that - but she's never going to make it!" the loudspeaker overhead blared.
The crowd was going insane. Behind the small girl was a bite dozer traveling at the same speed. Should she fall behind to this coliseum's mad musings, she would be made into chum at the hands of her slavers.
And the slavers were ready. Don Kalsim was sitting above in his throne with Mar Bardom, looking down at the girl and playing with his fake golden locks.
"Why won't she just give it up," he said. "She doesn't even know when the end is. I mean, this is one of those, right? She runs from the dozer until she falls or reaches a certain distance?"
"That's right Mon Don," replied Mar in his uncaring, robotic voice. "It's a Travel Lottery event today."
The loudspeaker continued to taunt the contestant and egg on the audience. "She may just tire the dozer, she just might! Perhaps the sand will eat her instead!" The stadium was a madhouse.
Step.
Step.
Step.
At the back of her mind, she remembered her mother in the slave camp she had been taken from to "compete." Their family's housing was decrepit, but they were one of three lucky families to have a sink.
"You see that over there? You hear it?" her mother would say. "It keeps dripping because it's broken. And, you know, they put us in this broken place because they say we're broken, too. Maybe they're right, but listen to that sink. It wants something, and I don't think it will stop leaking until it gets what it wants. I'm not sure we should, either."
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Step.
Step.
Step.
"She's enduring - I'll give her that - but she's never going to make it!" the loudspeaker overhead blared.
The crowd was going insane. Behind the small girl was a bite dozer traveling at the same speed. Should she fall behind to this coliseum's mad musings, she would be made into chum at the hands of her slavers.
And the slavers were ready. Don Kalsim was sitting above in his throne with Mar Bardom, looking down at the girl and playing with his fake golden locks.
"Why won't she just give it up," he said. "She doesn't even know when the end is. I mean, this is one of those, right? She runs from the dozer until she falls or reaches a certain distance?"
"That's right Mon Don," replied Mar in his uncaring, robotic voice. "It's a Travel Lottery event today."
The loudspeaker continued to taunt the contestant and egg on the audience. "She may just tire the dozer, she just might! Perhaps the sand will eat her instead!" The stadium was a madhouse.
Step.
Step.
Step.
At the back of her mind, she remembered her mother in the slave camp she had been taken from to "compete." Their family's housing was decrepit, but they were one of three lucky families to have a sink.
"You see that over there? You hear it?" her mother would say. "It keeps dripping because it's broken. And, you know, they put us in this broken place because they say we're broken, too. Maybe they're right, but listen to that sink. It wants something, and I don't think it will stop leaking until it gets what it wants. I'm not sure we should, either."
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
"Untitled" by Connor McGuire
The sink was once white when it was new, but that was many years ago. Instead brown
rust and black dirt had made a new home in the crevices and cracks. It was half full of dirty
water and the nozzle had a steady drip drip drip that was the only sound in the room. Next to the
sink were knives, hooks, hammers, and a few other unknown items. Some were bloody.
In front of the sink was a chair. It sat facing away from the sink. Five men, all hooded
and masked, either stood or sat in the room facing that chair. In the chair sat Michael. He was
blindfolded so tight that his forehead was purple. Open gashes, hot brand wounds, and sweat
spilled down his naked chest and into his pants, wet from piss. His jeans stuck to his legs when
he tried to move. His hands were tied with barbed wire behind him and if he tried to reach far
back enough he could almost touch the front of the sink.
Michael listened carefully. The drip drip drip was a clock for him counting down to…
It was a beacon. He held on to that sound with everything he could. Drip drip drip.
He couldn’t tell if he was alone but he knew he wasn’t. The other men in the room made no
noise and didn’t move, but he didn’t hear them leave. They simply stood there; watching him.
Footsteps! They appeared out of nowhere and came up to Michael and then stopped
next to him. Michael listened carefully, for breathing, for movement, for anything, but all he
heard was the drip drip drip. A hand grabbed his face and wiped the sweat off of it. Michael
shook his head, trying to get the hand off of him. Suddenly he heard a creak and the sink faucet
was on and he knew the sink was being refilled.
“Oh Jesus, please, no.” He begged as the sink filled. “Please, no.” The creak came
again and the faucet went silent, except for the drip drip drip. A hand grabbed him by the throat
and stood him up. A second pair of hands grabbed his wrists and he was turned to the sink and
his face shoved into the water.
Everything is muffled underwater. You can hear voices and sounds but they all sound
far-off, like in a distant room. There is no smell as water is forced up your nose, it simply stings.
Michael couldn’t hear the dripping of the water but instead felt it on the back of his neck. He
didn’t fight the hands that held him down, he stayed as motionless as possible. This had been
done to him many times before and he intended to test his resilience against their patience and
see who would win out.
At least a minute had gone by, maybe two? Michael could feel the pressure on his skin
building. He tried hard not to but couldn’t help but cough up air. Water forced its way into his
mouth and throat. His chest began convulsing and he knew he wouldn’t be able to help but
breathe in soon.
He struggled harder and harder and didn’t notice the muffled yelling. Loud snaps and
bangs vibrated the sink and the bones in Michael’s body. The hands let go and he fell down
to his knees as water slopped down his face. He gasped for air and coughed hard. When
he could focus he felt something on his hands on the floor. Water? No, it was sticky. Blood?
“Alright get him up, put him in the chair.” A strange voice said. A new pair of hands
grabbed him around the shoulders and hoisted him to his feet. They were gentle, at least,
compared to the hands from before. The chair was put against the back of his knees and he sat
without being told. He shivered softly.
Michael heard heavy footsteps again. They came up to him and stopped in front of
him. He could hear the heavy breath of the man in front of him. Someone grabbed his hair
and pulled his face forward. A knife pulled at the blindfold and it fell loosely into his lap. The
hands grabbed his chin and pulled his face up towards a flashlight. It blinded him and he
forced his eyes shut. The hand let go and he looked down at the ground. When he opened
his eyes he saw blood pooled on the floor and four...no, five dead men on the ground, blood
gushing out from open holes in their chests and head. He saw the feet of the men who stood
in their place. They walked freely in the room, careless of the blood-stained footprints they left.
“It’s not him.” He heard the voice from before say.
“What?” a second said.
“It’s the wrong man.” Said the first. A single pair of feet came back up to him and
stopped. He looked up in time to see the barrel of a gun aiming down at him and…
The drip drip drip of the sink was still there and the blood in the water curled like smoke
with every drop.
rust and black dirt had made a new home in the crevices and cracks. It was half full of dirty
water and the nozzle had a steady drip drip drip that was the only sound in the room. Next to the
sink were knives, hooks, hammers, and a few other unknown items. Some were bloody.
In front of the sink was a chair. It sat facing away from the sink. Five men, all hooded
and masked, either stood or sat in the room facing that chair. In the chair sat Michael. He was
blindfolded so tight that his forehead was purple. Open gashes, hot brand wounds, and sweat
spilled down his naked chest and into his pants, wet from piss. His jeans stuck to his legs when
he tried to move. His hands were tied with barbed wire behind him and if he tried to reach far
back enough he could almost touch the front of the sink.
Michael listened carefully. The drip drip drip was a clock for him counting down to…
It was a beacon. He held on to that sound with everything he could. Drip drip drip.
He couldn’t tell if he was alone but he knew he wasn’t. The other men in the room made no
noise and didn’t move, but he didn’t hear them leave. They simply stood there; watching him.
Footsteps! They appeared out of nowhere and came up to Michael and then stopped
next to him. Michael listened carefully, for breathing, for movement, for anything, but all he
heard was the drip drip drip. A hand grabbed his face and wiped the sweat off of it. Michael
shook his head, trying to get the hand off of him. Suddenly he heard a creak and the sink faucet
was on and he knew the sink was being refilled.
“Oh Jesus, please, no.” He begged as the sink filled. “Please, no.” The creak came
again and the faucet went silent, except for the drip drip drip. A hand grabbed him by the throat
and stood him up. A second pair of hands grabbed his wrists and he was turned to the sink and
his face shoved into the water.
Everything is muffled underwater. You can hear voices and sounds but they all sound
far-off, like in a distant room. There is no smell as water is forced up your nose, it simply stings.
Michael couldn’t hear the dripping of the water but instead felt it on the back of his neck. He
didn’t fight the hands that held him down, he stayed as motionless as possible. This had been
done to him many times before and he intended to test his resilience against their patience and
see who would win out.
At least a minute had gone by, maybe two? Michael could feel the pressure on his skin
building. He tried hard not to but couldn’t help but cough up air. Water forced its way into his
mouth and throat. His chest began convulsing and he knew he wouldn’t be able to help but
breathe in soon.
He struggled harder and harder and didn’t notice the muffled yelling. Loud snaps and
bangs vibrated the sink and the bones in Michael’s body. The hands let go and he fell down
to his knees as water slopped down his face. He gasped for air and coughed hard. When
he could focus he felt something on his hands on the floor. Water? No, it was sticky. Blood?
“Alright get him up, put him in the chair.” A strange voice said. A new pair of hands
grabbed him around the shoulders and hoisted him to his feet. They were gentle, at least,
compared to the hands from before. The chair was put against the back of his knees and he sat
without being told. He shivered softly.
Michael heard heavy footsteps again. They came up to him and stopped in front of
him. He could hear the heavy breath of the man in front of him. Someone grabbed his hair
and pulled his face forward. A knife pulled at the blindfold and it fell loosely into his lap. The
hands grabbed his chin and pulled his face up towards a flashlight. It blinded him and he
forced his eyes shut. The hand let go and he looked down at the ground. When he opened
his eyes he saw blood pooled on the floor and four...no, five dead men on the ground, blood
gushing out from open holes in their chests and head. He saw the feet of the men who stood
in their place. They walked freely in the room, careless of the blood-stained footprints they left.
“It’s not him.” He heard the voice from before say.
“What?” a second said.
“It’s the wrong man.” Said the first. A single pair of feet came back up to him and
stopped. He looked up in time to see the barrel of a gun aiming down at him and…
The drip drip drip of the sink was still there and the blood in the water curled like smoke
with every drop.
"Untitled" by DJ Maltron
It starts with frustration (maddeningly readjusting the sink handle to see if a proper position will stop the drip), but it only ends in heartache (as every wasted drip turns into a punch to the face).
Every drip hitting porcelain, screaming out, echoing infinitely, ringing through the brain just long enough for the next drip to strike. Every drip a small, wet, constant reminder of things gone undone. Every drip listlessly apathetic, completely resolute. Every drip: admonition. Every drip a lemming to the previous, and a prophecy of the drip yet to be. Every drip a reason for tears.
As my tears hit the basin (in unison, or a polyrhythmic fashion) it becomes harder to determine which tears belong to which creator. It becomes impossible to determine which tears hold meaning.
"The Leaky Faucet" by Matt Rudie
Sitting here in this house
No one here but me
I’m isolated from all sounds
All sounds but some water being slowly set free
Back into my thoughts I wonder about some leftovers and if I should toss it
First things first I need to deal with that leaky faucet
Armed with a wrench my loosest jeans and some tools
Time to show this leaky faucet my definition of house rules
One twist to the right and did I hear a great squeak
A burst of dark water bursts out caressing my cheek
Water begins to billow, to rage, to pour
I have never felt this close to my faucet before
I grip the pipe with my newfound passion
Im so positively charged you could call me a cation
The bathrooms is like a scene from the perfect storm
Until this faucet creates a huge wave that takes suck massive form
I look into the eye of the great faucet storm happy not gloomy
I’ll be your Mark Walberg faucet if you’ll be my George Clooney
Next morning I wake up in my bed with wet sheets and smoke
What happened last night could not have been a joke
It couldn't’ have gone I feel it just came into my life
Something so special, so leaky could have made a great wave
I look all around the house in the bedroom, my drawers the closet
I listen again and hear no dripping, no noise, no leaky faucet faucet
Thursday, July 8, 2010
"Build Towers" by Will Lewis
You must build a tower to perpetuate the human race.
You, yes you, are the only ones that can do it.
Some may criticize your desires, tendencies, and outlooks, but only you have the power.
So build that raging edifice and expect to raise more.
You were never really able to live until recently, and we're sorry for that.
You were a slave in a brute's world, but now you're back.
Do not take revenge.
Raise one more tower in addition to your two.
We could build our own towers, but it would be useless.
Crafting them to be strong and unshakable makes sense,
But only if you have a say.
Our towers cannot save humanity if created by our own hands.
And do not hide your work.
Do not cast a shroud 'round the sky-reaching piece of hot stone.
Do not obscure its image with its brand of glove.
It is necessary should more come into being.
So construct a tower to save us all.
We just can't seem to live with you, but neither can we live without you.
Should our towers fall, so shall we all.
For you to refuse to build a tower would be to deny us of our image.
I was talking about boners the whole time.
You, yes you, are the only ones that can do it.
Some may criticize your desires, tendencies, and outlooks, but only you have the power.
So build that raging edifice and expect to raise more.
You were never really able to live until recently, and we're sorry for that.
You were a slave in a brute's world, but now you're back.
Do not take revenge.
Raise one more tower in addition to your two.
We could build our own towers, but it would be useless.
Crafting them to be strong and unshakable makes sense,
But only if you have a say.
Our towers cannot save humanity if created by our own hands.
And do not hide your work.
Do not cast a shroud 'round the sky-reaching piece of hot stone.
Do not obscure its image with its brand of glove.
It is necessary should more come into being.
So construct a tower to save us all.
We just can't seem to live with you, but neither can we live without you.
Should our towers fall, so shall we all.
For you to refuse to build a tower would be to deny us of our image.
I was talking about boners the whole time.
"Watching us Grow" by Matthew Zuniga
The feeling grew again,
it hit me like a sleeping bag full of sleeping pills
in the grocery store
shopping alone for the first time in years.
It hit me so hard I could have unzipped the thing
and slept for the decade -
but I would twist in bittersweet dream,
I would remember how I used to sit on the couch
in the complete dark
and how she would kneel in front of me, head bobbing
while I watched myself grow inside of her mouth for a while,
and then I’d stare at the blank computer monitor
like it was a black mirror growing in a white sea
of euphoria.
It was all powered off but only temporarily because
the internet is an invasive species, just like our hearts;
always growing,
always smothering;
bursting at the zipper.
I’ve been having this dream for the last month
where I am driving and there is hardly anybody on the road
but I keep cutting them off screaming
How the hell am I ever going to get home in this goddamn traffic
and a voice says
Honey, you are growing impatient with the language and the yellow lane
Sometimes I imagine that our nature
with all of that sunlight and water
grows too much in haste
with the weight of a heavy burden,
an unsustainable harvesting
of agriculture to benefit others.
"Untitled" by DJ Maltron
HOUR 00
Okay. Looks good. Nice and clean. I’m sure I’ll see it this time.
HOUR 01
Nothing yet, of course, but it’s already been an hour and I’m not tired or anything, this is going to be easy.
HOUR 02
I should probably film this or something. I didn’t think of documenting this. Actually, that would be really stupid.
HOUR 06
I think I see some movement. Damn it, I can feel it coming in, but I’m not seeing it. Just keep watching, it’ll make sense.
HOUR 12
My eyes are so tired. This isn’t working, I’m not seeing ANYTHING.
HOUR 13
Wait, this is definitely much thicker than earlier, focus, you’ve got this, just keep paying attention.
Damn it, I’m so tired...
Maybe I should just call it quits, just shave right now and start over... No, that’s a horrible idea, I’m too tired to try again right now, I’m already trying right now... Just see this through, don’t fall asleep...
HOUR 26
...FUCK!
"A Thought From Riley Lundgren" by Riley Lundgren
Growing has always been my thing. I know I'm not the only one that can admit that but I feel I'm one that understands what it means to grow. To even attempt to grow one must progress and change to time. And while it can happen over night, it still takes time. But what if you don't believe in time? I don't. Can I still grow?? Can you move along with out having anything to move with? As I see it grow is just another word for life. Life is about always moving and progressing forward no matter what happens. And when something does happen thats apart of the growing experience. But when it comes to life it also mean there is an end. So what keeps growing long after your gone? Ideas. Simple, easy ideas. We all have ideas some better than others but we all have them. And its ideas that keep the growing process alive. Anyone who is born can live, but to keep an idea alive takes. You must take care of it, feed it, nurture it, but most of all it takes growing. To just start something like a project and to give up half way threw doesn't mean all was wasted. It was apart of the growing cycle. Like a life, an idea needs to be born. It needs to be made. And you can think and read and run it over and over again in your head but to give birth to an idea you need to speak out to the world about it. Only then will you grow and only then shall your idea live forever.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
"Untitled" by Riley Lundgren
mission start
can you hear me planet
Im talking from my art
just to say wake up damn it
using us to consume
they get away with murder
we react like sheep
and there our herder
unless we rise back the missiles keep on rock-in
they'll never get us no where, we need to start talk-in
sounding like a rocket got my message in my breast pocket
you hear me go boom down the block in another room
blast into center of the earth with my voice
to let you know my choice
getting these ideas farther off the ground
will all be getting no where if we just sit around
if you wanna get high you gotta build your own
if no one else will get you there then go it alone
the life of an astronaut is a privet road
but its better being the dude that doesn't explode
we got to get up off our seats
start a fucking riot in the streets
I don't care how we let em know
these missiles gotta go
"When a Missile is Launched" by Sean O'Grady
The missile is launched and the day becomes dismal
A thistle in my heart becomes prominently bristles and barnacles.
The ships are lined up but the crews are not ready.
The only thing chopping besides the waves is a machete
in the kitchen on a board where the chef cuts down hordes upon hordes of potatoes for stew
he nibbles on cheese shredded fine drinking wine
the water bubbles wet, moisture clings to the ceiling
Where is all the crew?
They are out on shore stealing the very last breath out of this very fine day that
comes prepackaged with brown skin and smooth textures for the masses
The missile is locked on, streamlined and deadly
clouds part like crowds as the king spreads the peasants
He shakes in his chariot of advanced metals and circuits
The chef whistles a tune from the broadway play he last say
Like a singular raindrop of gloom on a picnic
the missile rains on the warmth
the chef has cheese in his mustache
A thistle in my heart becomes prominently bristles and barnacles.
The ships are lined up but the crews are not ready.
The only thing chopping besides the waves is a machete
in the kitchen on a board where the chef cuts down hordes upon hordes of potatoes for stew
he nibbles on cheese shredded fine drinking wine
the water bubbles wet, moisture clings to the ceiling
Where is all the crew?
They are out on shore stealing the very last breath out of this very fine day that
comes prepackaged with brown skin and smooth textures for the masses
The missile is locked on, streamlined and deadly
clouds part like crowds as the king spreads the peasants
He shakes in his chariot of advanced metals and circuits
The chef whistles a tune from the broadway play he last say
Like a singular raindrop of gloom on a picnic
the missile rains on the warmth
the chef has cheese in his mustache
"The First Missile." by Anne J. Paris
Fire. That is the first thing, and then the the noise, everything white first, then red. After the fire, everything grows calm again. An armadillo wanders across the road. The man who pressed the button files his report, then goes back to jerking off to a photograph of Angelina Jolie’s pillow lips. Outside the bunker, an alligator waits for the sun to rise, his nose holes raised just slightly above the surface of the water. Further out, a man and his son watch the missile streak toward its target.
“That’s what I figure it will look like when Jesus comes back ‘round,” says the man. “A great light shooting across the sky.”
“That’s what I figure it will look like when Jesus comes back ‘round,” says the man. “A great light shooting across the sky.”
"When a Missile is Launched" by Matthew Zuniga
The thirty nine year old
futon potato weight
keeps sitting on the futon
in front of the television
so he will not drift away;
sees the hot trail ascending into the afternoon sky
on its way to the People’s Republic of China
or anywhere else separate.
It doesn’t matter.
He doesn’t give a shit where
for more than filling up his gut
and neither do I.
We’ve all considered
at one point or another
whether it was useful to run
or not,
and when they go up
that means more will come down in these parts,
tearing up our houses and lawns
that we manicure and tend to
like children with down syndrome
as if they needed manicuring and tending to.
Drag me down into
the earth with my beautiful
toys and distractions.
I go outside and pull
some grass out of the yard.
I fill my pockets up with it
because I don’t want to
incinerate by myself,
although on this day
sitcoms will squeeze themselves
intimately next to the very
edge of the furnace, milking
every last flammable dollar.
I am convinced
this is the end,
this is a publicity stunt.
futon potato weight
keeps sitting on the futon
in front of the television
so he will not drift away;
sees the hot trail ascending into the afternoon sky
on its way to the People’s Republic of China
or anywhere else separate.
It doesn’t matter.
He doesn’t give a shit where
for more than filling up his gut
and neither do I.
We’ve all considered
at one point or another
whether it was useful to run
or not,
and when they go up
that means more will come down in these parts,
tearing up our houses and lawns
that we manicure and tend to
like children with down syndrome
as if they needed manicuring and tending to.
Drag me down into
the earth with my beautiful
toys and distractions.
I go outside and pull
some grass out of the yard.
I fill my pockets up with it
because I don’t want to
incinerate by myself,
although on this day
sitcoms will squeeze themselves
intimately next to the very
edge of the furnace, milking
every last flammable dollar.
I am convinced
this is the end,
this is a publicity stunt.
"Untitled" by Will Lewis
Nobody knew when it would hit. It was just... hanging.
The Craft Crew noticed an unidentified flying object this morning off the coast to the north. Except it wasn't necessarily flying; it was more of an unidentified floating object (still a UFO, I suppose). We felt we had definitely identified it as some sort of projectile, though, but from where it came nobody knew. It seemed as if this potential bomb was just waiting for a trigger, hanging in the air about ten kilometers from the surface of the earth.
Janie would look up and ask me whether or not I, in my expertise and constant contact with the recent extraterrestrial uprising, had any idea as to what it was at least, and I could just tell her that it looked like some sort of shell. It hung over our heads for days as we became more and more nerve wracked - the council and I thought that we should do something, but we didn't know what to do. I've been joking for the past few days about how it's just going to be considered a landmark someday. Just some floating, friendly dud that wants to be the only thing on earth to float above ground without the use of magnetism or any sort of technology, as our more peripheral, general testing has proven. It even looks like its of human design, so it may just be a shard of ingenuity from those above the council and I, but we have no access to anything they're concerned with.
I'm just going to take it as a reminder of why I'm here and what I do. My father would always say that "vigilance rhymes with virtue in some languages," and I guess it's the best approach to something like this. Whatever this supposed threat contains, w
The Craft Crew noticed an unidentified flying object this morning off the coast to the north. Except it wasn't necessarily flying; it was more of an unidentified floating object (still a UFO, I suppose). We felt we had definitely identified it as some sort of projectile, though, but from where it came nobody knew. It seemed as if this potential bomb was just waiting for a trigger, hanging in the air about ten kilometers from the surface of the earth.
Janie would look up and ask me whether or not I, in my expertise and constant contact with the recent extraterrestrial uprising, had any idea as to what it was at least, and I could just tell her that it looked like some sort of shell. It hung over our heads for days as we became more and more nerve wracked - the council and I thought that we should do something, but we didn't know what to do. I've been joking for the past few days about how it's just going to be considered a landmark someday. Just some floating, friendly dud that wants to be the only thing on earth to float above ground without the use of magnetism or any sort of technology, as our more peripheral, general testing has proven. It even looks like its of human design, so it may just be a shard of ingenuity from those above the council and I, but we have no access to anything they're concerned with.
I'm just going to take it as a reminder of why I'm here and what I do. My father would always say that "vigilance rhymes with virtue in some languages," and I guess it's the best approach to something like this. Whatever this supposed threat contains, w
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