Echo

Draw breath from

A self contained

Breathing apparatus

Filled with the cosmos

.

Exhume an

Echo; it returns

Slower and quieter

Than when it was young

.

Black water

Sick and viscous

Swallows tangerine flames

While the tower burns

.

Willing eyes

Looking skyward

Glimpse that which cannot be

Explained by pure science

Time And A River

obelisks sharply rise

punctuate the landscape

like monuments to

moments of impact

 

and between those

stretch vast expanses

some bone dry

some swirling, unfolding

parabolic mists

and quiet prayer

 

as the snail needs

the spiral of the shell

so too the valley

needs both time

and a river

not stopping

until the world

is black marble

When It Hits

Pray that when it hits,

Your feathers turn to steel.

Your mind as smooth as glass,

Collected on a beach.

Pray that when it hits,

Your eyes are clear and bright.

Though it will be dark,

And shadows will deceive.

Pray that when it hits,

Resolve will not retreat.

The worst thing is regret,

You’ll end up just like me.

 

Strange Daze

 

brain

“Mr. Clean, Mr. Clean…”

I’m just sitting there with a cup my 2nd cup of morning afternoon-ish coffee, and I start singing this ad jingle. It just pops into my head, I’m not sure why or from which dark, cerebral crevasse of my brain. But it dawns on me that I’m full of stuff like this; full of product ads, slogans, jingles. It’s like the plastic garbage that floats adrift in our oceans, only it’s my head and the garbage is of a non-physical kind. Now and then it washes ashore and comes to mind.

I know, from that day in college when I was paying attention, that there’s no finite limit to the amount of things we can store as memories, so it’s not pushing anything else out of there. There’s no problem in that sense. Maybe the oceanic plastic metaphor isn’t the best; I can’t think of an equivalent to the seagull with a 6 pack ring around its neck, so to speak. But it’s still disturbing on some level, how we’ve bombarded ourselves and retain to some degree the residue of our commercialism lifestyle. And it’s not just something ephemeral like memory. Supposedly our bodies are riddled with preservatives from eating so much processed food that even postmortem decay is slowed to an unnatural rate. So maybe there is some way that prolonged exposure to marketing messages changes how we think too.

It’s just one of the many ways which our modern way of life in 2016 is so different from the vast majority of human history. Things have gotten pretty fucking bizarre. We didn’t evolve under these conditions; “today” is an aberration. I wonder what would happen if you plucked your average 1776 New York citizen and dropped them into present day Times Square. I think they’d just explode. I mean an actual explosion, with flames and people diving in slow motion towards the camera. We might need Mr. Clean after all.

Getting Carded

If you’ve ever read anything of mine, you won’t be surprised to hear that writing isn’t my day job. I’d be more surprised that I have return readers. Anyway, at work we have several reference guides for authenticating ID’s from far and wide. I felt a few of the samples were worth sharing, so without further ado:

 

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“Surprise!” Or maybe the photographer captured the moment she was told her sample name would be Happy H. Zzzviisagedlover.

 

 

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Mr. Clean: A good guy to have on your side in a prison riot. More importantly, what do they mean by “Experimental, Full-privileged?”

 

 

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“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to take off the motorcycle helmet for the – ohh.”

 

 

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Organ donor: No
Chin donor: Hell Yes

 

 

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┬áJessica Rabbit? (Young people reading this are all “wtf.”)

 

 

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Tina Yothers?? (Again with an 80’s reference! #WhenHashTagsWerePoundsigns)