19656/WEBLOG
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project marker (1)
11/04/07 HOME-22913 EVENING REPORT…Welcome home, commander! HULL INTEGRITY 100%. INTELLIGENCE CENTER AT FULL FUNCTION. THRUST-SYSTEM NOMINAL. LIFE-SYSTEM NOMINAL. ELECTRONIC-SYSTEM NOMINAL. STORAGE-SYSTEM NOMINAL. ETA TO LUNA-13… 96 DAYS, 2 HOURS, 35 MINUTES. Did you know? Earth puffins have been documented flying as fast as 55 miles per hour! — [Development is progressing smoothly, still. The script…
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meateater…
Prelude Sprinkler water, catching sunlight, Staining a flat driveway. Earthy clouds drift overhead, Potential-stuffed, futures a’thousand. And on the ground, and on his back, A melon-boy looks at the sky. Clothes are wet, but he is young, His mother still puts up with him. The smell of grass, the overcast, All of it feels so…
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19656 in print…
Zines have been released.
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Forested Cranial
Ashes in a homey mug, breaking up in dots of water, Or wet clothes, strung out to dry in the early hours of night. Muddy shoes on a radiator, and jeans splayed out across the floor, An empty suitcase tucked beneath a bed, And night-time silence, barring the box fan. The world is still, Except…
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Militiamen
And, when it was time to continue our march inland, it was October. On the eighth day, I arrived in an empty parking lot, emerging from the line of trees into the sterile, pearly night-time light beamed down from the overheads, still powered-up, along the southern border of the sprawl. We were fewer, then, standing…
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GRAIN STORY CHAPTER ONE
Think of me, for now, as an investigator. It’s been a while since I’ve written in earnest, but I doubt you care. I will tell my story here, trying as hard as I can to exclude unimportant bits, and including the scandalous ones for your reading pleasure or disgust. This might not be a perfect…
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starved
Why does the sun hide underneath the moon? Behind horizons, an indirect light. Ambiguous twinklings will be here soon, Dangling from gold orbs by string of kite. The sky is cloudy, cloudy yet not gray Behind a scowl climbs my blinded bawl. The dusted earth seems fainter each rot-day And still I saunter through the…
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tyranny
A sentence written is a sentence haunted. To write: to slice as deep as a page’s bones, to stain its fibers with that spider-eyed black, to brand its hide with the sharp searing of a thin, hot iron. A writer is a semantic sadist, gleefully preparing the tied-and-bound letters on his page for their nigh-inevitable…
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behind
brambles tangled rip pearl curls above angel-hair dirt, dead leaf mulch falling dangle-stains tobacco leather renal video hanging-smell
