It sucks. We don’t really have any of those mystical foreign lands anymore. There are no more idyllic, utopian societies that just exist on their own, set apart from all the modern advances and curses that have engulfed every other culture. No more quiet little villages where there’s no tv or electricity. Now there’s only nations where technology is lusted after and improved again and again, and nations where everyone just rides around through the desert in some old cars painted with housepaint, shooting each other over some thousand year old bullshit. What a waste. The thrill is gone indeed. Nothing to hope for a return to; no way to take comfort in knowing that some portion of the world, no matter how small, still exists untainted. No magic left in this old mudball, just cold sterile tech and sweaty senseless slaughter. Get out while you can.
- The trunk of every tree is the handle of a blade that will one day hack at the roots of itself
- Good relations between species depend upon one party supplying food and heavy petting to the party most likely to eat the other
- Losing gracefully is the wisdom of knowing other’s success is preferable to seeming like a jerk
This galaxy’s an island-
A continent of stars,
And a billion other galaxies
Drift right alongside ours.
A black, vast sea before us,
An image from the past.
Everything is now some place else,
But our vision’s not as fast.
Hidden folds of wonder,
Life humble as clay.
Strokes as bold as thunder,
Origin of days.
Knife of a midge tree
1. He sat budgly on the scoop of the bed, begging the indiction, “You guess what first word pops into my mind.” His voice rose and soared through the nimbus, reaching a teetering brink with a, “YOU GUESS WHAT FIRST WORD POPS INTO MY FUCKIN MIND!” I quoke and broke and slobbered down, defeated by one mighty howl. Billow. No, Susan: Happy Father’s Day.
2. It is only after the cocoon has ruptured and punctured the arthrital pit that the whole crux of the thing takes root and results in one big hell of a breakdown. This isn’t Chicago style we’re talkin’ here- this is some real heavy shit. We’re talkin’ deep dish “DON’T YOU FUCK WITH THIS” shit.
3. As the dawn broke and the limer bird collapsed the sky and strove off into the infinity port, I emerged from the crystalline marriage bed and reached for the closest nectar bottle. I quickly polished it off and discarded the corpse-shell in the disposable pantry liner that stood stately in the corner. Not at all the type of action expected of a Colonel of Medicine, but under the circumstances, I have to think they will allow it. After all, no one ever told me otherwise…
4. Sitting perched on a trr, wondering which way was the western sun, he launched a spifter from his beak and tasted the wind fumes upon his numptins. It was clearly the brisk kind of day all had been waiting for. Now, finally, work could be continued on the escape raft, and something could be done about this damn turtles.
5. Amazing how the human mind comprehends, deposits, stores, and recalls all of this bullshit. No need to ever know this stuff, and yet, here it is. Prime for the pickin’. What a world.
Puce is the color of questions nobody wishes to raise
Puce is the color of bodies nobody wished to question
Puce is the color of answers once bodies have been raised
Puce is so not a thing it’s a color
Puce is use full when trying to bore your self silly
Puce is loose! In the valley, in the mall, the city…
Puce is a lovely color similar to that of aquamarine + tangerine
Puce is obscene.
The new mother, Not-Nature, has begun providing for
A creature craving to devour all the piss-poor stock and store
Of a world so stuffed with hunger that it praeys to feed no more.
Nesting instincts with bad habits birthed this bestial kind of bore.
Deadbolt locks on deadened hearts, laid brick in open doors-
Lives now recede into themselves, untouched like none before.
There’s no place in a city for a sailor.
The shoreline along the freeway feels scarcely seaside, even at high tide.
Nickels & Dimes,
Hook, sinker & line.
There’s no place to stand on a cliffside.
Ten trembling toes and a diminishing line affords too brief a time.
Better just to leap.