Wednesday, July 27, 2016

969. In among the dillweeds

After so long, the garden had swallowed up the yard, creeping eventually to the tiny strip of grass on the other side of the sidewalk.
This created a vague notion of a miniature jungle smelling of a spice cupboard.
It gave the abandoned thises and thats in the yard a real Hollywood-end-of-the world feel.
Near the carport, tendrils snaking out from some kind of squash quietly choked a hobby horse.

Monday, July 25, 2016

968. Picks

The little river that flowed through our little city was running slower than normal.
Its laziness anticipated a languid summer afternoon that was already coming to form.
As I walked, I passed a septet of cyclists on one of those seven-person bicycles.
The last cyclist made no attempt at cycling, picking instead at a Sabbath song on an old banjo.

Thursday, July 21, 2016

967. The Egg Man

It was a tidy little shelf - like a spice rack.
The man had sprinkled each level with bits of hay for warmth and cushioning.
In each small receptacle he had placed an egg.
The beam of his flashlight illuminated the life growing inside: chicken, chicken, peacock, flamingo, pterodactyl. 

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

966. Under Arm

Just a reminder: all of our all-natural deodorants come with a "best before" date of two years from the day they were packaged.
That's because, after two years, the mind-controlling slugs - which we add to give you that tingly-clean feeling - begin to wake up.
Next thing you know, it's war, and dystopia, and OH THE HUMANITY!
Thanks friends, for visiting

Monday, July 4, 2016

965. The radio stations in our teeth

Siddhartha Freed craned his neck to search for the radio stations that played in his teeth.
He thrust his jaw forward, trying to get better reception.
His faced scrunched and bunched this way and that trying to get at that station that played all those Gotye songs.
On the balance, it was strange goings on for a Wendy's in Middle America.

Thursday, June 16, 2016

964. Lyricism

It was the singy-songy way she said it.
Tribal tattoos and carpenter jeans, she said.
Over and over she said/sang it.
You could tell the man hated it, self-consciously.

Tuesday, May 31, 2016

963. A face for radio

I have a face for radio.
I have a face for radio.
I'm not even sure what that means.
Feeling pretty good about the range of technologies I can use to describe my faults these days.

Friday, May 27, 2016

962. Alternate realities

I heard somewhere the prison system does a rigorous trade in audio cassettes.
And, did you know, someone donates those "Superbowl Champion" t-shirts of the Superbowl losers to be worn in Africa?
Somewhere, Nirvana plays on and the Buffalo Bills are an extraordinary franchise.
Alternate realities are available at all price points.

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

961. Wattage

I'm the Number 1 disc jockey in a ghost town.
I tried to warn them with the radio when the wolves and the tornadoes and the pestilence and the plagues came but I failed.
Now my failures are piled up around me like sedimentary layers of shale in strata of regret.
Well, anyways, here's Blues Traveler for your lunchtime throwback.

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

960. Spice Run

They made Juarez around 4:00 a.m., like Charles Portis chasing the real Mexico southward.
They wanted to see it made.
They wanted Tabasco as fresh as it came - straight from the man at the factory store.
But Tabasco comes from Louisiana, you damned fools.