The very process of recurrence is what enables us to learn, to improve, to...– Robert Kroetsch, The Studhorse Man
15th Ave Funeral
Here come the dope-fogged morning sounds— the wrong RPM setting for living room finger traps: scratched records, butter-slimed dishes, pot resin and foil bags. Watch eusociality as a mural in motion— six biramous legs bicycling air, antennae and mandibles pecking at the exoskeleton. You exit with a shudder. You buy some Advil. You rub your eyes and frame the event with acronyms.
It was as if that great rush of anger had washed me clean, emptied me of hope,...– Albert Camus, The Outsider
Cloudless heat: the sun bawdy and swollen, blazing rays on the cast. Two guys, wet and junk-sick on the rollercoaster. Mark, 22. Ray, 25. / that celestial sensation is what we’re after man I mean I’m talkin some astronomical shit here man / The mouth gapes a mad jester smile. Lop-sided and red. Contorted, farcical, obscene. / for real man there was a time when I couldn’t tell you the difference...
The woman appears, alarm etching transient scars on her forehead. Her husband is...– Richard Matheson, “Mad House”
Dash blinks at the dawn light, scratching white flakes from an itch in his flesh. He crouches on the porch like a patient hydra, finishing the sun-warmed dregs of his Budweiser. Quiet insurrection is his way of life—bombs posing as car parts, guns without serial numbers, smiles that kill. His rust-savaged truck sputters noxious fumes across the driveway. He finishes his beer. / This is your last...
That was the way he would always remember her—the monkey face twisted with...– Jim Thompson, The Golden Gizmo
Fugue 12 by Tomas Boudreau & Mike Thorn
1. Give me some of that ubiquitous hatred, he calls through cupped hands as I stumble into the merge line. There’s no point of reference in the gutter, in the flophouse, in that fucking bar. We all start at zero. Blanks marching in the night— 2. Not marching, but crawling—crawling—no, rolling to and fro in the same ditch, browned by the mud and the piss and necrotic bloodlines that stretch or...
At dusk they halted and built a fire and roasted the deer. The night was much...– Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian or the Evening Redness in the West
“They sacrificed to demons … to deities they had never known …” –Deuteronomy 32:17 Ray glides like a wraith. Silent. Unchallenged. Gun arm navigating through the crowds. The bodies split for him, forming a strobe lit tunnel. They reassemble as he passes, hot organisms unbalanced by treble. Wet, vapid, contorting. Gyrating in the dark. Seductive. Vaginal. “Where the fuck is he?” Ray...
“It’s infinite— right here— under the dome.” He coughs a digital halo, surveys the assembly of vehicles, streetlights, uniforms pawning corn syrup. “Like a fucking snowglobe.” This is infinite— an effort to pierce the dome, eradicate the barrier, cancel the void. “Ad infinitum… this is what I’m saying.” He swerves in time, hisses profanity, concrete blurring the past. “Write a number...