….at least two nukes
We were in an RV and driving fast. Someone wanted to stop for fast food. The sky was ripping and eating itself. “Last chance for hot food forever!” I said, excited for the storm. We walked into a chicken place. People were still reading the menu. “Grab everything you fools. The air is melting,” I angrily shouted.
Back to the rv as the ground subsided and turned gelatinous. Our top speed barely outpaced the melting of the road. Atmosphere of lava lamp boilings. Found many people from my real life who I feel sorry for, sad and shy young people. We grabbed them in, told them it was fine even though the heat was climbing.
Found an old arcade/buffet. People playing games and eating, wondering why the power was going out. Someone stood up and tried to manage a declaration. “Do you people know what happened? The sky melted off. We are losing everything right now.”
crumb valentine
Tiny treasures. I do not have enough hands. Or rather, I do not have hands small enough to enter the cracks of existence. It’s all in the seams, it seems. We drop more than we can carry. We forget more than we recall. We dream more than we do. More falls out of our lips than goes into. I wonder where you keep your crumbs? Let me crawl around your couch. Let me slip into your kitchen nook. Give me access to the dark and fairy-tale land behind your stove.
I walked into a moaning to day and it stuck to my clothing. I had quite a few things operating in my mind and, well, I should have paid attention. Did you check the moan report this morning? Before you stepped out of the house? Now you’re like me, something in the air wrapped around your face like spider web.
sorry I forgot about myself
It began because I forgot my name. I thought of the the handles I’ve gone by, all the drunken monikers and filthy pet names. I thought of the name my father gave me, the one he used in public and the other one saved behind closed doors. I thought of the worst first, because the worst makes better memories. I strained to remember the sweet nicknames, the bed names, the romantic tags.
Then of course I had to use this name and find the right authority to gain access. I had forgotten my password as well. I telephoned in, found a smooth male voice to breath into. “What was the name of the street you grew up on?”
“Crestwood,” I said.
“I’m sorry, that’s incorrect,” said the suave male.
“Ok. When was the first time you cried outloud?”
“Hmm. 1977?”
“Incorrect. What was the name of your first crush?”
“Oh yeah, it was Roxanne,” I said.
“Incorrect. She was during 1st grade. You loved the girl in kindergarten who kicked out your front tooth. Next and final question: What was the color of the shirt you wore at 9 am on April 27th 1989?”
“Oh god. I don’t know, red?”
“Incorrect.”
“Well,” I asked, ” now what happens?”
“Ah, well, you’re not a person anymore. Thanks for calling.”
Outer Space Text
I had worked all my life to get to this moment. 60 hours a week, minimum, for 18 years. No vacations. No serious relationships. No weekends at the coast. Only company related parties or social outings. Finally, after constant struggle, I was the one in charge of the moment.
They had hooked up a mobile phone to outer space. I was honored with the first text. Sure we had long ago began shooting radio waves into the cosmos. Sent laser transmissions hopelessly towards distant stars. But now any of us with a cell phone could text space. The theory was, if we all texted, billions of messages would soar like insects into the stars. We could swarm space with messages. Which meant a better chance of reaching life outside Earth.
I held the phone in my trembling hand. A crowd stood all around me, watching. I was typing a text message to the aliens. I sent the following:
HEY YOU BASTARDS REAL FUCKING FUNNY LEAVING ME BEHIND LIKE THAT.
Pre-
These 3 letters in front of any word signify impending, disgusting doom. What can we do to battle this prefix? Ah ha: Prefix. Imagine your body on a doctor’s stainless table. The straps cutting into your freshly shaved chest. A display of antique scalpels and speculums on a stand beside you. The doctor with an eye patch and a thin, bacon grease mustache. “We are going to prefix you, and it will be intense my friend.”
Preordained: In other words, you are doomed to suffer your final night in the lavatory of a filthy taco bar with glass in your teeth.
Precum: In other words, I pissed on this thing I bought at Walgreens and a little pink “+” appeared. We’ve got to get better at the interruptus, honey.
Precious: Apologies for this is not a prefixed word, but still the images of pale dolls with razors cannot be prevented.
Prevention: In other words, you tested positive and now must valiantly go and find your very own dumpster to call home.
