Could social media notifications have a smell in the future?
All language is but a poor translation
Dog levitates up the stairs.
Ghost invades soccer stadium.
The wet ropes cut into his skin even through the tattered robes. The robe’s sorry state did nothing to combat the static chill of the beach air. He watched the raft continue on its way with a feeling resembling numbness. The revelers continue to croak shouts of revelry with forced air. Bottles were passed, clothes ripped off, breasts, penis and reddened skin were exposed to the air. Some revelers rolled off the raft to splash into the water, others sprawled unmoving. Blood leaked from the nostrils of a shouting man he lifted his bottle to the light painted heaven but his words could not be heard over the roaring surf. The current moved the raft towards the cauldron of rocks and mist, the tattered sail unable effect the raft’s progress. He watched the bodies sink or float away from the raft but refused to look as it disappeared into the steaming cauldron. No one else swam to shore.
Why a deadly virus in the Middle East has the whole world on alert.
A tank is a tank in Chicago, in Paris or in Mexico
Ranked: the greatest selfies of all time.
My phone has begun to transmit my dreams across town. These dreams include me checking my Facebook status and typing texts, going to work and not doing a single task and then leaving. There was a dream about being quarantined for a sickness. You were there. The kept us in a shabby cafeteria, a red rope is all that kept us contained. The uninfected were on the other side of the rope selecting food and paying for it. Typical cafeteria stuff. The carpet was awful. The last dream I remember recently was me touring a war torn city in a jeep with my father. It was covered in spilled paint and garbage, reminding me of a Tarkovsky movie (especially scenes from Stalker and The Sacrifice). We discussed what we’re seeing as if it was a movie. The lackluster checkpoints never bothered us; they seem to have given up on their war.
Power grows from the barrel of a gun – Mao Zedong
Black is the color of my true love’s hair. blaaaack…black….blaaaack! – Patty Waters
Portrait of Linda in three colors, all Black
Knock back stick around, the kids clamor and lurch with their mouths and hands, thrusting swallowing. Her stick husband thing covers his flesh with light cotton. She crams them out the door and feels urine moisten her pants. She floats up the stairs; singing on the wrinkled flaps of her brain is her name “Sandra” and the fleeting essence of her life, sensations and her recollections of events. She turns locks in doors to feel the spinning motion, to feel that she was winding up a vast machine of which she had wrested control away from the others. She entered her son Richard’s room and pushes his army men and trucks into the center of the room, and then stuffed bears and blankets. It burned. All of it, she controlled it as the fabric disappeared and when it was a pulsing pile of plastic, she put on the gloves and began to craft it. It resembled a small melted man who had lied down to rest. She flung its stinking mass on his bed. She entered Ruth’s room and removed the head of each doll, and stuffed them in her pillow case. Over the next couple of hours she transplanted the flower garden to her and husband’s bed until it was covered in mud and reaching gasping roots. She watered it with her own urine. Then she went downstairs to welcome her family to their new world.
Death don’t have no mercy, in this land –Reverend Gary Davis
Sela used her car for everything. It had filled with food wrappers and there was so much rust she could see the road through the floor. But, that car brought her everywhere. The hour drive over the hills to school and to the warehouse where she worked most days. It especially brought her away from her mother’s house where she no longer wanted to live. Over the summer fuel prices had risen. She had to cut the drive to school. The warehouse closed. She then could only move the car once a day. She found new neighborhoods to park it in so she could sleep. One neighborhood was filled with empty houses. A herd of starving cows moved between the houses, their ribs visible beneath their skin as they moved over the muddy ground. Sela had grown used to the footprints of raccoons on her car window in the morning. The pale casts of tracks showing the movements of the raccoons while she slept.
Anti Balacka Christian youth loot the Muslim market.
The happy song makes me so happy
Can twerking revive classical music?
Grateful Dead member warns against drug use.
Religion, it’s not a leap of faith, it’s high functioning autism.
I built a robot for sadness. I gave it tear ducts so real that salt tears could pour down its immobile features. I began to tell it my darkest secrets. That I now longer loved my country and never really did, that I wished I knew for sure that the engine of the world was running down so we could enjoy one last fuck in the park, that only food made me happy, that I never loved anyone over myself and was sure no one else did either, I had forgotten to brush my teeth in the morning for a week, my clothing no longer fit and fell of my frame, and I had woken up for a couple of days with bloodstains on my pillow, that I hoped these tears would form a map to a new land, and that every morning I wished the world was wiped away.
The robot snuck out of its hidey-hole and began telling my neighbors all my secrets. All the shit I thought about them and everyone else. As I tracked down the robot I found my neighbors just shrugged their shoulders and didn’t care. Everyone told everyone all their secrets everyday already, and they had grown deaf to that sort of thing.
ISIS moved a convoy of two hundred vehicles past Abu Ghraib. Black flags fluttered in the hot wind.
Operation cherry blossoms at night was a proposed plan to fly kamikaze planes filled plague fleas into San Diego. The operation was approved but never carried out.