Could social media notifications have a smell in the future?
All language is but a poor translation
-Franz kafka
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
-Carlos Fuentes
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.
-Eugene Mirman
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.
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