Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Expedition Three:


The notched bones say clearly: Expedition Three: Television repairmen with broken legs hobble and crawl for ninety miles on a desolate road unpaved yet black. The drought patiently dries the swamp, brackish waters steaming into amnesia. Frogs commit quick suicide by flopping in front of the blurs on the harsh waves of screeches and sunburn. The forest is cluttered with dead forest. Branches and leaves conflict everywhere; the forest is cannibalizing itself, spelling out the sad agony of its collapse with dry hieroglyphics. “He did not turn in his report in a timely manner. He put forth minimum effort.” Repetitive, bereft of insight. High expectations turned to seagull specks in a Goethe landfill. The advanced architecture of a palsied dwarf in a closed bowling alley - the lanes filled with dying buzzards - the only light bleeds from the pinball machines and the cigarette ends of the smoking bowling team. “When’re ye gonna git thet ol’ radio workin’?” Parts are expensive and small and incomprehensible. I can’t fix it. It isn’t safe here. Gray globules of space matter itch like pink insulation on his sweater neck. It starts to rain unrefined memories. Memories of...
VIOLENCE!!  

Aye Captain!

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