UnderGround

Circuit Board

“Are you sure about this?”
“I’m sure.”
“Stop scratching.”
“I’m sorry. It itches.”
“I know it itches, but I’m prepping your head. You’re lucky I went to med school.”
“Virtual med school.”
“Sit still. Okay. This might still sting.”
“Did they catch the other guy?”
“You know they did. They’ll catch you too. Facial Recognition.”

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The Language Barrier

london_phone_booth_Fotor

On his way back from the office, Donald Davenport called his wife Martha at home from the phone booth that stood outside The Small Theatre off Franklyn Street. Next Tuesday, there would be a performance of The Clock in the Sky, a new play that had recently been written up in a reliable newspaper. After speaking to Martha, Donald hung up and entered though the old revolving doors of the theatre. The familiar rustic interior, the smoke stained walls displaying posters of up-and-coming shows, the gleaming marble floor, and the usual staff whom Donald knew well were inside. Shaking off the dampness from the late evening drizzle, Donald made his way over to the ticket office. Jane the ticket attendant smiled from over her typewriter as Donald approached.

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Death Made a Pie

DeathPie_585x585

I found old man Hendricks’s house fascinating. The sunken in roof. The broken rickety fence. The brown mass of grass. There were never any lights on except for the upstairs, and I don’t remember the last time I saw old man Hendricks. I wondered if he was even alive, but then a shadow moved against the window. Four kids hurried over to his property. They reached into their plastic pumpkins, dishing out apples, and without hesitation, they launched them at the windows. Most smashed against the outside. One was a home run, and glass shattered. The kids bolted, turned the corner, but my attention remained on the house. Its owner never emerged.

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Words in a Motivation Seminar…, Gratitude, & Vicious Cycle

binary

You are the graph, I am the social norm.
I am interested in making change as much as I am
an enemy of so-called common sense. I approve of keeping our rubbish in the appropriate places.
Show people they are doing something wrong
and they will thank you or hate you. Common sense leads the sheep astray or in lockstep
with those jack-booted thugs and their greenhouse
gas emissions. Information is not enough.

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Kayapo, Bad Poetry, & Super-Storm by Mitchell Grabois

kayapo

The chief of the Kayapo tribe receives the worst news of his life. A hydroelectric plant will destroy his village. In the civic meeting, he is shirtless. He wears a sacred, red weaving over his heart and a bright yellow fan on his head. He puts his fingers to his brow, a salute to sorrow, lowers his head and cries.

It is too crass to segue to this:

The Republican candidate spent $77,000.00 on the care and feeding of his dancing horse. The candidate gets a nice tax break for that.

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24 Won’t Come Back No More (Parody)

24

(Hit the road Jack. 24 won’t come back no more, no more, no more, no more.)
(Hit the road Jack. 24 won’t come back no more.)
What you say?
(Hit the road Jack. 24 won’t come back no more, no more, no more, no more.)
(Hit the road Jack. 24 won’t come back no more.)

Woah Woman, oh Chloe, looks really so mean,
Dark hair and make-up is not what you once seemed.

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