Post-Punk T-Mec

Madeline’s coffeehouse was wrecked. Just like the community center had been, only this was much worse because we knew Steve, Mike, Joe, okay whatever his name was, well we used to know him. But he knew us and, he had no idea what we are going to do. We were bored. We were pissed. And we took it out on Madeline’s. The guitar feedback rippled the windows, and the drums vibrated the hubcap display in the automotive shop next-door. Word spread by mouth and with 12 homemade flyers letters taped like a ransom note, “Come or else.” Jacked on Monster energy drinks and the adrenaline of being out past curfew, we gave it our all, and took everything Madeline’s had. Banisters broken into batons, chairs splintered, and tables were crowd surfed right out of the building. The cowards in the parking lot hovered by their cars. 100 stood in a place for 45 pulsating and pumping as the bassist fingered the fret. Even our clothes rejected the compressed heat sloughing off our bodies. 27 minutes later, the cops showed up, we fled, leaving the tragedy of Madeline’s one punk stand behind us.

Berkeley Burning

Squatters, low-lives, fucking millennial generation. The whole place had gone up in flames. Hellfire paradise burned back up to the heavens. The entire warehouse was a sparking pyrotechnic nightmare. Daisy chained extension cords connected together weaving in and out of crumbling rooms. One room a mausoleum of discarded luggage piled high on both sides, the hall of abandoned travels, adventures never taken, and loved ones never left behind, bucket list ever full. The showering system was a wood pallet drainage system, a bucket of water, and a hose connected to a hand pump. The communal kitchen was glorious chaos. Camping stoves and Bunsen burners, the unification of hippies and scientists. Everyone cooking, eating, and composting together. The communal living space was filled with bits of discarded sofas and lounge chairs maintained with bits of pallets and duct tape. The main hall painted with glitter confetti, neon hands plastered along the walls, and rubber remnants stuck to the floor. The other rooms, I couldn’t go in the other rooms.

Pallet luggage

Condemn camp stoves

Generation fuck this

Daisy chain

Electrical fire

Berkeley is burning.

Why are “You” “Here”?

The most important thing to consider while trying to answer this question is that you are not. “You” is a linguistic construction, a pronoun used to represent “you,” but “you” is just a constructed representation. Can you describe yourself without pronouns? Without “you” and “I”? Without “they” placed between “he” and “she”? Can “you” describe yourself without doing so?

 

Conclusively, “you” is nothing and only meaningful because others give meaning to “you.” So then, why are “you” here? As a placeholder for the “thing” that, for the sake of argument, we will henceforth refer to as “you.” And where is “here” anyway? Right now, “here” is the patchy grass with the red ant weaving through it carrying the dead fly. “Here” is the small pile of wet dirt clumped to the blanket making love to cat fur. “Here” is the body separated from the naked two linked and laughing. “Here” is not where “you” are, never were, and never will be. Because “you” are not “here.”

The Frog and the Banshee

a-sadeghipour-bansheeSpilled engineered energy drinks evaporated on the ground as the citric fumes caused purple cataracts of chemical intoxication. The mouths of the crowd unhinged viperous as a cacophony of cheers swirled above their heads accumulating into a foreboding fog. The billowed haze consumed the energy of the crowd as it formed its own teeth and claws. The long talons reached into its own black mass and tore open the void exposing the glowing red eyes of the beast.

On stage, swirling smoke took the form of a man. The red eyed beast met his gaze and the man consumed the wretched creature. It soon flowed through his atria and capillaries like a blazing back draft. His body boiled and bloated. Eyes bulging, skin amphibious, his gullet expanded as he released his guttural command, “Abrocken!”

Drumsticks met the tight skin of its beaten mistress as a train spewing smoke and flames emerged and plunged through the crowd. The frog man smiled as maggots and saliva poured out of his mouth, forming a festering pool at his webbed feet. Hoping over to a cage bound in barbed wire and bits of flesh, the frog man’s tongue wrapped around the padlock and with a quick flick released the banshee.

A piercing scream filled the theater as the banshee emerged, violet eyes blazing with its talisman of power. Raising the six-stringed demon into the air, it screeched, and an explosion of chords and pitches hit the crowd like a tidal wave as a young boy hit the cement floor. 

The boy panicked as boots bombarded his body. Terror flashed across his face as he succumbed to the mob. Blood oozed from his nose as his left eye bulged purple. A panicked father flailed his arms as he tried desperately to dig through the crowd. The frog inhaled deeply preparing for the climactic howl when the ruckus caught his attention.

“Hey what the fuck? Are you stupid or something? Pick his ass up!”

Like a marionette, the boy was lifted by his limbs and passed over the tops of the crowd onto the stage. The frog wrapped his webbed hands around the bloodied boy grinning a salavic smile, “Sorry kid. These people are fucking animals.”

frog

Who are the People that would Believe Me?

Who are the people that tell you yes?
Who are the people that tell you no?
Who are the people that tell you to be?
Who are the people that tell you to be anything but?
Who are the people that make you?
Break you?
Throw you?
Lift you?
Who are the people that are there when you are most alone?
Most alive?
Mostly living alone?
Who are the people that see you?
Who are the people that hear you?
Who are the people that understand you?
Who are the people that would believe this?

When I was a little girl, a spirit followed me to Las Vegas. Running alongside the moving truck, it’s legs twisting into wings, it howled, “write damn you!”

It slithered into the clouds as I turned to tell my mother.

“That’s a nice story sweetie, and don’t say damn.”

Where are the people who would believe this?

 

To the Handyman who Fixed the Kallax Shelf I “Built”

Firstly, I would like to say thank you.

Secondly, I had read the instructions and no such piece or part came with the furniture

Third, you have laced silk underwear, much better than the plumbers in America, whereever did you buy them?

Fourth, your eyes are penetratingly blue, and I do not like them.

Especially when we see each other at Ikea (separate occasion) and lock eyes passing each other in disbelief. Like dancing mirages unable to comprehend our visions and overjoyed by the possibility of tandem dancing. You didn’t look away partner until your girlfriend grabbed your hand, forced it onto the shopping cart, and pushed you into the garden section.

And lastly, I have recently broken the Kallax shelf I had recently re-purchased .

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