Last in the Wake of the First (January)

A month goes by like apartment tornadoes. A month goes by like runner's high fives. A month
gets drawn like mountaintop selfies. A month gets told like childhood trophies. A
month regroups like a half-finished painter. A month relents like gnawing hyena.
A month goes by like the Kalakala. A month gets told like ferry efficiency in
bygone. A month goes by like cave bats. A month gets on in years by
the minute. A month gets on in piers by the sound. A month
gets told like final evictions. A month goes by like a
server with benedict. A month gets sold like
books of affirmations. A month goes by
like the last church chorus, shuffles its
books and starts again.

2015

has started fine. the new year brings with it a blog-pressure to write! write! write! all! about! the things, but i have handily already done that. futurelists may happen in the future, which is happy to turn into the present at an alarming rate.

Top Ten of 2014

10. A noticeable achievement in killer robots.
9. King street station clocktower in the fog.
8. The time a pop star/rapper and we were all outraged, or calling the outrage what it was: something we disagreed with because it seemed to indicate an attitude we disapproved of.

blooorrrrrghphmampharrrrgleshupdtreeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuugh! poi poi poi nooooggggheeeeeephrelmoppskj!!! amph!

7. Krangovers: the specific shame and sickness one has after being up all night creating TMNT memes.
6. A very important Tweet.
5. Inappropriate levels of__ expressed by falling on the floor with a microphone in hand.
4. 86ed.
3. A punch in the gut, a slap in the face, a growing fear for ones life every time the news comes on. Huddled around a working phone, desperately refreshing, in hopes to hear something good.
2. A five-page long dictionary of ambivalent definitions every time someone 'revolutions.'
1. Pizza by the slice in lieu.

this is the only 2014 list there is.

We Don't Have Much To Say Except Productivity Has Its Own Soundtrack.

County Werewolf (draft)

What do we do with the county werewolf? The rows and rows of potleafs bristling in the draft of the tattered greenhouse, the cash crop that cuts to/
                                                                                                fleeing brides in torn veils collapsing under drooling fangs, moonlight just cracking through the hydroponic lights.
Also, the odd fleeing groom, his tuxedo catching fire as he smokes a joint he knows will be his last,
but as the claws descend, he just wants something for the pain, man.

Some days its medical, some days it’s a fucking feast. Hairs in the meat. We held a vigil at full moon, but no one went wolf. We watched the mountains for howlers, but only a fleeing elk. We use our phones to find the way back, on roads that’ve been here for fifty years.

This towns not that small, that’s the problem. There could be any number of college kids turning
to beasts and tearing the throats out of chickens. Any number of crucified ghosts getting ground on in ritual/

Ground up by ritual.
What do we do with the scratching, screaming women? What do we do with the teeth-red wine?

The sherriff proposed an execution, and a would be mayor suggested treatment, but the pastors said that’s witchcraft, witchcraft, as no one is sure who’s really turning, getting hairy, bearded

What do we do with the hairy, bearded howling men at  midnight, throwing their glasses and pawing at bodies? What do we do with the pastors who say this is never a thing, except for satan, that this is never the cold joke told in the morning, the scattered bones from a chicken dinner, then a scattering of other things, more horrible, between the plants. Bones.

Trains And Tall Buildings 4: Brief Growth Update.

the above is a map of all the "planned growth" in Seattle. 

let's keep in mind that this is a town that historically has largely been single-family homes, and prided itself on a strangely ambivalent approach to cosmopolitanism. 

Stark Times Slipping Down Fire Ballot Hill -or- We Will Always Remember His Laugh

The Car man died today, sources say it was either complications from a terrifying, uncurable disease or bears. We will always remember his laugh. he had a smile you could hear over the phone. his advice was so good that even the bears and snow tigers would circle him and listen. even if the motherfuckers couldn't spell carburetor. this ultimately may have been his undoing, his doolittlian explanations of transmissions to the greater carnivores.

if you cannot stop them from eating your deer, if you cannot stop them from battling coyotes, if you cannot stop them from knocking over your trash cans, why would you think your children are safe?

in a disney version of the homeless park the animals are dancing and singing. the realtors demand clean glass. another panicked email from democrats, linking the Car man's death to GOP policies, linking the wire-haired metal man's death to GOP policies, linking rising towers of beaver pelts to GOP policies, linking arms and singing evil disco at the vigil.

there is always a vigil. all of these candles won't take back bullets. all of these bullets won't take back ballots. all of these ballots won't take back the hordes of tigers unleashed upon the parks and gardens. here we thought they were endangered.

obviously there's coffee, but if you cannot stop drinking coffee, can you stop drinking whiskey? and if you can't stop drinking whiskey, can you ever stop driving home at 6 in the morning to your tire-flattened trailer park home shrieking along to dying crowws? and if you can't stop the shrieking, can you stop dousing yourself in paint thinner and plastering yourself to the Today's Pop Hits billboard in an energetic, but ultimately derivative performance art piece? and if you can't stop that, who are you to criticize the arsonists who make a living from their fires?

send in your ballot. vote yes for bear control, for all it can do. they eat babies, you know. and give you alzheimers.