The time will come when Earth wobbles so fiercely that overcompensation is impossible. Notice its placement, its tilting, its hanging in there, just there, without a way to know it’s going to stay there securely for a few million years before the sun swells up beyond its present state and renders the Second Coming a moot point. Unless that will be the Second Coming, an inferno that makes Satan’s playground mere child’s play. A blistering nugget singed beyond recognition. Encompassing flames, heat, molten rock. All things melting into the air, the sky. Souls as blemish-free as a sleek new tablecloth – an afterthought along with everything else. No more thought will be left to hang our coats on when it gets too stuffy to move.…
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haven’t showered in maybe three days, it doesn’t matter, i’m in la which means i’m going to be the least fuckable person anywhere i go, there’s a van that takes people from the airport to a fancy marriot, i’m not staying at the marriot, i’m staying at an airbnb in historic filipinotown, but i’m not one to turn down a free ride, the driver can tell i don’t belong, i only have a backpack, worn-out red canvas with “bastard” written across in faded sharpie, no one sits next to me, i check uber to see how much i’m saving, not as much as i’d hoped, i redownload tinder, i’m going to be the least fuckable person anywhere i go here but the novelty of an east coast butch with a bunch of shitty stick-n-pokes will get me somewhere, i want to be used, i lose most of the day stumbling around little tokyo stuffing my face with dairy-rich desserts, all things considered—yes, all things considered—i am, unequivocally—
– Rachel Stempel…
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tonight all the versions of myself lay together on my twin size bed. one is vomiting over the metal railing, a snap of a girlfriend kissing someone else playing on repeat in their palm. one listens to our dad’s hand-curated phoebe bridgers playlist. one can’t stop eating, and one can’t eat at all, and one is somewhere in-between. one calls a friend about social studies. one calls a friend about ap history. one calls a friend and asks if they should switch their major to creative writing and five minutes later ends the call. one texts their brother. one hates their brother. one decides they don’t really mind their brother all that much. one hates their brother and curses him to hell. one is shopping on etsy for birthday gifts for their brother.…
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“I’m going to let you in on a secret,” the very, very old man said as he sat down across from me on the mid-day bus. “I remain balanced,” he said, “by wearing an equal number of rings on each hand.” He paused to let this information sink in. Then unsheathed his hands from his jacket pockets and, leaning in, rested them on my knees. I could only assume there were fingers underneath the mass of jewelry. “Go ahead and count them,” he said, “exactly the same number on each hand.” He was uncomfortably close to me, but his breath smelled like cough drops, which was somehow reassuring. “Go ahead.” He nodded at his hands that stayed heavy on my knees. The bus rattled on, over potholes around fast corners, and the very, very old man sat perfectly still.…
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Because the instructions said a dark cool place with absolutely no sunlight and because the boy and girl were young enough to believe in shadows, they buried the seeds in a shoebox and the shoebox beneath the basement stairs of her parents’ house. Because the instructions said uninterrupted and six to eight weeks and because the boy and girl were young, they soon forgot about the shoebox and the two seeds planted inside and went about growing up. For years the girl grew up pretty. The boy grew up fast and mean and tired of the girl for a time, as boys sometimes do. The girl’s parents were already grown up, so they grew old and grew out of the girl’s childhood home. The boy would remember the girl sadly.…
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When they opened/ the tomb of the Chinese terracotta army/ supposedly they were brightly colored/
armored in red and turquoise but only for a moment before the newly introduced oxygen ate away
the paint
The way the old men who live on the plains will talk so casually about drowning surplus kittens/
alongside, when it’s going to snow, and which barbed wire fences need mending
This is the kind of thing/ one would always seek to recapture, don’t you think?
The airlessness,
All those colors, the ghost escaping into the sky
– Nate Maxson…
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From behind a limp curtain the elderly girl detective sees through a row
of windows: a hand petting a cobra, a woman’s shadowy profile, a small
stuffed .alligator. on. a. velvet. cushion. Clues to what?. The secret of life
and death is. only the clock. Down a long linoleum corridor of tarnished
numbers,. a door. clicks shut. .Evening light,. slanted, yellow.. She keeps
her deductions private, a silence filled up with land sakes, imaginary pie
in the. cold oven. .Ghost. granny,. in. worn print.dress,. in. favorite chair.
Who is in charge.
– Martha McCollough…
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