Her interview makes more sense when you stop reading it and “read” it instead, like with your gut. Instead of watching her stare blankly at an interviewer while making little to no sense (scientists refer to this phenomenon as the “I can’t believe you called on me, i will just keep talking until class is over syndrome, or ICBYCOMIWJKTUCIS, or brainjunctivitus) picture her as a revolutionary street poet, stumbling onto a smoky stage, as if by accident, and launching unbidden into this directionless (or is it) screed.

Bin Laden
is
  is
      hiding out right now
and...
   and
      is still such a leader of this terrorist movement.
 Read more...

My trip to Tiffany’s Waikiki went better than I expected. My fiance impressed me with her choice of wedding jewelry–a pair of mirror-bright Barrington brother’s 70 caliber game rifles trimmed in ivory and standing attentive in quickset florists foam with a splash of baby’s breath.

“They’re beautiful.” My lover struggled to remain composed but nearly wept at the weight of them.

The attendant smiled politely. “They have hair triggers and a set of 100 cartridges is included. “

As she handed one of the display cases to me, it was my turn to fight tears. The chamber was surround by a metallic starburst of precision machining. What I’d thought was a setting fixture for the rifles was instead a wreath of 700 nitro express rounds. I was beginning to hallucinate the scent of cordite filling the display cases and spilling into the street, telling the world of our love.
Read more…

I spent several of my young summers at various child depositories masquerading as wilderness retreats. During all my years of summer camp, I only wrote my parents once. I had developed a couple of blisters during a forced march from the mess hall to the state-sponsored rifle range/planetarium. The terrain was pockmarked from the periodic landfall of mortar shells and a tunnel complex being daily expanded by the resident population of moles and gophers (also state-sponsored, genetically altered, and prone to hyperbole—liars every one). This rough and ready landscape was difficult to navigate and many campers slipped, fell or were otherwise laid low. We finished the march muddy, upset, and in my case, blistered.
Read more…

Colour and splendour, disease and decaying,
The Missing Chums
Tall towers and pyramids ivy’d and crumbling,

wholly to be a fool
The Mark on the Door
And death i think is no parenthesis