Hundreds of wild turkeys were caught masturbating in a remote Colorado forest late yesterday. A troupe of elderly boy scouts made the discovery at about 7pm and promptly reported the fracas to a nearby priest holding court at the church of video games. She explained that the melee had raged for centuries, and was caused by a single misplaced letter in the book of Obadiah.

After bullying his way through chokepoints on 6th Avenue a Luddite freeloader opened fire on a television network, shearing its interns with weaponized scissors and humiliating a terrified board of directors with their sadistic ignorance. The implements had been sharpened with the attacker's bare teeth.

Cranky ex-girlfriends from the Queensbridge houses rallied at City Hall, demanding quicker answers to metered questions housed in the city's oceanic garages and left dormant for thousands of obscene years. Protesters flexed soggy walnuts and crawled through stolen yachts as police barricaded the crowd with pencils.

An insulated French press coffeemaker filled with delicious coffee exploded on contact when a librarian slammed a book of obsolete reference material upon it. The book, once vital to the work of barnstormers and fictional fighter pilots, contained photographs and locations of discarded umbrella carcasses at the southeast corner of 8th Avenue and 44th Street between January, 1942, and March, 1948. The exploded coffee caused the librarian moistness but he was not injured.




interview proceeds at a nominally forgettable pace, subject vigorously but meaninglessly wobbling his head in response to questions unasked, punctuating inarticulate mundanities with Kissengerian rhetoric, these verbal blemishes drizzling down the wires into living rooms of earlier centuries, appearing in a 10th century's house of the holy never spoken of until a congress of stranded gestures connected to irrelevant words causing dramatic crowds of human beings to stop, listen, stop, look at the company of the night's strangers and recognize that mysteries are not baffling or impossible. there is no mystery. evidence is presently available to all with a library card and an unfulfilled fantasy expressed to bodyless talk radio hosts through a telephone line shared by thousands. evidence abounds, casinos cease taking bets, answers clutter reflective surfaces and punishable offenses until clouds form from vapor, popping lifetime's adolescent pimples with the force of a needless medical procedure.




nothing was right about the building. floors rose at unexpected angles. closets were cluttered with oversized tractors. kidney-shaped doors were small and hairy forcing you who passed through to squat down for passage to other rooms which tolled from vast and impossible to tiny and hazardous. elevators led to floors with comical names like "DANGER" and "RUMPUS" but the character of these floors never matched the names assigned to them. the "CANDY" floor contained a swimming pool that you could only see from 1000 feet above, a height from which smiles of happy swimmers and sunbathers gleamed but from which you also saw that the swimming pool abutted a cemetery at which every name of the deceased glowed in throbbing digital letters, the colors of each letter stirring itself like a tub of mystery yogurt. in this building search engines returned more information than anywhere else but none of the results made sense. enormous computer screens everywhere gathered your thoughts and matched your body's movements to those of others whose minds had been indexed, calculating search results designed to match your consciousness and thoughts. analysts and freeloaders announced that all of it was randomly generated gobbledygook but it monetized well and the business thrived. the screens produced maps of countries that never existed, complete nations with histories and governments built on keyword density and passions of textual rainforests rising like ancient libraries but rising invisibly and rising as superstitious fantasy in the bubbles of a saltwater bathtub. real doors to real rooms have suffered under the blight of a non-existant world, been dimished to unread footnotes to garbage of the hour. you balance your walk through another of the tilted hallways, dodging out-of-control farm equipment that lost its way from incongruous city locations. a nuance to the errant swing of a wrecking ball reminds you that you are a bag of bones and water (mostly water) that is wiped away as easily as the reputation of the randomly surveilled and politically potent. the hallway seems to want to crush you as you near the hairy doorway that squirts you into a place of stray loss, a crowded city intersection sewn together by the unknown paths that millions took to arrive here, a squalid mash of self-contained political ignorance propelled by fiendishly-maintained lies, lies so righteous and thick that they have their own genre in the libraries of the living. so many theories, so many lies, you start to see lies from corners of your eyes, those eyes bloodshot and sore from last week's nightmares and other events that never occurred, lies racing around your feet and flying behind your face. here is the maelstrom of all these fabrications, this rugged gel of human beings whose absorption into itself creates vacuous legitimacy that comes alive to you as individuals ask you questions and offer favors, securing your dignity for a moment of beguilement and dance as your numbness oozes on.

strippers in flight complain of being forced to inamicibly dress diasporas of religion, grasping at mosques and silos, thumping headless drumbeats from fractured celebrity, from bullishly wild and freakishly criminal, strippers adjoined by wires and limousines, coyly traipsing beaches and pits, asking to stare through empty spaces of formerly disproportionate wealth, cranky illegals, flippant dreamscapes, pounding leotard crotches whoring for dancers, carpets and floors and buses begging for asses when a vacant concert hall summons itself to explain the Lego jungles of violence and theater, phony gunshots, bungled scripts and bovine musical interludes, "You can't say enough about the omnipotence of tea," a stagehand uselessly interjects as the speeches begin, as the tittle-tattle of coveted jewelry re-hypes banal comments by insignificant rock stars, lifts the job of lying to a floorboard of splinters and mis-assembled furniture, loathing theories of hieroglyphic provenance of sign language and air traffic controller semaphore, bulleting from blank to blank in a senseless rippling nuance which has no master and has no bone, politicking again with warrish manacles and insights aimed for your grandchildren's Social Studies textbooks and spaces needing filling in future unwanted volumes of the White Pages, and the Yellow Pages, and the B&H catalogues, and the dictionary, and your hand-written diaries, observing the snarling tarballs of today as obscure metaphors, untidy and hungry, atavistic, they rise from remote beaches and lakes, from toilets and ash trays, humbling the unaware with subconscious obtrusions and tamping of star struck fantasies that rise again and again, DEFAMING a generation of tarry-eyed wunderkinds, speechless text-messengers and conversationalists rising up from the glittering noise of throwaway devices, those cowardly behavior inducers which sculpt the attentions of the over-exposed and under-focused, dropping useless asides like thunder and demanding drive-by retorts, drunken invective lobbed at strangers by teething teens, every word vacuumed away by a silently rattling tambourine.

sunswick