People Say You're Strange.

Unbenounced to my own understanding of the common formula of fire, a conductive surface and a holding apparatus for a fluid, i had managed to boil a pot of catsup with a 9v battery and a thimble filled with baking soda. Not realizing that the liquid had not been bubbling due to a current but had actually managed to heat itself in a matter of seconds allowed for a building complex fire. In my solo attempt to pass on the relentless clock ticking off a Duracell AA removed from a lime green Game Boy containing my only resembling memory of the casket plastic box the bones red bearings were neatly packaged in for my tech deck after the second random implosion of home goods from my traveling car home. Nobody had tapped on the floor for what should have been hours. But rather, my neighbor spent a solid 40 minutes adjusting the light fixtures on his ceiling and that every 1000 bulb rule, about the random explosion upon installation, apparently applies to boxes of batches and not just single coils, one can only assume due to factory settings on the day of creation, because he kept cursing with a solemn side of gratitude for the random occurrence. The rats may be working for us as i listen to them learn from the ants on how to fortify a tunnel system through the walls and outside the bars... which we are sure were meant to keep us in and not others out. On a monday canned peas souffle to do list my day off consisted of an hour to boast (before topping the afternoons creation with my famous broiled oven toast garnish of ground filth and may contain real tomato flavoring) spent building a house of cards... while we preheat. Not noticing that fumes had been building in the closed oven face and were slowly building in the comfy first floor where i had conveniently placed the diamond kings studio sparked a match for my first cold turkey cigarette i hadn't touched since the last time i thought about buying a pack. Puff... In Flames.

Back When I Was Eight,

Every Halloween they would hummm a million rubber skeletons across the ave. The ecco' (eko) echo would reverberate across the cobble stone archways and the dead would plot their late night escape through broken earth and shattered leaves. Portals if not a doorways from the unconscious rest of the weary and needy coalesce the scars of sacred souls. Collectors items had to be taken from the shelves and worn like a Christmas elf's pleats. No holiday should have been quite so substantiated, though the pleasant Pagans chanted an exagerated hymn for the children in need of a brief reprieve from those unfortunate soon to be triangulated cans in need of lips to hold. We rise! Not yet dead but a certain loss of life flushed through the rivers and spilled through our plants and into the ever expanding canal fucked daily by bottom feeders sustained on filth and PCB's. You're warming a steady cadence in the heart beat of first snare drop mutant karp and herring pickled and salted to perfection. Kids packed like shards in plastic receptacles swaying the bodily oils necessary for a front row hog of rear end discipline. If not for the pumpkin king, for every lost boy in search of an escape from pages left on shabby filth shelves in cellars stinking of old plum vinegar and honey jar sediment, my lisp pressed against the brown glass oxidation free cup. Nothing to say for our day. Any-day but the day before the day of the dead. Us kids know.