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Poem of the Week
Who is heat?
You can’t see it.
I’m the holy ghost of energy
You may know this for sure
As my shadow passes as a change in temperature
Heat was the first born child
Electricity made the honor roll in 1875
Rockefellers’ whore gave a billion auto’s a ride
Nuc went rock star in 1945
Fuc-enola– tsunami that pretty bitch!
I’m not sexy
I’m not google maps
I’m frugal like your energy bill
I’m the blue-collar hard climb uphill
You miss me from dusk to dawn
Then overlook me strip the dew from you lawn
Breathe my moist air
The offspring from my love affair
She’s always down to blow in sin
That catholic girl is not on birth control
Her water babies birthed at the equator, then move to the Pole
I’m a dead beat dad
Come Winter I just go
then our water babies
turn to snow
She will search for me, violently shaking leafless branches
Blowing drifts of frozen babies beside the road on her haunches
Speeding between the cities’ walls, hitting you with punches
in the Face. Till In March she casts frozen tears into Space.
Her crystalline petition:
“Return my lover, Heat
So our seasons’ cycle may repeat”
Rises to the One.
Who is my Origin
Story of the Week
We sat with our feet hanging over the edge of the water tower. Below my pink Converse and her steel-toed combat boots was the grocery store, and next to that was the pharmacy, and on the corner was the gas station. The bank was a couple blocks away, across from the pawn shop and the laundromat and the liquor store, which shared the same building. Beyond that, there wasn’t much more than suburbs and trailer parks and apartment complexes, where the hard-working townsfolk slept, drank, and fucked the boredom away.
The wet paint on the water tower didn’t say Jen (heart)s Carrie 4ever. The drunk projectionist and the lit cigarette he fell asleep with burned down the two-screen cinema the weekend American Beauty and For Love of the Game were released, and all we had since was our imaginations. We were much more creative than a childish declaration of how smitten we were for each other. Instead, we had climbed the water tower with backpacks full of paint cans and tagged a fire-breathing Mohawk Dragon fighting Robot Bigfoot over the name of the town.
We watched the only traffic light in town go from green to yellow to red a dozen times over before we saw a car.
I said, “I want to bomb every building in this nowhere town.”
Graphic of the Week
"Its jest is the littleness of common life."
-Heroism, Ralph Waldo Emerson
I met Goose for the first time during orientation week. I was a freshman and soon to pledge Phi Tau Delta because that's what wrestlers did. Classes hadn’t started yet but I already spent hours each day lounging around the fraternity. Goose was a Phi Tau and would have been a sophomore and would have been our starting heavyweight if he could've afforded college without ROTC. He couldn't, I guess, so instead he was saying goodbye to everybody. It wasn't especially dramatic, mostly he just sat around playing video games and drinking, which is what we all did, everyone in the frat or hoping to be, wrestlers and football players and a few guys from the soccer team. Goose drank more than any of us, though; playing countless games of beer pong, downing Hi-C screwdrivers between turns. We talked a few times but I don't remember what was said, the week blurred by alcohol and friendly unfamiliar faces. Then classes started and Goose was gone.