Top ten 'bang for the buck' writing emplements

1. #1 Pencil
2. Shit on a cell wall, although this is normally for painting.
3. A razor blade on warm flesh.
4. Urine on snow.
5. Laser beam on thin skinned metal.
6. Ice cube in mouth on bone.
7. Sand on tile.
8. Blue bird with pouch attached.
9. Finger paints and linen.
10. Biscuits.

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A note from my father

A Note from my Father Son Your mother’s crazy. She’s dressed and on the couch. Come get her. I’m going out to buy cigarettes’ And might be gone a bit, Or longer. Dad By Michael S. Brady

Explain nothing, except your self

Explain nothing, except your self. I feel like the last of a tribe struggling to keep my identity a secret from the mob, one step ahead at best, reduced to hiding in bushes from the monsters waiting to snag and devour me. Sort of a delicacy and a poison – a non-specific drug that exudes memes instead of hormones and physical highs – subconscious, primitive analog get-off-ness apparently responsible for some weird competitive advantage consolidating over geological time out of our mixed genus ancestors, or maybe Texans. At the same time, I feel like spasmed dots from gods own printer cartridge ejaculated onto the canvas of a great emptiness, the thought of which is expressed in the three-dimensional representation of the position I’m braced into while doing the splatting -- all hologram like but only juicier and used -- like an in and out burger wrapper chewed on by a trashcan opossum. Or better, a goat in a pickup heading for a quinceanera debating Schrödinger with the

Free Willy

“…Some say it's just a part of it We've got to fulfill the book.” B. Marley Before I completely run away from the point, the subject of this essay is free will, or, more accurately, the illusion of free will. It will be interesting to see if free will even comes up laterally over the next few hundred words now that I’ve set it up as a specific goal. The imp of the perverse makes it a sure thing that I won’t – but that surety might also double back and force me to stay on point. There are no dogs to pick in this fight and it’s not a fight, and if I’m right, none of this is anything but documentation for a litigious god that will never see it. Like quantum mechanics, life is about either time or place, never both, and how we choose to pretty up our choices is neither the point, or even a choice – it’s after the fact punctuation we use to justify and make sense of our ontological messiness. (Science has proven that we decide things with our body before the brain

Making Widows Wince

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