The Calcium Chronicles (Part 1: Atlas)

THE ROT BOG was overflowing with a stench fairly usual to it’s everyday foulness. Hershall D. Skeletoni, despite standing about ten feet from it in the stupefyingly moist heat of an Illinois summer, didn’t notice this, nor did anyone else in the world, because they were all skeletons now. Hershall sometimes wondered how long everyone had been a skeleton. But, he figured that at the end of the day, it didn’t really matter all that much as long as everyone could tell each other apart. Hershall separated himself from the other bone folks by scribbling his name across his skull in Sharpie every morning when he was done screaming into the sleepless void of night. This was how most skeletons distinguished themselves. Hershall however, like some, didn’t feel like this was enough. He didn’t have a dick anymore, so he didn’t wear pants, but he did like to feel cool, so he wore a leather biker jacket complete with a big scary back patch and some shoulder spikes. He also liked to carry an orange, scuffed, and dirty traffic cone under his arm. Hershall thought other skeletons might say things like “wow, look at that skeleton. What a badpelvis.” or “man, that cone goes really well with his patella.” However, most skeletons just said things like “what the fuck are you thinking, stupid ass? Skeletons can’t ride motorcycles. Take that fucking jacket off, poser-bitch.” or “Osteoporosis havin’ cone head. Look at this guy’s bone spurs. Have some self respect and sand those off already.” These things didn’t make Hershall happy, but in the end, he still thought they looked cool. He was intent on meeting someone else who did, too.

Hershall wasn’t all that happy about being alive again. He was born, like most skeletons, when his bone parents dug him out of a grave they thought looked nice, and put his bones all back together. After they chanted the magic birthing words, unholy light filled his eye sockets and he shuddered and rattled with new life. His new parents beamed at him like all skeletons had to because they didn’t have lips. “Welcome back, son! I’m your bone dad, Carlton, and this is your bone mom, Molina!” Hershall looked down at himself and the black soil that still clung to his ribs. “What the fuck? Why am I skeleton?” Horrible laughter clacked and rattled out of his bone parents’ skulls while their bony bodies jiggled and shimmied in a way that would have made anyone with a stomach puke. “We’re all skeletons now, son!” Hershall hated them. 

Hershall had tried to kill himself a few times. Every attempt convinced him more and more how invincible he was. He had thrown himself into the bog just last summer. At the bottom he met a pretty nice skeleton who had tried to do the same thing years ago. They hit it off and talked about books they’d read. But, before he knew it, someone caught Hershall’s bike jacket with their fishing line and reeled him up onto their dinghy. Everyone on the boat started clubbing him. 

He wasn’t sure why he came back to the bog this summer. He wasn’t trying to die anymore. Not only was it useless, it just made him sad afterward. He was trying to be more positive. He started thinking about his friend down there at the bottom of the bog. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a brick with “u r cool. Love, Hershall” chiseled into it’s surface. He drew his arm bones back, and hurled it into lake right where he remembered jumping in. He really hoped his friend would read it, but he was sure he’d never get a reply. 

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Attack on a RUP Column

when the first bullets split the 
windows between us you were 
more armor than whole

                                                                 bristling with fuses
  claymores the spiny 
adaptations of class 
                                                                war packed with nails
                                                                and love letters 

                                                          you climbed the 
                                                          makeshift barricades 
                                                          into the line of tanks 
                                                          becoming nothing in a 
                                                          blister of hot air 

                                                                  when it was over 
                                                                  i was more alone 
                                                                  than anything 

breathing in your acrid 
mists awaiting my turn 

* RUP: Right Unity Platform, formed in 2036 when GOP absorbed domestic fascist formations and far right militias 

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Mathematical

cult-ic </math>matics <an item>                      I will paint you into nothing 

aligned=”equalized array”> sum                       strip you of your ears 

she – it – he – us – you                                                                         this is catastrophic 

calculated iambic rotation 

cukf                                                                    can you cast out god 

seagull 

rodeo ford                          with               pig seeps

clucking diamonds               idiot martyr 

“eat at joe’s”    free cra b yokohama ­

            all tuesday               snoring 

humble does               snoozing 

less ruminating   don’t lie to me                     tom murphy 

  ascemia                               is my bodyguard 

not me 

                  or do 

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Good Bad Kid

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I was born
in a flash
the morning sun

I was born
as a demon
to my mother; capricornic

all fresh, wet, and dripping
with the paint?
of someone's blood
and my great-grandfather's tobacco spit

my lungs both filled with water
I was already a special case
causing terror
delicate thing ruining lives

her face frozen as a twisted pale
statuette there was a truck parked
on her chest

my horns grew in and my
tongue was like a kriss
undulating steely sharp
edge a paradox
why did I plunge it through her heart

the lamb softly bleating fading out
and her tears slowly dripped into
her chest

I learned what I was.


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Suburban Lightsick Lullaby

Hold your breath
under the covers,
sing that song to yourself;
the one you never
sing in public.
The one where grays
sound transcendent orange and purple,
electrode home equity happytime and
graham crackers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Beyond damage,|
popping asphalt lungs,
crazed unfortunate 
living on war bread and tailpipe oxygen.

Coffins eat hospital beds.
One funeral, ten.
Ten funerals to mass graves.

And their disinfected veins
have woven
into the bad angels 
from nightmare fairy tales.

Sleep safe
under my gelding knife,
grenade.
Tomorrow a picture
of the sun
waits for you.

Stay in here,
where we wait
for the last dumb sucker
underpaid soldier 
to die.

In here,
where time bends around you.
And where God is a 
loving reactionary.

Don’t you dare dream
of outside.

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10,000 Years in the Life of a Shelf Stable Reverse Osmosis Pulsar

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If I lived 27thousand
300-
78 years
I would lose one billion hairs
99 percent of billionaires are 
Not billed
One quarter of prescriptions are
Not filled.

Mixing damiana
and valerian
Rather than being 
NyQuiled
Keep it raw keep it raw keep it raw
Not grilled
Wanna have a voice?
Invent a language
Get quilled
Wanna stay, living on the bay coast?
Get gilled

Super-massive
Black-hole
The truth floats around us, gaseous
Super-massive
Black-hole
Utopia arises out of sinking paradises
Super-massive
Black-hole
The truth comes down on us, distilled.

Consciousness begins to condensate
Distilled
Consciousness as a liquid state
Distilled
Flow 
Over the cup,over the vase
Distilled
Flowing from a distant place
contemplate

Existence as a liquid state
Coming from a different space
Contemplate
The complexities of the 
Gaseous mass
And the societal structures of bacteria living in Intestinal tracks

Saw the future, saw the future, saw the future
Not thrilled.
These bastards are actors, not masters
Their labor is stolen and
Unskilled
Don’t celebrate at the ceremony
The value and debt are both phoney
Leave your loans unpaid
Perceptions unfilled
99 percent of billionaires
Are not billed

I saw the future I saw the future I saw the future
Not thrilled
Knock it down knock it down knock it down
Rebuild


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Mirror Mirror

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It’s time to talk about the mirror.
It’s been sitting in the corner all week.
strange and vivid shadows dance through it.
I’ve watched them pass each day
all day
They pass through and sometimes look
like someone I know
each time
someone still living, someone I love

It’s been another week
are you a fool?
I’ve been telling you now for two weeks
those shadows pass each day
all day
and one of them looked like you
for a second I swear
one of them looked like you
that foolish face and that
ass cleft chin were
unmistakable

Three weeks now since
that mirror moved in
it’s out of the corner now and 
it’s at the foot of the bed.
I see the faces and shadows passing
each day
every day
and now I’m sure
it’s you.


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