Joe Forkan
Molly Holzschlag
Stu Kupers
Deacon Central

Independents Day

Fifty Feet Tall and Lurching Wildly


The cold anxiety sits in the pit of my stomach like a Rotweiller in the Oleanders with little, sick, shinind red eyes, fixed on me from back behind the poison leaves. It's growling under its fetid breath, eyeing me murderously.

The ride I'm on now no longer meanders down sunny streets where people mow lawns and paint fences. It doesn't go where the peal of children's laughter reverberate through twilight to be silenced finally by a mother's voice announcing that dinner is ready.

No, this train is a graffiti-blighted, foul-smelling run to the end of the line, in the tattooed belly of the beast. It disgorges its passengers under cover of night in the greasy back alleys by the all nude bars and the crack houses, where chesse teeth, wine piss, homeless derelicts do the thorazine shuffle clutching packs of GPCs, and having cocaine fantasies.

It is an endless parade of wilted red roses and painfullly crippling broken backs. I don't care tonight. Tonight I'm walking home in an icy drizzle, dancing through puddles, in spite of the holes in my shoes, ad-libbing a song to match the rhythm of my footsteps. I'm watching brilliant diamond shaped floating splinters of neon ride the neat tides of an oily puddle.

I used to be in love with the girl that lives in that house, right there. That was so many girls ago. There is an aching hunger gnawing its way out of my stomach now, but that's alright. One day we'll eat like kings, for now we sleep like servants and rue the dawn.