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  • Twenty Ten

    Cement drenched in sweat and piss. The sighs of workers littering each curb with discarded doubt, stress and fear. Somewhere, someone is crying - a frustrated baby and unkempt Mom wishing for 3 am. A siren. A drunk. A force. A collapse. Bones begin to break inside each robotic body cranking the last breath out. Nuclear lungs flood the air with more exhaust than the traffic emitted. Long legged women with hunched backs split their lips with cigarettes. Wrinkled faces watch their hands scab over and weaken under their own failure to tap the movement.

    “They look like me”
    “______ nothing like me”
    “I don’t like that technology”
    “I don’t understand his vocabulary”

    Pull. push. pull.

    Twenty Eleven

    In the blue just before dawn on March 19, the crew of the Machigonne mapped plans to leave the decrepit jaw of the city -the stank of submission still in their hair - they ventured towards the glowing orb that they admired from their toxic trenches: the moon.

    In search of this meaningless landscape, they packed bottles of their own breath and enough ink for the whole of 19th century voyages, in satchels worn across their breasts.

    On this day, the fullness of that glowing orb was to occur less than one hour away from perigee—a near-perfect coincidence that happens only 18 years or so. The perigean tides of the ultra full moon were the perfect entry point for the vessel of bodies. On the edge of their pupils, the bow of the ship was nearly touching her craters. Although the nomenclature of each crater was declared by the International Astronomical Union since its founding in 1919, the Machigonne had plans to render each magnanimus pit unidentifiable. Cartography would be redefined. Maps would be navigated with instinctive responses rather than declared and constructed boundaries. No locations. No descriptions. No discussions! Pure memory and nostalgia for the future would distinguish the moon from the sticky black atmospheric web it was tangled in.

    But with the alluring draw of the moon, comes the distracting seduction of escape. The moon’s pull is known to raise the sea, heightening the nuances of one’s delicate emotions. When they seemed to move closer, one young lad’s face grew pale and his hands felt limp against his companion’s waist. The voyeurs weren’t prepared for the moon’s effect on the tides of their brain.
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