Jessica Gleason

The One Who Devours

Ai-laau rose from Kilauea, sulfuric and starved,
blackened tendrils of smoke kissing his ashen face.
Smiling as scorching lava rushed from his hands, shooting
forth from the volcano and rolling through the hills,
he laid waste to the Island again.

He gnashed the charred trees as he surfed
the lava waves, filling his belly and enjoying the scent
of cooked human flesh. Watching for a moment,
Ai-laau marveled as flecks of crisp human skin
floated through the air, beautiful cinders melting
into the molten liquids.

Natives feared him, a soulless monster murdering
their brothers and sisters, making the island craggy
and dead.

While Ai-laau took pleasure in devastation,
sated his hunger by ripping foliage from the Earth,
masticating roots and branches and fruits,
he knew that creation demanded sacrifice.

Humans were too short sighted, too sentimental,
to think of the greater good. They saw only violence
as his fires spread through fertile fields.

There is no creation without destruction;
Flowing lava carved paths into the Island,
releasing calcium and potassium and magnesium
over time, enriching the soil, allowing water to traverse
the craters it left behind.

Death was the sacrifice, a simple demand
of the old god. Ai-laau, monstrous as he seemed,
violent as he was, left new life to nourish
the remaining peoples, a balance for the tolls
he demanded.

Alex S. Johnson

Kat Zen Jammer vs. Kandy Fontaine, Slutty Kaiju Detective

Former San Francisco Sexpert turned Buddhist porn star Kat “Zen” Jammer (also lead singer of Kat Zen and the Kulcha Jammers) passed out in a flood of fluids. Kandy Fontaine, former FBI agent turned Slutty Detective and often Kaiju Monster Stripper leaned over her with a crop whip.

“We’re not through yet,” she told the semi-conscious Jammer. “I still need some discipline ‘cos bad grrrl.”

Kat murmured something incoherent and put up a feeble paw. “I’m too blurry to wield the whip now,” she said. A trickle of drool rolled down her cheek. “Besides, didn’t you have a date with Today’s Tom Sawyer? Wasn’t he going to hook you up with some bio-snuff? And hey, while you too are at it like mad monkeys having mad monkey porn sex, could you save some in a can or whatnot for me?”

“The carpet fibers are greenglowing and licking muh pores,” said Kandy from a million miles away (but, given conditions of Quantum phys-ed-ics, right next door…her pussy was dribbling quantum foam as she spoke languorously, then sped up until she sounded like Bugs Bunny huffing helium).

“I sort of lost the…narrative thread,” said Kat Zen. “But what-evahs.”

“It did unravel,” returned Kandy, a quick volley that bounced around the room, hit the tips of some gack-infused carpet fibers, did a meta-watusi and returned, chastened and reformed, to rehab, heads hung low-brow).

The two alphabet wimmen lay side by side. Kandy began to dwindle and virtually disappear until her head sunk further into the carpet and her pores got rockem-sock-em gackified.

“I do believe there’s some bio-snuff in there as well,” she said.

“I thought bio-snuff leaked and became ambient…whatever is in there must be weak ginger beer.”

A knock at Kandy’s apartment door. Instinctively reaching for her Glock 9.

“I’ll blow a motherfucker’s brains through his occiput,” she purred.

“Holy shit, lady…” came a garbled voice on the other side. Then the knocking renewed, but more tentative.

“Today’s?”

“Yeppers, that would be me. But hey listen, Kandy, I don’t feel like having my brains blown through the back of muh skull today. For one thing, shit hurts and it takes me at least 72 hours and a metric shit-ton of bio-snuff to revive, providing we generate enough through orgone entanglement.”

“That’s the word I forgot earlier. The one that goes with Quantum.”

“Whatever…are you going to let me in?”

“Ok ok ok. You want Kat Zen? We could have a three-way.”

“All right.”

Like a savage, unhinged, erotic game of Twister. Their bodies clenched and clinched. Mostly Kandy went down on folks, enjoying Today’s fearsome long pole and Kat’s remarkably savory pussy juices. They soul-kissed together, went to the bed, tried bondage except whilst being edged, Kandy went into a feeding frenzy and ate one of Kat’s eyeballs a la the late Jesus Gonzales.

“Ow!!! Bitch what the actual fuck?”

“You’ll regrow it, cunt. With enough bio-snuff ov course. And we have generated sufficient. Today’s, did you remember the can? Not the Pringle’s can…or the tennis ball can.”

“I brought a can-do attitude.”

“What the SHIT,” screamed Kat. “CUNT. HAIRY UNRIGHTEOUS PILLAR OF CUNTY CUNT HAIR FROM HADES. CUM BACK HERE.” But Kandy was halfway to Kaiju Land and had head-burst through the ceiling, incinerated and devoured the burnt n’ krispy remains of their upstairs neighbor and was beginning to chow down on her roommate Karl when the door shattered and the po-po burst in. Kandy grew even bigger, and a wall of flames burst out, turning the men in blue into black-roasted drippy tenders.

Today’s attempted to inch out the door, pushing aside a wad of partially-burnt copper in the process. More police came in. Kandy put up an Irving Klaw. More flames, more kaiju mayhem. Flickers of Kathy Acker motorcycle began to inlay themselves recursively down her spine; her head was replaced with a part parrot, part-cyborg fun pack and became embedded in a Mondo narrative involving fun pocket dimensions. The narrative grew extra-cloudy. Robert Crumb crawled in hot on the trail of a big-ass woman…Janis Joplin followed wailing “Ball and Chain”…the edges of the comix panel caught fire…Kat’s eyeball started its own comix series…Kathy Acker rewrote the narrative featuring her motorcycle…the parrot ascended to the dictatorship and merged completely with its cyborg counterpart…the narrative detonated in a massive fireball and blew Tokyo away…and orange ya glad this nightmare is over? Again.

Thee End.

Pablo Libedinsky

No Party for You

Lawrence approached the big, black doors.
“Good evening, sir,” the guard said, holding a clipboard. “Name, please.”
“Lawrence.”
The noise of a party going full swing could be heard behind the closed doors.
The man scanned the papers.  “Do you have a reservation?”
“Dr. Thomas was going to make it.”
“Sorry. Don’t have it.”
“Anything you can do to let me in?”
“Do you have your Death Certificate?” the guard asked.
Lawrence stood silently.
“Not really, but I’m sure it’s coming soon,” he mumbled.
The guard smiled faintly. “Would you like me to put you on the waiting list?”

Jay Miner

Melvin

Melvin was a local poet and a boring one like most. He would read his sad bullshit poems and stories in the back corner of the coffee house where they had the AA meetings and poetry readings while the other boring poets and drunks threw back stale donuts and coffee and stared off into space. Sometimes one or two of them would applaud weakly or offer a word or two of encouragement or constructive criticism with all of the zeal of a couple of flies fucking.

Everything changed when he worked up the guts to read a story from his younger years where he was driving around Las Vegas in a convertible drunk with a hooker who was so high on speed that she was scraping her shoes on the stars. When he got to the part where he considered himself an engineering genius because he was able to figure out how to piss with an electric buzzing prostate massager up his ass people starting throwing their donuts. Some got up and left all in a silly little huff. Others heckled him including one that offered “well if this is poetry I’m a supermodel.” Finally, a reaction. He was beginning to think they were corpses.

After a few weeks had passed, Melvin got the idea to up the ante and start hanging local politicians from the windmills down by the lakefront and call it art. He figured that worst case scenario he would get arrested and make the news. Fifteen minutes of fame just like Warhol talked about. But then again Warhol was a quack. Melvin once dreamed about fucking Warhol in his ears. They were tight and soupy.

His art project was lauded as cutting edge, the next big thing. He wound up on the cover of the little local arts variety paper. He walked by the same coffee joint and this time the poet who was most definitely not a supermodel came out and asked Melvin to autograph her copy of the paper.

Melvin took the paper from her without saying a word and went home to his crummy apartment. He sat down on the shitter and took a large, steaming oatmeal and beer crap. He then reached for the paper and wiped his ass with his own face.

Lina Buividavičiūtė

Lolitas

“It was love at first sight, at last sight, at ever and ever sight.”

V. Nabokov, Lolita

They lick lollipops, standing
in the school yard while the sun caresses their
doe-like legs. You see how short
their skirts are, you see how they caress the suckers
with the tips of their tongues,
you sense how their insidious laughter
moves your heart. You can’t stuff your ears with beeswax,
teacher, you can’t hide your erection, teacher.
They stare at you during literature class,

pretending to be interested,
with parted lips, don’t think –
they’re no idiots, they don’t open their mouths in wonder
at your rubbish about Nabokov.

You see how subtly she turns with her knees spread,
how the edge of her stocking’s garter
is barely visible: what’s the subject of interpretation, teacher,
what’s the subject of Your desire, teacher?

Blushing, trembling hands, the stiffness of your rod – they giggle
into their palms, they bow so close that you see sugar crystals
on their lips. You want them to bow lower and lower, teacher, so low,
falling so low that they dislocate their virtue.

After the weekend, you look at their swollen lips –
they won’t lick You, teacher,

They’ll go out into the wide world, they’ll live
like characters in a brand-new novel,
while you stay trapped in one written long ago.

Given Twice

Fucked Me Completely

They say one mans trash
is
Another mans
treasure.
My trash
Is stuffed with cotton balls
Caked in dry pink medicine.
Q-tips that
Whiff
of polyethylene-
Glycol and ninety
Percent isopropyl alcohol.
Spent safety
razor blades
Dull as 90’s re-runs
Of shit
sitcoms
with laugh tracks
That play dead
Middle of
Scorched summer
days
where
the good ones
Were better off
Making hay. .
Used needles
I couldn’t be bothered
to recap
For the kids that frolic
And forage
In the landfill.
Empty pill bottles that once contained
Hopes, and hedges
And hungers
I can’t even name.
Death threats
Unsent
But thoroughly imagined
And loosely planned
And bills paid far in advance.
Expensive lotions
Containing polysyllabic
Novel FDA non-approved
ingredients
I won’t ever be able to prove
Made any fucking
Difference.
Pharmaceuticals that tell stories
Autobiographies
Can’t and
won’t.
Amazon receipts for
Empty anticipation
That came free with
Useless tangible contents
Of boxes
I now have to deal
With.
And
letters
To
You
That fail to do
Justice
to the myriad
of ways
You’ve fucked me
Completely.

Charles Rammelkamp

Assassin

A few months after Chapman
gunned down John Lennon,
I was in New York
visiting a friend.

We smoked a joint,
walked through Central Park
that cold bright February day,
chatting about whatever
came to mind,
emerging at Seventy-second Street.

My Olympus OM-1
with the telephoto lens
like the barrel of an elephant gun
slung around my neck,
I offered to shoot Roger
in front of the Dakota.

As I fiddled with the focus ring,
a little disoriented by the dope,
a blond woman swept out
from the building, 

past the servile doorman,
celebrity self-conscious, glamorous
in big Onassis sunglasses,
cocooned in full-length fur.

Seeing me aim at Roger,
she ducked her head,
threw her hand in front of her face,
as if to deflect a blow,
hailed a passing taxi,
which swerved to the curb
like a sedan in a police thriller.

The cab headed downtown,
a getaway car
blending with the traffic.

The uniformed doorman approached us,
now menacing as a cop on the beat.
Roger and I walked briskly
up Central Park West.
I never did figure out
who that woman was.

James Quentin Devine

REDEEMER & PROVIDER

This is a “play” for two “characters” named REDEEMER & PROVIDER.

Neither is redeemable or provident.

1.

“It’s over, man. Jobs, everything.”

“I’m just, I . . .”

“I don’t even know why we pay taxes anymore.”

“You pay taxes?”

“Well, no. But still—”

“I just need one getaway. One heist.”

“Yes.”

“You think we could pull it off?”

“You’re bringing me into this?”

“I mean — you want brung in?”

“What you got?”

“Well, you seen all these schemes, right, where people get fixed up with a bunch of money because something happens to them, like, on camera?”

“You talking about, like, America’s Funniest Home Videos, or?”

“No! Fuck, no. I mean like, they’re out in public somewhere and somebody gets to harassing them, gives them a hard time. You know, pranksters.”

“I fucking hate pranksters, man.”

“Well what if we pulled a real big prank?”

“What you mean?”

“What if we got over on ‘em all?”

“Can you be any less clear?”

“Check it out — you fake the encounter.”

“Fake what encounter?”

“Like you, right. You’re blind. You’re sympathetic. Somebody beats on you there’s no way you’re not gonna get at least twenty, thirty thousand out of it.”

“Twenty-thirty thousand isn’t doing shit these days.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“We need more.”

“So you’re in?”

“I’m not out.”

“Well, think about it — how can we, what, uh, maximize the uh, the efficacy? The emotional vulnerability . . . How can we go, like, viral?”

“We gotta piss people off man.”

“Go on.”

“Make ‘em real mad. It’s gotta be more’n me bein’ blind.”

“Alright.”

“We gotta tap into real animosities, deep-seated shit, you know what I mean?”

“I think I do. . .”

“So you got all type of shit in society now, right, you got everybody mad at the Boomers, Boomers don’t give a fuck cuz they’re holding all the chips just checked out but you gotta figure they hate the kids cuz god damn look at the kids, and plus, when hasn’t the old always hated the young, you know what I mean? And anyway on top of that you got the gender wars, and all that jailhouse race shit—”

“You’re thinking we make it a clash of civilizations?”

“Gotta be, right? I mean I’ve got a look, I’d say. A strong look.”

“It’s true.”

“Right? So I’m gonna come across, I’d come across a particular way.”

“They’re gonna think some type of way about it.”

“Okay so how do we work ‘em?”

“Like kayfabe the thing?”

“Exactly.”

“Shit. This whole world’s carnivals and casinos.”

“And porno.”

“And porno.”

“So you gone beat or get beat one way or the other.”

[BOTH LAUGH]

2.

“Okay so you’re at the store, right. And you’re — what? You’re working, you’re shopping?”

“I don’t want to be working.”

“Well hell neither of us does, that’s kind of the point of this exercise, dumbass. You’re wanting to cash out and I’m trying to cash out with you.”

“Alright. Eyes on the prize.”

“Right.”

“So I should be shopping.”

“Yeah, at the store. Cuz all anybody knows is stores. We gotta generalize.”

“The General Store.”

“Something like that.”

“Good and generic.”

“Close enough.”

“Close enough to work.”

“I’d say.”

“So I’m at the store shopping, and I’m buying, shit, I don’t know, a can of Pringles and some beef jerky.”

“Like them red Pringles the normal ones or some other shit?”

“Just the reds.”

“They make all type of Pringles now I seen.”

“Yeah at the dollar store the other day I seen some discontinued kind that come in a orange can said something about ‘Mesquite.’”

“Maybe it was mosquito flavored.”

“Boy the way the One World Government wants us to live I wouldn’t be surprised anymore.”

“I tell you what I’ll eat my gun before I eat a bug.”

“Oh I’m sure I’ve eaten bugs before, in my sleep or at restaurants or whatever, just off drinkin’ or dreaming or whatever it is, you know, man, but fuck no I ain’t lettin’ no European Commission tell me what the fuck to eat.”

“We come up off this shit you should get a side of beef, or I think that’s what they call it, like where you get the whole freezer just fulla that meat.”

“I had a neighbor who did that with deer.”

“I had a neighbor they said fucked her dog, or got fucked by it, or him, I guess.”

“I remember you tellin’ me about that.”

3.

“So how you gonna enter the store?”

“You gotta figure I come in making a big working man’s fuss about what a difficult day I’ve had.”

“They don’t need to know what a pampered princess you are.”

“No they don’t.”

“So you walk in and what, you just start cussing up a storm about your nag wife and your seven kids, or what?”

“No, no, we don’t gotta do all that. I just walk like a man’s had a long day of work. Hard work. Machine work.”

“Punching the clock.”

“They still do that?”

“Fuck if I know, man.”

“You still know anybody’s got a job?”

“Hell I don’t even know but I tell you what the other day Denny call’t me up said ‘YOU KNOW WHAT REDEEMER, I’M THINKIN’ BOUT GETTING A JOB.’”

“Denny’s gettin’ a goddamn job?”

“Well, listen — I said ‘Denny you ain’t gettin’ no god-damn job’ Denny says ‘AND YOU KNOW WHAT TYPE OF JOB, REDEEMER?’”

“Shit.”

“I said ‘No Denny, I don’t know.’ He says ‘REDEEMER I’M GONNA BE A MAIL CARRIER.”

“Denny’s gonna be a fuckin’ government man?”

“Just wait — I says ‘Denny go on,’ and he’s ‘REDEEMER YOU WANNA KNOW WHY I’M GONNA BE A MAIL CARRIER?’ and so I’m like ‘Well hell Denny I don’t know that I do but I’m damn sure you’re gonna tell me one way or the other,’ and so Denny says ‘CUZ I BEEN WANTIN’ A FOOT JOB FOR A LONG TIME REDEEMER,’ and then he hung up the damn telephone and I swear to god the whole county had to Of heard him hollerin’ that stupid-assed laugh of his, I never been pranked on the phone so hard before.”

“I fucking hate pranksters.”

“Man come on man that was a pretty good one.”

4.

“Okay so when we’re making the video I should be wearing, what, like nice clothes or like normal clothes or a uniform or what?”

“You gotta figure everybody looks like shit these days, on account of havin’ no jobs.”

“True.”

“So you’d stand out more if we put you in something proper.”

“Like a shirt and tie?”

“No tie. Too much pomposity. No one’s gonna sympathize with a man’s already hanged himself these days.”

“What about a bolo?”

“Like bein’ on the lookout?”

“No like one of them Western ties.”

“I don’t think we should present you as a cattleman if the whole purpose of this exercise is for you to get your shit rocked, you know what I mean.”

“You’re right, I shoulda thought of that.”

“So what’s the most convenient thing you can be if you’re gonna get your ass beat?”

“I don’t wanna look like no pansy.”

“You won’t look like a pansy, you just gotta be sympathetic to the, uh . . .”

“The fans?”

“I suppose that’s what they are, yeah.”

“The marks?”

“I mean, I don’t want to think of them as victims . . .”

“They’re willing participants.”

“Folks do love a spectacle.”

“How about an All Leather Look?”

“I think that’s unnecessary.”

“Could be fun though.”

“There’s a lot of fun a man can have if he lets himself get wandering enough. We need reliable returns. We need you looking overpowered.”

“We gotta get a big man, then.”

“A heavy.”

“A superheavyweight. A giant.”

“We gotta get a real big guy to clean your clock. What are you these days? 140 lbs?”

“119. I keep eating. I don’t know where it goes.”

“I knew I was guessing high I was just trying to make more of a man of you. Whatever. So we play into that willowy shit. We gotta find a real ogre to put a pounding on you.”

“What’s he hitting me for?”

“Being a fag seems too obvious.”

“Gotta be some type of hatred.”

“Something unwarranted.”

5.

“So is this what they’d call a psyop?”

“I’d say so.”

“We’re engineering a reaction.”

“I’m P.T. Barnum.”

“I’m Vince McMahon.”

“You think when they shot at the president it was real?”

“Which time?”

“Any of them.”

“You gotta wonder.”

“I mean I seen footage looked real.”

“We’re about to make footage’ll look real.”

“Here’s hoping.”

“Well hope’s hard of hearing so grab that bitch by the earring tell her ‘GIVE ME MY MONEY!’”

“You just make that shit up?”

“Naw I seen it in a comedy special once.”

“Really?”

“No I just made it up.”

6.

“Okay so figure right we got you in the foreground in like a iPhone portrait mode, cuz it’s gotta look like it was shot casual, like it should cut in at some weird time when things already escalated a bit, tension’s built, you’re mise-en-scene, you know what I’m saying.”

“I think you mean in media res.”

“Whatever, you know what the fuck I mean.”

“I did understand you but you gotta be wary as a pitchman of vernacular jargon. You don’t wanna be showing your ass.”

“Speakin’ of showin’ ass what if our superheavyweight yanks your shirt up over your head a bit, like a hockey kind of thing?”

“If I’m wearing the cardigan that ain’t gonna work.”

“And you’re dead-set on the cardigan.”

“I think the mohair’s gonna look really good under them fluorescents.”

“That’s true.”

“If I gotta get popped I wanna pop you know what I’m sayin’?”

“Of course.”

“Plus if I get color hardway off the punch you gotta figure between the blonde hair and the white sweater it’s gonna look fuckin’ amazing.”

“What type of shirt you gonna wear?”

“Who said I was gonna?”

“Come the fuck on, man, we gotta get on with this. If we don’t do it somebody else is gonna.”

“Boy I hate when people steal my ideas.”

“No shit. So are you doing a T-shirt or a buttondown.”

“Dress shirt. Two buttons deep.”

“Dress shirt? But you’re supposed to be a repairman.”

“You can repair in anything.”

“We gotta sell this shit, though.”

“You think the common viewer knows the difference between a Windsor knot and a fat set of nuts?”

“You got a point.”

“So I’m coming in with the white mohair sweater, white cotton batiste shirt, gonna do lizard on the belt, gold buckle, black jeans.”

“Black jeans.”

“Black jeans, black boots.”

“Lizard boots?”

“I’d do it if I had ‘em but I don’t got ‘em.”

“We could eBay it. Or Etsy.”

“Too much time. Plus the fit could be off. The boots I got, I know how to walk in ‘em.”

“We don’t wanna throw off your gait. Especially if we go multi-cam and pull security footage. And if we bought online it could turn out they was fake anyway, not even real exotics.”

“Embossed leather.”

“Exactly.”

“So I go in with the, uh, the normal leather boots. They got some wear on ‘em so I’ll be convincing as a tradesman.”

“And we get our lunk to, what? Just bop you on the head?”

“Naw, it’s gotta be more than that. It’s gotta come in stages.”

“How do you mean?”

“I should be paying with cash. An honest, working man’s cash.”

“Man nobody’s got any cash these days.”

“Exactly. So here I am, counting it out, right, in front of some cashier, some broccoli-headed kid that you know the audience is banking on — heh, no pun intended — but you gotta figure the audience is thinking ain’t no way that kid can count change back or forward, gotta figure that kid is dumb as fuck, probably barely speaks English and don’t speak nothing else neither, so we’re gonna need a young kid and a big guy.”

“Probably some bystanders, too.”

“Least a couple. Women.”

“Or something like it.”

7.

“So we get ourselves a fat boy with a mean old face and he just smacks them dollars out your hand, change goes flying and everything.”

“Yeah. I got it all folded up real neat on my palm. A five and three singles. Fifty-seven cents.”

“Is that what Pringles and jerky costs these days?”

“I looked it up. Always be prepared. I did a dry run, a trial run, in my mind.”

“Like a astral projection thing?”

“Kind of.”

“Okay and so we got our big boy hittin’ on you, then what?”

“I gotta say, ‘You can’t hit me, I’m blind!’”

“And then he’s gotta just sock the shit out of you.”

“Right.”

“One time, hard in the ear, like we talked about.”

“Yep.”

“Then it’s like, the audience is like, ‘Damn! This man is already blind! How much more can he take?’”

“You got it.”

“So now they’re wondering about your withering senses, and in the meantime we’re thinking the cashier just laughs at you too, right?”

“For sure.”

“Really make it seem like you don’t got a friend in the world. All the odds stacked against you.”

“Yes.”

“And then in the background, we get two girls.”

“Just shocked.”

“Just two shocked girls. And one of ‘em’s got their phone whipped out recording, cuz she can’t believe it, but she’s not gonna do nothin’ about it.”

“She can’t. She couldn’t. She don’t have the strength.”

“Right. Don’t get too worried, don’t get too invested. They’re actors.”

“Sorry, I guess I’m getting into my role.”

“It’s good. It’s good to get into character. Just focus.”

“So the two girls, they got the bull rings and the colored hair and everything.”

“The outfits.”

“Yeah.”

“And we got our teenage jackoff cashier, then some guy looks like he’s five times your size just giving it to you.”

“That’s about right.”

“And who’s filming?”

“Well like I said in comes in media res.”

“You said mise-en-scene.”

“I said a lot of things, now didn’t I?”

8.

“I’m thinking whoever’s behind the camera just keeps going like, ‘COME ON MAN, BE COOL. BE COOL MAN, COME ON.’ That type of thing.”

“See I was thinking it was an ‘AW SHIT. AW FUCK. OH SHIT.’ type of guy.”

“No we need the concerned citizen to seem sympathetic to some extent, like the reason he was filming was to document the injustice you’re facing rather than wanting to exploit you.”

“You think this pays off better if the below-the-line talent is morally valorous?”

“I’m thinking so. The viewer’s eye should be concerned with your well-being.”

“Well you know if we had an ‘OH FUCK LOOKIT THAT’ cameraman we’d be casting me into an environment of all-encompassing hatred, which might evoke a stronger response.”

“The girls in the back don’t hate you.”

“That’s because they don’t know me. They would.”

***

https://jamesquentindevine.substack.com/p/redeemer-and-provider

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Adams Street

Some hobo drunk soiled himself
before passing out in the street.

Mr. Adams came along
and berated the man.

Usually when he confronted people,
they ran away for their own safety.

But this one said nothing.

He had decided to try Mr. Adams
who stomped his head through
the pavement.

The hobo never made a sound,
he became a puddle of mush
in silence.

Mr. Adams did not live on the street.
No one knew where he lived.

But he saw the name on the street sign.
It was him.