Cover Photo: Woozy Parousia by Ariel Cobol

Woozy Parousia

At least in Vietnam there had been a kind of narrative playing itself out. Half a century later, the past next-door sees them no longer bending towards anything. News items reach a prolonged, flat culmination. Historical headway and the whole idea slowly flanked by skeletons.


Somewhere along the line a gatemaker stands a long time staring at nothing. 

Somewhere among the dizzy dunes is a precise place of reordering. 

             After a bit, she notices how bright it is, how hot.


 Something happens. 

The Present sadly sees something crack somewhere (something better off unnameable). Our heyday packs it in almost before it begins, and by god, that dim knife dove tough into a deaf dove.

A hate opens. The Future sadly sees ISIS securing a time machine. Second paragraph in Newsweek’s first cover story: “Happy to slip beyond the control of western wickedness, radar-retardant warriors wander about at will among an intricate network of events and historical cornerstones.”


There’s no telling what carnal fun we’ll get ourselves into. Stonewall Jackson! Kidnapped by both ankles at 8:18 PM, May 5th, 1863. Whisked forward through time into a present day concrete hut. A bit part as a whiskered diaper man shackled by his one limb to a ceiling. Fast forward to a knickknack unhurriedly skewered and taunted by modern men of color. Syrian intelligence gets involved and threatens to chop off the village idiot’s beard.


The Past is, for sure, a densely packed holdall. Losslocks fear spewage.

Jihadist eyes asquint, zooming back so he can see which sin it is: “Cops came and a child gaped as his dad was gagged and dragged and cut lean through the cuff.” Some melancholy outpouring of the Holy Spirit, or suck-in scrag hole unclosed via cashdrive.  Cephalophores warmly debate.


As the Security Council now knows, Jehovah turns out to be an islamofascist. Vaguely archaic - the door of a humble home kicked in by a band of bored arab bombers.  One gross stooge pulls a pubescent Jesus Christ aside and seizes him by the cheeks: “Yo momma’s so fat it took her over two thousand years to wake up on the wrong side of the bed.”


A pause. The boy just stares blankly.


A plump woman wakes and rolls out of an ancient bunk.  

“All clear. She’s beddable.”


Our own woolly postulant knocks and grins awkwardly before entering.

“Are you ready for an anal adventure?”


A pause, then a whirlpool of pain as the buttstock of a Kalashnikov cracks and crams nose cartilage. Fish-eye does a little dance while taking off his flak jacket and then hurls it onto her wimpled skull.                 A baby blue sash rips and peels.                           Tugged out of bed by roots of hair.         Knees pummel moldy earth.                  The blessed Mary’s heavy torso whips back and bounces violently off the rim of the mattress and God the Father catches her head between his thighs, relentlessly plunging a vast jumble of cocks through her sludged face.


Gotta tell you, a daughter’s hand dangles, “Oh go cluck a kiss of wet kleenex, bitch.” Holy hands blacken and melt into a steering wheel Hilux inferno. No one cares.  A casualty’s pulped extremities, lurching and alive with cavalry ragtime: “I’ll fuck you ‘til your skull is a cavern. This is me fucking your face into the annals of history.” The word of the Lord. Punked by skin color, the soar of a once killjoyed Switchblade swooshes and slams to a kicky.


The Future sadly sees an earpop to bedlam. So snigger knavishly as the goon teases a tarred and feathered Winston Churchill. So shiver searchingly as this sneaky sniper snipes a Spartan xenophobe in the abs with indifferent eye. I'm not crazy about skin-colored men who fear loitering munitions.