by J.D. Nelson
| Alpha Lars jingled his keys as he whistled. Smile text below a cucumber sky -- come back here with that kite! -- the caption reads: Invaders Tr’all and Phla’anx enjoy their ice cream sundaes at the Moose Club Social last Wednesday. I’m no longer the editor, remember? I’ll be heading out West to start a REAL newspaper -- I’m going to need some writers, photographers & clerical staff. Anyone’s welcome to join me -- but I can’t promise a steady paycheck until the advertising money starts rolling in -- so I’m going to need some salesmen, too. Editor-in-Chief Otto Rush was also the president of the Big Spider Society. He and the other members of the fraternal order served the greater Denberg community in a number of ways -- they sponsored a clean-up program for the city’s two main boulevards and for the half-mile stretch of Highway 22 which ran through the southern part of town -- the Society was also responsible for maintaining the several small parks scattered throughout the city -- As many of the members of the Society were older gentlemen, this required the assistance of a crew comprised mainly of students from Denberg High School. God is especially with us in the fog. He’s holding the magic lantern, remember? Is this my god or your god we’re talking about? My god doesn’t have a magic lantern. Mine has a magic candle. Is that god down on the corner with Miles, running the voo-doo down? We’re left alone in our individual cells with nothing to believe in and nothing to do. What about that noise forbidding “cruel & unusual” punishment? Is that out the ol’ window, too? As if all the clouds would really ever roll away! I packed up the rest of my tools and said good-bye to that old apartment for the last time. I was hitting the road, brother! Sometimes the sidewalk just looks so right, somehow. That’s a real jangly piano, Herb! Move in a little closer & stare at the color-wheel -- say hello to your cookie-maker, the honorable Chef C.C. Baker! Thank you, move on in -- a lil’ closer, if you please -- we’ve got you addicted to the color-thing, ok? You’ll be otherwise occupied for the next hour and a half, or so—the real doctors won’t be here until tomorrow and by then, we’ll be able to get our point across to the members of the committee. There we are, share-holders! Our chocolate ice-sculpture is edible, so dig right in, you filthy peasants! There was a time when doing right meant doing wrong -- don’t ask me to explain myself -- I’m no longer a robot, remember? OK. I’m waiting. See? There’s no Phantom Kite-Flyer! How many times have I told you not to believe those monsters they show you on television? Those broadcasters are up to NO GOOD. A wise rabbit once told me not to eat the gray turnips. I knew a salesman who ate them and he wound up being transferred to a remote office in Alaska. His brother still lives in Denberg -- why, I saw him just the other day. He was shopping at the Bigg Boxx down off of Hwy 22 with his wife & two small boys. They had a cart full of lottery tickets and vibrating eggs. Normally, I’d think this was strange, but it was Halloween, after all. The eggs vibrated because they contained little yolky monsters, ready to hatch! Get some for your next birthday party -- I’ll give you the address of a place that imports them from Copely County. She left us with our icicles, waiting -- ump toad the channel 6 episode at the newspaper -- not the typical Mary Tyler Moore thing -- this was an underground caveman newspaper like twenty five years ago or something, the kid said & she was right -- it was an old fart hippie kind of thing, and I suppose that I’ll never hear the end of it for as long as I live. Your numbers have been babbling, so we’ve been covering their cages at night & during most parts of the day. Don’t be paranoid -- this place is safe. Tell that to the faces in the walls. To all of you monsters staying up late with old Dr. No-No, my red shock-wave evaporates the twinkling constellations into thought-machine puffs, wisps of consciousness and there went the Local “333” -- How am I going to get home in time for work tomorrow? They make you believe in numbers & train schedules & the common man has no business believing in such fabrications -- oh, don’t we feel sophisticated with our computers & our numbers, everywhere: the numbers -- I can’t stand the numbers. Some people blame me for the lack of hamburgers in this town. So much for the rest of the red clay squadron, the up-top monsters -- I swear, this is something straight out of the lightning rod catalog -- It doesn’t pay as much as my old job killing roaches in the laundromat. Yeah, I tried striking a bargain with the honchos, but it was a no-go, as they say in the space admin. What can I say, my lady? I’m the most important monster you’re bound to meet out here in the woods. |
Space-Cowboy Poet, J. D. Nelson, lives,
writes, and wrangles in Colorful
Colorado, USA. His writing has
appeared in many online and print
publications, including The Best of the
Dream People Poets chapbook.
Did-U-Know? J. D. once worked as a
telephone Santa Claus! His official site:
http://MadVerse.com
by JD Nelson