It’s Warm

Unedited Unsuicide

Song by Roland Faunte - Levers.

Crescent City, CA

The experience to follow was designed for a Creative Thinking class project. The task was to replicate a place that describes who you are. For optimal replication, please use personal headphones, or enjoy with others on a surround sound system. Only one of your senses will be targeted, and that is sound, but this doesn't mean to neglect your formal knowledge of other senses. Keep your eyes closed and your mind open. You are about to enter a world of your own imagination. And so, without further delay, I bring you . . . Crescent City

Million Dollar Slaves

A book review based on 40 Million Dollar Slaves by William C. Rhoden

It’s Warm

It’s warm like a cookie. It’s warm like a newly drawn bath. It’s warm like a bed filled with two. It’s warm like a fever on aspirin. It’s warm like a saddle in the sun. It’s warm like a bulb in the lamp. It’s warm like a bouncy house over occupancy. It’s warm like a fire in the shade. It’s warm like a masterpiece in the kiln. It’s warm like a satellite on re-entry. It’s warm like a corpse during cremation. It’s warm like a turner elevator. It’s warm like a sun during menopause. It’s warm where we are.

Is She Calling?

Wait with me, calls the telephone. Listen to my dial-tone; I’ll whisper women in your ear, exactly what you wish to hear. I’m waiting , says him, at the telephone. I’m waiting on your dial tone. Waiting for whispers in my ears from women that I wish to hear. ‘Cept there’s bleakness now in the telephone, like spying on an empty room, waiting for a guest to enter ‘cept this is hell and I’m the sinner. The coax cable and live-wire just waiting there like a pilot fire. The telephone has promised me, so when he sings ring, ring; ring, ring, I wish to God that he is she.