Drinking Games of the Future Part 2: This is Not Awake

In the future we’ll name our children for colors and other things we used to know before everything greyed to ash.

We’ll throw invisible spears at visible gods asking why nothing was done to stop the burning of sea turtles back when all our gods were idols and our cars were filled with gods.

In the future tomorrow we’ll spend decades crafting time catapults to hurl unclaimed corpses back to good old days, because if we want anything in the now it’s the old good.

Fuck it. Let me stop trying. Stop sickle-mining underwater when this word shit begs for flame.

I’ve glued my chairs to the ceiling and glued bodies to the chairs and I’m Lord of the Flies sharp-stick pointing and screaming, “Pinata!”

Sour. I’m not sleeping anymore. Experiment unplanned. Efforts were made to exit awake, the assumption of a horizontal position, generous time spent on the tuck-in, a salutation to invading spirits that have their own ideas about chairs and glue. This, prior to ceiling stares with no reward, just aggravation from anticipation of dreams growing feet and pushing me up trees before dropping me back bark-covered. Instead I’m basket tossed (awake), scribbling tirades against an army of cats clawing new entries with loud single-tone language. Evolve. Grow thumbs.

In the no-sleep the now is Real, lost minutes tick-tock on metronome clocks I pretend not to watch or memorize each morning before flipping double middle fingers to my anime pop rocking dark-circled (and laughing) mirror selves.

In the soothing hum of pseudo awake shaved heads are beautiful, designed to activate human purr and every nerve ending from fingertip to clit until eyes turn fire mid flutter.

Pseudo awake I’m more than adored, shit-fit marinating bile dark into love and loving.

Pseudo awake he is the inhaled breath of a-ha, eel-eyed green pilgrim of the ocean’s ocean, alien device buried in a hand pretty enough to distract inspection and howl-spark me the adored. His hovering others may never land. He’s never landed either.

In the pseudo awake the War of the Worlds reading ends a bit different. A nation duped by a shot-charged radio reading isn’t duped twice by those eager to convince them they fell face over fist into processed panic. You know, like made up and put on the radio. That wasn’t real or anything. Ahem.

Silk static transmissions slide down walls, stumble over the philosopher’s knots of my word-angry hands, future fall apart escalated to giggle-splattered red-eyed now.

In the soothing hum of pseudo-awake Pan has no ick. He’s glued to a chair, and underwater.

drinking games of the future (part 1)

The one guarantee of me post-apocalypse is that my logic-brain will abort, leaving behind a slope shouldered droop-mouthed mumble to paw through clouds of I-told-you-so. A full 90-degree antenna adjustment will be required to pick up my frequency, the same oh shit sputtered at the start of our universe.

My in-the-now mind is a teaming mass of riddles, one worm crawling over the other and poking at eyes and adenoids in hopes of hasty escape. Let’s saddle them all.

The apocalypse will be sponsored by everything in your medicine cabinet, everything string-walking your carcass through the vacancy of waking before coffee, everything floating in the water.

The apocalypse dictates that you need to be where I am as soon as possible, covered in some colorful fur. Synthetic shields ward off zombies inevitably sent out in droves to salvage our mutating DNA strands for the preservation of our black hole birthing species.

Modern-day medicated marvels will make convenient zombies. All the xanax and ritalin and zoloft popping pseudo-humans will find their brains in uproar when neutral shifts to high-octane and unexpected serotonin floods leave them feeling, unfocused, and horny. The brain freeze that trapped them in adolescence or their twenties or whatever age they consented to cease evolution for the sake of assimilation will thaw, and either they’ll access some mightily repressed thunderclap of survivalism or they’ll wander the streets whining that their heads have come uncorked.

Or something else entirely.

Maybe the end of convenience will send my own brain into mudslide, and I’ll join the hoards kicking out the glass walls of empty pharmacies, shaking the shoulders of the four remaining doctors and begging for a chemical-charged escape hatch from the holy shit.

Feeling, unfocused, horny: why aren’t we fucking in the street yet? As soon as public copulation becomes part of the day-to-day we’ll be too distracted to complete our morning commutes, accelerating abandonment of bills and rent, reducing us to squatters defending paper huts with makeshift bows and dirty grandpa shotguns. Then time can be occupied with better things, like recalling movies we can no longer watch, ruining all the endings. We can trade quotes until we’re bored enough to consent to a sober round of “I Never” featuring new world statements like, “I never drank a clean glass of water” and “I never had sex without wearing a gas mask” and “I never fucked a man without a tail.”

Of course, the giggle sucks dry with the ugly realization that most of the survivors are coal-faced drainers of the happy tank. With their generators dead and fish growing feet they’ll get angry some fuckers have the nerve to start a pillow fight. There’s a lot of organizing and filing to do. Children could witness the pillow fight, and think for a second that survival isn’t only continuing to go even if you don’t know where you’re going, or why.

Even in a post-flood world some will be too busy hiding in their shelters to ask.

Hostage Situation at Powell’s

The guy who smells like McDonald’s is not welcome at my hostage situation.

Neither is the barista working in the coffee shop today, who hasn’t smiled at me in months and clearly doesn’t love me anymore. Fuck you. It’s over.

The girl can come. Her stockings are exactly half shredded, sliced from the top down like the left side was the only one worthy of anger.

Maybe-Hostage #1: Chess Guy, his face born from a single straight line, sitting by himself with his board and his pieces and a dare. He’s going to be here all day if that’s what it takes to check every mate. It doesn’t take a psychic to read his sneer: Fuck all those fancy cellphone Asian kids with their ponytails and manga books and Fu Manchu moustaches. Fuck the dorks with their trench coats and cowboy hats and necessary noting that Go is more their style. Fuck those creepy twins with their matching hipster hairstyles and jean jackets and overloaded Timbuk2 bags. This is chess, goddamn it. You don’t play it with a computer.

I’m certain that if a gang entered sporting Dick Cheney masks and firing AK-47s at the ceiling until the overhead lights showered sparks and glass all over our screams, he would just keep sitting there until one of those bastards took a seat and made a real move.

Maybe-Hostage #2: The no-neck mullet man cracking up over the DSM-IV. He shouts to his friends excerpts from a diagnosis involving mirrors and folding chairs and chronic masturbation, laughing until he cries, his face collapsed over the book he won’t buy.

A hostage taker would surely spank him roughly with the heavy hardcover, shouting how unfair it is to oil up a book with your flesh stink and not surrender the appropriate nickels and dimes. The mullet man would cry and look for help from friends that would no longer look at him, desperate to press a previously hypothetical face back into the safety of page.

Every other maybe-hostage is forgettable, book store cliches, a menagerie of scarves and hoodies and plaid shirts and head scratches and thoughtful looks out foggy windows and rapidly drying quick-ink pens.

My eyes would be on the hostage taker. I think we’d get along. Maybe both of us find it disturbing that oil roiling the ocean doesn’t register as apocalyptic to everyone. Maybe we’ve both wondered if in our sleep an alien crawls through the window to harvest our precious bodily fluids for the preservation of Dick Cheney’s rapidly decaying fleshy sack. My Children of the Corn gaze would drink in every inch of his improperly held semi-automatic weapon, ears hunting for an accent so I know what middle eastern or eastern or south american country to credit for my unexpected action film.

Something art film would happen then, like the hostage taker would ask anyone speaking the language of plant life to come forward in the name of green. This announcement would paralyze an audience left with no choice but to turn to page 23 of their books to immediately read line 8 aloud to their peers. Whoever says “world of the story” first would be challenged to horse-shoe the squealing and fur-sprouting AK-47 with broken Bear Claws and day-old donuts. When not a single inch of the weapon was spared the stranglehold of stale confection, the newly christened Sugar Shocker would be surrendered to the sugar plum faeries until further notice.

Once the faeries came and went the Portland Police would arrive with curiously short arms and haircuts that look like harvests and a lot of long yellow tape no one would mention in the news. This happening would trigger the more active shelves alive, shuffling out of their places to reveal appropriate portals for hasty escape. Before parting I’d shout “stop loving me!” at the hostage taker, because without interference my something could leave him lost, could jangle his dangle until his eyelids stopped working and his jaw froze mid-grin. Then there wouldn’t be anything left but a shower of words and three hawks circling and sleep forsaken for eyes-open dream.