Thursday, November 22, 2007


Weathervanes in this neighborhood pick up signals from outer space. The antennas do exactly what they’re supposed to do, picking up porn from across the globe, but the weathervanes are back in vogue for a reason. Maybe this is what "they" wanted all along. A quaint, unassuming hamlet to start the ball rolling. Saturday morning soccer games, pies cooling on the windowsills, lawnmowers humming tunes in the background. An appearance of tranquility, silent desperation, we all fall down. Slanted, perfectly-tiled, black rooftops, each with one thing in common. American eagle weathervanes. But this ain’t America. Not anymore. The signals have transformed this place. Folks ‘round here call it Extempora, emphasis on the third syllable, like some foreign language. This place is foreign with all white faces. Fake jobs, fake smiles, fake existence. Love will always get you in trouble.



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