Monday, April 14, 2008


Rusted ovens, trailer hitches, rotting spare tires, broken swingsets, hot water heaters, air conditioners, twisted radiators, gutted transmissions, busted computer monitors, cracked bug zappers, leaking oil drums. 

These are the currency of Downland.  The drudges come around by nightfall and we greet them with a gallery of thirty-ought-sixes.  Originally, the gates of this place had turrets.  That’s what I remember as a child.  And a gorgeous woman who used to sit atop turret seven.  I’d watch her spilling, red hair unforgiving on the breeze as she unloaded on approaching scumbags.  I don’t know what happened to her.  Somebody once said she left, only to be raped and killed out in Downland tundra, but I don’t believe that.  She was too rough and tumble to let that happen. 

I’m going out there to find her someday.  Someday soon. 

The world’s got to change.  Any day now.



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