This issue comes a day late, last week was a grind and rather occupied my mind with organising things for this week. But better late than never, even if it’s an effort to believe.
Find following: a futuristic little short about airborne neighbourhood politics; a little poem I wrote while killing time before a meeting and a poetic fragment.
Skyjackings are not the best start to a morning. But really the run of bad luck had begun with the mayhem involving the mayor, the mayonnaise and Mx Frumkin from three streets northwest and up two hundred feet.
The two hundred’s weren’t quite as offendedly huffy as the three or, worse, the five hundred’s when caught up in some mischief or machination but the quiet dismay that permeated their skyspace like a cloak when some untoward occurrence unfolded on their doorstep lingered like a bad smell. Every year they set a candidate to run for office with the express agenda of erecting a barrier to keep out foolish nine hundred level ‘cloud mad adrenaline junkie havoc wreckers’. Maybe this year it would work.
But until then, skyjackings where still going to be a regularly scheduled minor misdemeanour they would just have to continue tolerating, unless they all chose to up and migrate to the southeast quadrant, or down to ground level. Some excitement was good for their stuffy souls though, the yelling would blow the cobwebs out of their crevices.
A hidden nook
Inside the greenery
Watching a parade of cases
Hardbacked and padded
Their human handles promenade
In twos and threes
A whip-crack creak in an otherwise silent house. A clock ticks. Cars pass on wet streets. The witching hour glooms.