White Foam

The rusted jeep prowls the yard of the plant that churns up a white foam in the river beside it. The red brick industrial machine lies elusive to those who gaze upon the colossal from the other side of the chain link fence. As productivity heightens, fish farming in the water declines. Water levels reach new levels of impurity. The hungry class walks by the fencing and can't help but notice how happy the boy is who plays in the yard with a yellow ball, under the supervision of a fellow in the yellow jeep. Birds do not circle his head. This is the boss' son. No one has ever been fired from the plant. In fact, no one has ever seen anyone exit from the plant. Many a teenager has attempted to sneak into the plant and see for themselves, what is life like in this beast? Each attempt results in a wicked chase helmed by the fellow in the rusted jeep. And then, no one ever sees these teenagers again.

White foam continues to ripple the river and slow its flow as though absorbed with sap.

Profits soar.

Turban Tan

The drippy man, who emerges from the lake, is pink from sunburn. His bald head, pasty white, which he soon wraps a towel to keep the top spot of the noggin shielded from the harshest UV rays on that part of the continent. Ozone terrorism peeled cancerous sections from long lost friends of his, whose carcas remains brushed over with sand scattering and layering in the desert breeze. The drippy man stands proud in his turban, and pokes each leg one at a time into tattered jeans and does the same with a sea green sweater, stitched with the image of a light house. The drippy man, still not quite dry despite the wicked sea breeze slapping at his back, has a taller shadow with the help of his make shift turban. He sighs as the keys in his pockets scrape his leg. He hates thin pockets. He hates feeling things bouncing around, knicking his flesh, as though the condom thin layered pocket is about to rip and spill his essential possessions.

The drippy man had a little nightmare before this so called vacation. He dreamt that in the face of rugged mountain bandits, his bald skin was scalped and red tissue adorned the tip of his head, the opposite look from his turban tan. He awoke and looked in the mirror. Left unsure whether he could truly blend in with different cultures. The throbbing lack of confidence for undercover games sunk his efficiency and reputation. A disguise leaves it's revealing mark, just as undergarments leave indentations on the waist line of a once naked man. The turban tan line disturbs what most assumed was thorough immersion in a terrible land, sleeping in poppy fields and assassinating drug lords. It only increases the occupation nightmare. Gagged, blindfolded, and chained, left in a drippy cave or basement, only guessing from the sounds of light water trickling and voices in an unintelligible dialect. And left to wish with all ounces of desperation, that he should have removed his turban more often when wandering in the sun. And he fears this line is more prominent in the wet glistening drip that hits his forehead and spreads a sheen on his head as a whole.

Sammy Levi's Bones

Sammy Levi's Bones

by Jeff Phillips

A cabin. Harsh winds knock at the shoddy piecing together of logs. Snow fall outside. The cold draft prevails. A bearded fellow, in glasses, wraps himself in a flannel afghan.

FREDS BALOU: I can never quite get down to business. Which is why I only vacation in the wild as opposed to thrive and survive amongst it's blows. Some may say the corporate agenda is a vicious jungle of it's own, but goddamn friend, that's been stated by a bunch of fucking pussies. Corporate games are cushy. Once you set your blackberry down on the nightstand, silenced, and pour yourself a glass of scotch, vino, ale, vodka, or whatever your goddamn choice to forget is, you have nothing to worry about because your digital security system is on and your guard dog is on the clock. The art of forgetting. Long has civilization designed it's strengths to get to this point. The wild animal can never comfortably forget because of the art of predation. Neither could our homo erectus ancestor. Eons beyond a long millennium rotated new dawns and danced new thrills in technology until we got to this point. Eleven months out of the year I hide out in my metropolitan penthouse, with state of the art security, protected with precise heating and air condition systems. The cleaning lady does well to sparkle the place and give it that touch of pristine. The other one month of the year I renounce running water, electricity and protection so I can remember what it's like to feel alive and awake. In the mountains, I hear wolves, grizzlies, and mountain lions. Harsh blizzards, avalanches, and sandstorms talk the naked rant of a jealous god, as though every creature still offends. Let us not be led into temptation, the temptation I touched upon, the art of forgetting. Slumber is the biggest sin in the wild. And for that matter, the well kept city. For every hour, minute, second, dancing molecule, nature is not witnessed. The subconscious is a feux, distorted back drop and insomniacs have the right idea. Why do you spend 5 minutes in line when they make your latte? I stand behind you, wanting my black coffee but have to wait for you to describe your beverage of choice. But neither of us have won that coffee. So easy to toss our salary to a sales kiosk and immediately get what we want. I respect the hungry wolves, that exist with raw critical thinking, and fight for their food. A pack of them can communicate with pagan precision and also can shut the fuck up in the same act. It's as though they pissed in a tavern bathroom where the wall announced Zen Sarcasms on the fact that you can actually learn something when you're not yackin'. But they got this born into their cranial wiring. I wish Sammy Levi had that instinct. A slick Jew who was my business partner, whom I convinced to join my monthly retreat into the uncivilized mountain scape. A day light hike found awful consequences. Sandstorms blew in from the north uninvited. We both hid in the shelter of caves until it passed. I thank God I chose the right cave. A day later when I emerged, I felt my way about the crevices in the cold moonlight and had to rely on the art of touch to feel about the dark cave depths I periodically got lost in. I froze when I touched what felt like wet bone. I froze until dawn ushered some light in because I thought I heard inhuman breathing. When the light peaked with more exposure, I saw shreds of Sammy Levi's North Face jacket and back pack. His canteen crushed like a beer can. I chose not to touch again the wet bones scattered amongst pockets in the rocks. I crept away from Sammy Levi's bones. Away from the slumbering grizzly bear, in his thanksgiving coma. Crept back through the calm of day light, through arid terrain and built myself a fortress with pine branches. I went on hiatus and allowed my stocks to sink with apathy. Stocks cannot fight off big bears and hurricanes. I have a hard time pretending nature don't exist for twelves months straight. I feel better if I respect it and give her time in the spotlight to scare the living piss out of me. The shiver of wind aligns with the universe with greater conscience than a Walgreen's electric blanket. And for me when I do shut some eye in a humbled mountain shelter, I dream in color. And can't tell the difference between that and waking thunder. I have a hard time getting down to business which is why I never built my own home and my log cabin is an unfinished piece of shit that cracks beavers up with silent giggle fest. And good ol' Freds Balou makes a fine stew from Sammy Levi's Bones. And it warms my belly and I respect this rare method of staying warm because in way, I'm burying my friend. Maybe not in the ground, but his remains I had second thoughts about just leaving, and it was easier to touch the second time because the blood had dried.