Pop-Tart(s)

Song by Roland Faunte - Levers.

The experience to follow was designed for a Creative Thinking class project. The task was to replicate a place that describes who you are. For optimal replication, please use personal headphones, or enjoy with others on a surround sound system. Only one of your senses will be targeted, and that is sound, but this doesn't mean to neglect your formal knowledge of other senses. Keep your eyes closed and your mind open. You are about to enter a world of your own imagination. And so, without further delay, I bring you . . . Crescent City

A book review based on 40 Million Dollar Slaves by William C. Rhoden

It’s warm like a cookie. It’s warm like a newly drawn bath. It’s warm like a bed filled with two. It’s warm like a fever on aspirin. It’s warm like a saddle in the sun. It’s warm like a bulb in the lamp. It’s warm like a bouncy house over occupancy. It’s warm like a fire in the shade. It’s warm like a masterpiece in the kiln. It’s warm like a satellite on re-entry. It’s warm like a corpse during cremation. It’s warm like a turner elevator. It’s warm like a sun during menopause. It’s warm where we are.

Wait with me, calls the telephone. Listen to my dial-tone; I’ll whisper women in your ear, exactly what you wish to hear. I’m waiting , says him, at the telephone. I’m waiting on your dial tone. Waiting for whispers in my ears from women that I wish to hear. ‘Cept there’s bleakness now in the telephone, like spying on an empty room, waiting for a guest to enter ‘cept this is hell and I’m the sinner. The coax cable and live-wire just waiting there like a pilot fire. The telephone has promised me, so when he sings ring, ring; ring, ring, I wish to God that he is she.

Sometimes what you want you can’t have. Sometimes what you can’t have isn’t interested anyways. This is a letter to my uninterested can’t have.

Sometimes it’s normal to mail a Pop-Tart to Denmark

A reading of Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown.

Return yourself to high school, to a rural state, to the reason—if there is any—to have gone. 

Have you ever found yourself restless in your chair? Maybe it felt like this.