frost heaves
The Black Hole soundtrack’s vinyl is deeply warped, bowing the Holst rip-off strings toward a dark, bottomless singularity. Could almost transform Maximillian Schell into Ahab, Ernest Borgnine into something other than the googly-eyed doofasaurus guaranteed to get it first. Each pass ‘round its orbit goes deeper into a sinister void that crushes spunky robots retrofitted with blasters. Maybe it’s time to melt and mold this wobbly platter into a bowl, a small crater I can fill with wallet, cash, and keys, to terraform abyss into a practical shell for once.

 

Daniel Hales

blind drive

prose poetry for the people