Justin Stone's creekbed

songs, prayers, poetry, stories, art, photographs, moving pictures, fondnesses, tall-tales and meditations

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Location: missouri, el paso

The Anterior Insula and Hwy W

Sunday, May 19, 2019

Remember that day the UPS Unreflective got sunk and we lost every grinning shit in the Chillax Bros 12th Detach? Well, thanks—I was one. And this is a ghost story.

Friday, May 17, 2019

What a bunch of shitty shitty shitty fucking assholes. It is difficult to figure out where one ends and the others begin, but these seemingly sudden advances in what are foundational wars on women, black and brown people, the poor, and nature itself are all deeply interconnected with the long, silent, successfully prosecuted war on education, which is the war on democratic agency. What a corporation of shitty shitty shitty fucking assholes.

We need to let these allied oligarchs and theocrats know we are not their empty vessels, their carriers, their help, their workforce, their consumers, their customers, their audience, their sub-humans.

Of course many folks are long in this fight out of fire, spirit, and mortal necessity, and the rest of us should follow by example because we—myself included—passively and silently, if not actively and shit-grinningly, reproduce the power the structures.

Wednesday, May 15, 2019

I read a new novel that I can not stop thinking about: The City of Folding Faces, written by Jayinee Basu, published by Lanternfish Press, is a wondrous, strange, and necessarily disturbing exploration of areas like consciousness, technology, advertising, communication, drugs, yearning, and love. Speculative and immediate, intellectual and achingly visceral, herein core human questions thrum. Mirroring the narrative's content and form I felt often like I was beyond my body, sensing vividly the constructedness and limitations of the phenomena we call self, what marketers and other brokers of power covet as identity. Basu's lyrical text both haunts and enthralls. This one is for poetic fiction travelers.

You may consider and order Jayinee Basu's The City of Folding Faces from the good folks at Lanternfish Press here.

Monday, May 13, 2019

please do not
tell me how
this thing ends

Sunday, May 12, 2019

The calm, the coolness, the silent grass-growing mood in which one ought always to compose,—that, we fear, can seldom be ours. Dollars damn us...

—Melville [pronouns changed to get at something big]

Tuesday, May 07, 2019

"It may be they call her raggedy because power loathes the poor. And where loathing lives exploitation follows easily. Who cannot see the pain etched beneath her eyes? Only monsters. But even more we see in her a wisdom: hard, angular, idiosyncratic, and deeply funny. Not only knowledgeable and prepared but capable, spherical. It is these qualities power fears. Raggedy? Can you imagine? I prefer radical—Radical Ann. Although of course there's nothing radical about equity, human dignity."

—the baby, unable to sleep




Monday, May 06, 2019

My short story "Sky Clipper" was a finalist for Ruminate's 2019 William Van Dyke Short Story Prize. Many near landings these late years. Here's to the ground. You.