March 20th, 2012

Said the barber

A tall and calmly barber prepares a sickly drifter's beard for it's once yearly grooming while a stolid barber's boy sweeps the hair ashes of the last day's clients from the cast marble floor and the sun shines bronze hazel mistrals off tin rooftop tenements that hum with a muzzins call.
Barber: I see you've lost another finger.
Drifter: No, just a little more off the last.
Barber: Ah. Yes.
Drifter: How's been your winter?
Barber: Good. Slow but good. I took a course in primate sign language.
Drifter: The what?
Barber: Hand signals you understand. For monkeys.
Drifter: Ah yah.
A silence followed pierced by the call of a sterling jay perched on a streetlamp nearby. The barber began to trim.
Drifter: I've seen some things this winter no man'll ever want to spy.
Barber: Yes.
Drifter: I saw a man get split in half by a falling tree.
Barber: Terrible.
Drifter: I saw a man burn his moustache clean off and not leave a scratch.
Barber: LIke a circus act?
Drifter: No, just a man who lost some woman he loved and wondered the streets burning his long whiskers for quarters.
Barber: Fool...
Drifter: Saw a light inside a tunnel. Buried deep in the earth.
Barber: Down where?
Drifter: Far down. Many miles. Can't remember how I got there. Just woke up there one night and had to find a way out.
Barber: And whadja see?
Drifter: Cornfield.
Barber: How's that?
Drifter: Cornfield buried in the earth. Thousands of acres. and perched above some whole other sky made of mirrors and girders that fried it all up with pure moonbeam sunshine. Round the clock. Saw that with my own eyes.
Barber: Ya get some corn?
Drifter: You better believe.
The barber smiled. The drifter was by far the most honest man he knew.
January 4th, 2012



Hideout,” by Masasumi Kakizaki.

I remember this man… He used to chase me up the stairs of the basement whenever I turned the lights off.

Reblogged from Outer Inner & Secret
December 6th, 2011

Death of a Mechanical Salesman

In April of 1975, 27 year old American-Japanese graduate student Theodore Sakamoto was conducting research in the Western Archive of the Tokyo Reference Library 14th Prefecture for his doctoral thesis on Canadian steam locomotives of the pre-continental rail system, when he came across a most incongruous slide in a roll of microfilm cataloged under North American Periodicals of the Frontier Expansion Period. Though the majority of the roll was comprised of slides from the semi-erotic quarterly: Gentleman’s Rail and Back-Carriage (pub. 1845-1866) the final slide depicted the misaligned front page of the December 3rd 1846 edition of The Spur and Trader- an unrelated news weekly circulated in the southern Alberta region during the mid 1800’s- which recounted the strange story of one Damian St. Pierre, traveling soap salesman and known gambling addict who dropped dead one night at a card game in the lobby of the Fort Redding Continental Hotel due to “acute mechanical failure.”

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December 6th, 2011

The Mustard Symposia

Along the eastern edge of the South Pacific Ocean lie a string of 18 tropical “micro” atolls known historically as the Mustard Symposia- annexed in 1702 by the principality of Clarksburg (now Australian Tasmania) during a short lived foray into colonial expansionism that- in a 22 month period of perilous and quixotic exploration- managed to produce little more than the discovery of the largely uninhabitable atolls as well as the documenting of a new species of phosphorescent octopus: a. cobalticus by the expedition’s accountant who would latter succumb to a rare form of fish born syphilis. 

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The collected works of E.B. Aagaard, literary anarchist, convicted eccentric, and champion of absurdum.
- Illustrations by the deranged Alexander Kohler.