fanzine, where is thy sting? online the cabbage is only money, but connotation draws more sustenance out of thin grey vocabularies than a rant coming through on shortwave or boborygmoid channels. it’s a screen of dollars & cents. always behind the technological 8-ball, you used to tell me. banish my fears with a wave of your telescope. and another duck down the dark promised alley, into a still darker place—that sign tells you where to go (“they make it nice for us”), washing your palms with light and handing you a bottle of new experience. they’ve got it made. they’ve made it for us to get. a tusk spikes like sound of framing its own understatement. now, as it starts raining, as it does every day, every purpose shown like lightning across the form of space… choked down in a rage. slapped upside the head with calm. they tell you their lies in persuasive rhythms. tonic lulling. “that’s just so unacceptable—how can you pass this off, this kinda hokey spondee-driven shallow text? this weak talk sinks all boats the same. this drink toughens the last pause with a dribble and a praise. drown much lately?” “it has a beat, honey, but it’s not dance music.”