ISSUE 134 | FEBRUARY 2025 JOSH KEYES, EMBERS LOST HIGHWAY: JONNY DESTEFANO WILD AT HEART: KRYSTI JOMÉI MULHOLLAND DRIVE: JULIANNA BECKERT ERASERHEAD: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI BLUE VELVET: CRISTIN COLVIN ONE DOG BARK: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH FIRE WALK WITH ME: MEGAN ARENSON COLD WIND BLOWIN': MARIANO OREAMUNO, HANA ZITTEL, DS THORNBURG, PHIL GARZA, ZAC DUNN, CRISTIN COLVIN, LISA EBERHARTER FRONT COVER: DAVE DANZARA, NO TURNING BACK - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS BACK COVER: GREGG DEAL, VERSION OF SON OF MAN BY RENÉ MAGRITTE, CREATED DURING NODAPL ON STANDING ROCK (2016) - BEST OF BIRDY 104 WISHIN' WELL: DAVE DANZARA, JOSH KEYES, GRAY WINSLER, NICK FLOOK, JAIME VALDERRAMA, JASON HELLER, BRIAN POLK, JOSHUA WARE, MATTHEW C. MARINER, ERIC JOYNER, ZAC DUNN, HANA ZITTEL, MICHAEL DAVID KING, PETE GLANTING, NATE BALDING, JASON WHITE, MOON PATROL, TOM MURPHY, DAN LANDES LAST CALL: JAMIE CHIHUAN, CREATICKLE, DARIN BALABAN, JADEN CURTISS, JESS MERRITT, SKOT OLSEN, GARRETT GRAMS, ABANDONS, XTRA KOOL, TIME, GREGORY T.S. WALKER, ORYX, THE VELVETEERS, DANG., JOE VAUX, BEE LB, JOHN CASEY, ASPENTWIN, GREGG DEAL SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS: NIGHT LIGHTS DENVER, DENVER THEATRE DISTRICT, MUTINY INFORMATION CAFE, RADIO RETHINK, CAT'S EYE CRYSTALS, ART CARD DISPATCH, MONKEY BARREL, OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, CITY, O' CITY, WATERCOURSE FOODS, BROOM BOOK & CANDLE, BENNY BLANCO'S, TOXOPLASMA ARTS FOLLOW US – IG: @BIRDY.MAGAZINE | BSKY + FB: @BIRDYMAGAZINE BE IN BIRDY – ART + WORDS + COMEDY + ET CETERA: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SUBMISSIONS MAILED SUBSCRIPTIONS + BACK ISSUES + MERCH: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SHOP ADVERTISE IN BIRDY + SUPPORT OUR ARTIST-RUN MAGAZINE: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACT-US BIRDY IS WONDROUS AND STRANGE, DREAMING MONTHLY ©2025 BIRDY MAGAZINE, THE OWLS ARE NOT WHAT THEY SEEM 1
JAMIE CHIHUAN, PAINT WHAT MAKES YOU HAPPY - ADEALINHELL.COM
BY GRAY WINSLER To wake up and find oneself covered in feathers is a rather unsettling experience. To then find that not scattered about as the result of some debaucherous pillow fight, but actually attached to one’s body like some bizarre avian acupuncturing, is even more disturbing. To then find that one has in fact transmorphed into a bird, well, that’s just odd. This is what happened to Nolan. He denied it at first. When he attempted to raise his arm and found that it had become a wing, he thought he was hallucinating. When he stumbled in circles on his newly pronged feet and eventually toppled over into the dirt, he thought he may have taken magic mushrooms. When he attempted to pluck out his own feathers and found he was greeted with an immense amount of pain, he was certain that he had taken magic mushrooms. But the hours passed and his condition remained unchanged. Nolan convinced himself for a time that he was dreaming. But when he dove head first into a rock and found that the only change to his condition was an excruciating headache, the reality of his newfound form began to sink in. Eager for help, he searched the landscape for life. The world around him was dusty and dim. He was on the edge of a woods. In front of him: a stretch of red rocks and short shrubbery. He parted his beak to speak and found that chirps came out. He was startled by his own voice, but even more startled by the fact that he could understand these chirps, that he had heard both Tweeeeet! and Helllllp! Finally, at the edge of the woods, he saw another bird who was bathing itself in dust. Nolan hopped toward the bird, which was the best he could muster, as he was still getting used to his taloned feet. “You! You there! I need help!” The bird looked up at him and cocked its head. Nolan hopped closer, and the bird, who upon closer “That’s usually how it goes. Did you get too close to one of those these feathers were dreadful cats?” “No, no, that’s just it — I’m not a bird.” “Hm,” the cardinal said, looking Nolan over. “You look like a bird to me.” “I mean, I wasn’t a bird.” “We were all birds once.” Nolan’s feathers bristled. “That doesn’t make any sense!” “Perhaps you should paint.” “What?” The bird nodded toward an easel. “No, I — I don’t need to paint,” Nolan said, frustrated. “Painting helps soothe the mind,” the cardinal assured him. “I don’t even have hands!” Nolan erupted. The cardinal was confused by this, then picked up a twig in its beak and began to motion the act of painting. “Please, I’m begging— ” Nolan began, but was interrupted by a great gust of wind which toppled him over and covered him in a generous blanket of sand and dirt. He blinked through the dust and saw an enormous raven towering over him, a dark shadow against a crimson sky. Terrified, he rolled and flopped until he managed to get himself back on his talons. The raven spoke with a deep voice that seemed to emanate from the Earth’s core: “Nolan Matthews. I have been sent by the Great Kingdom of the Finch. You have been welcomed into their ranks with open wings. You will cease to be known as Nolan Matthews from this moment forth, and now be referred to as Twitch.” At once, both terrified and befuddled, Nolan found himself stammering, incoherent, as he gazed up at the twilit raven. The raven, sensing Nolan’s confusion, offered: “You are within the inspection was a lady cardinal, demure in her coloring but magnificent in her plumage, continued to watch him with curiosity. Nolan thought he may have felt a slight attraction to the cardinal but quickly hushed this feeling. The cardinal chirped, and Nolan understood it to mean, “How can I help?” “I’m not supposed to be here,” Nolan pleaded. “Who is?” “No, I mean, there’s been a mistake.” samsara.” “The what?” “Did you not read the Bhagavad Gita?” “The-the yoga thing?” Nolan asked. “You have shed your garments and put on new ones.” “What?” “The cycle continues on.” “Are you — are you trying to tell me that I’m dead?” “Do you feel dead?” Nolan felt queasy, and suddenly vomited up a worm he did not 3
remember eating. The raven plucked it up, careful not to let it go to waste. “That can’t be. I can’t be dead … ” “Is a worm in the belly dead, or is it merely on its way to breathing new life?” “It is dead!” Nolan screamed. “Of course it’s dead!” The raven shook its head, dismayed. Then it stabbed its enormous beak at Nolan’s eyes. Nolan hopped back. “What the hell!” “You do not see,” squawked the raven. “What use does one who does not see have for such magnificent eyes?” It pecked again at him. Nolan fluttered his wings madly, finding, for the first time, the pulse of the wind, and managed to thrust himself backward into the woods. He flapped furiously, not daring to look back for the raven, flying himself into a dense thicket. He crashed into the earth through the brush and looked up to find a grouse peering down at him. “Who are you?” asked the grouse. “Me?” Nolan thought on this and found that he could no longer remember his name. “I — I’m not sure … ” “Then it has already begun.” “What has?” “Your next life.” “But, no … No, I — I had a family!” “Well, then, you should go and see them.” “What?” “Just because you are a bird does not mean they are.” “How?” “How does a bird learn to find the roost of their ancient ancestors? Do not think. Fly. Let the wind carry you.” “I can’t even fly!” “You will learn. But be forewarned: the raven will come for you.” “Why?” The grouse shrugged. “It is the way of the raven. They are responsible for carrying forward the samsara. Visits to one’s past are forbidden. But birds always find the way to their roost. It is within us.” It took time, but Nolan followed the advice of the grouse. The more his own memories faded, the easier it became to let the wind be his guide. He flew in the direction he was called, and stopped questioning why. By the time Nolan arrived, he was no longer Nolan. He had entered the Great Kingdom of the Finch. But there was something within him still, a memory preserved as an instinct. He descended upon the red house that called to him like a beacon. He circled high above it and spotted a woman sitting at a picnic bench in the backyard. He swooped down and landed on a branch beside the bench. He looked at the woman, whose eyes were puffy and red. He did not know her, and yet he longed to hold her, to envelop her in his wings. He felt her sadness, and he wished for it to end. He chirped, and found that he had said, “I am always here.” The woman looked up at him then, studied him, and when she smiled, he felt that he had finally found his way home. No. 134
NICK FLOOK, ON TO THE NEXT - @FLOOKO
JAIME VALDERRAMA, STARGATE
BEST OF BIRDY 070
ART BY CREATICKLE - IG + ETSY: @CREATICKLE I BET RECENTLY FIRED MANAGERS EVERYWHERE HATE THOSE UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT SIGNS I mean, shit, not only did they just lose their job, but now they have to see a sign that adds insult to injury. It’s like the owners are saying, “Sorry about the lousy customer experience that the moronic exmanager provided you. Don’t worry, we fired that loser. Now when you come to our store, you won’t have to suffer the consequences of having an inept, bumbling idiot running the place.” It’s pretty brutal. No. 134 IT S KIND OF STRANGE WHEN YOUR FRIENDS HAVE DIRTY FLOORS IN THEIR HOUSES, AND THEY STILL WANT YOU TO TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF I don’t mind taking my shoes off when I enter my friends’ houses. I can be respectful. But when they ask me to remove my footwear, and then I have to step on a bunch of debris, I have to wonder why they’re so afraid of the soles of my shoes. Clearly, they don’t have a problem with dirt. And that’s why I need footwear to protect me from those grimy
floors. See the thing is, if I get a bunch of junk on the bottoms of my socks, when I go to put on my shoes, it all gets mashed into my insoles. So every time I take a step, I have to feel the garbage that their dirty floors left on the bottoms of my feet. While this of course isn’t the end of the world, it’s uncomfortable enough for me to complain about, apparently. So that’s something. EVERYONE ON THE BUS SMELLS LIKE WEED While I appreciate the fact that my fellow public transit passengers aren’t getting all weeded out and driving, I still find it odd that fucking everyone on this bus reeks of pot. I think it’s just me and the driver who didn’t just smoke an entire joint in the alley. Does no one take edibles anymore? HAVE YOU EVER BEEN OUT TO EAT AT A RESTAURANT YOU FREQUENT AND DECIDE TO BE BRAVE AND ORDER SOMETHING OTHER THAN YOUR USUAL, AND TWO BITES IN, YOU ARE OVERCOME WITH PROFOUND REGRET? Because I did this the other day. Being brave is for suckers. WHEN SHE WAS ON THE WAY OUT THE DOOR, I SAID, HAVE A GOOD DAY, AND SHE SAID, DON T PUT THAT KIND OF PRESSURE ON ME At first I was offended that she didn’t take my encouragement to heart. But then I realized how empty of a gesture it was for me to say that in the first place. It didn’t take any effort for me to tell her that. And the amount of effort it would take to put my words into action was really just an undue burden I placed on her. So yeah, she was right to respond the way she did. ALL JOKING ASIDE, I APPRECIATE YOUR PRESENCE Sometimes I just need someone to be there. Literally. So when I say, “Things have been really hard for me lately,” I do not need you to try to fix them or offer solutions. I just need you to hear me. Because you’re one of the people I trust to hear me. Most of the time, we have to pretend we’re someone we’re not — at our jobs, socially, when strangers ask how we’re doing. We pretend everything is fine because we don’t want to burden other people with our problems. So after I say I’m not doing well, it’s because in front of you, I don’t have to pretend. I get to be me. And right now, the me you see is full of pain. And I need you to know that, so maybe you understand that you might have to treat me a bit more gently than usual. Or maybe I need to hear a few jokes or funny stories, since I could really use a laugh right now. I mean, I definitely could use a laugh right now. So now that you’re here, let’s have a drink and sink into a level of comfort that only we can obtain. Let’s forget about our troubles — at least for now. Let’s remember all the reasons we stick around this life — at least for tonight. Thank you so much for being here. Seriously, it’s so nice to see you, and I appreciate you for listening. The next round is on me. 9
JOSHUA WARE, PUNK KIDS - BEST OF BIRDY 040 No. 134
MATTHEW C. MARINER, UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA - BEST OF BIRDY 033
BY ZAC DUNN ERIC JOYNER, TRAIN RIDE HOME - ERICJOYNER.COM "Darling, our lives are like computers that run on a software that we are given by those who make us. Our build is the way our CPU moves and keeps evolving across time and space as we too ROLL as a BALL or a SINE WAVE into the field we can hear … and know is REAL. This boundless way of seeing ourselves in singular terms lets us view our CPU like a BALL and as a RAY OF LIGHT, as we can allow things to be recognized as the SAME. Thus this identity in being a CPU falls as a BALL or drop of water on glass or bounds into the void of the COSMOS faster than our minds or science can understand. In our times of transformation, we take up ARMS and carry what we can as far as we are allowed in our FAITH FATE FORM and PATH across the COSMOS. Our hearts may see many things, but our hands may only hold so much. And so much of what we choose to value most may not serve us as much as we could ever know. In finding ourselves at an impasse on a plane in a context, we very well may be a BROKEN CPU that cannot function. As its software has created a fragmented system that ripples around it like a STONE in the STREAM … BREAKING WATER and discordant WAVES as the CURRENT and LIVING THINGS bound over, under, through and around. In our BROKEN MODE, the MIND cannot find any peace and may be a deeply conflicted machine that has calculated equations that lead to No. 134 TOXIC SUMS that WE seem to consume in a state of NEED. As the water RISES, our inner barrier of SANE and calm thought might surprise us in knowing that we are NOT BROKEN, and NOT ALONE. SAME is the living thing we wonder is having a struggle or toil that we too could know and find grace in seeing too. TO YEILD and stop long enough to see and feel ourselves in relation to other, not in PLUS or MINUS, but in KINDNESS, we EARN in small acts, we choose in FORCES, WE CONTROL NOT, CAN NEVER TURN. TO HIDE we SEEK KNEES that GIVE UP CHOICE. WHEN the CPU is no longer able to FUNCTION it will REBOOT. In this huge shift, the POLE SHIFT may occur, should the machine see a MIRROR and take steps toward the LIGHT, and not the DARK DAYS WAYS and SYSTEMS that MAROON is in this dreadful place. COLD is the VEINz in the CPU as it ENTERS A VOID. And DEEP is the HURT that ANCHORz know KRAAKENz and GYSERz at the bottom of DAVEY JONEz LOCKER. AS a need to RISE SO SLOWLY FROM A BASE, so perilously low, we take a final look into the blackness we burned up and now must begin again NEW. THE FORM we choose used to be US too, and WE may be very much missing what we think is the FLOAT that brings us to the surface with
KIND FATHOMS … SANS THE BENDz. BUT an inverse may occur. The blood vessels may expand and push against the very housing of our CRANIAL PERCH TROUT or CATFISH OOKIE NOODLE and RIVER BANK ROOKERz we plug into PUTRID MUD OV LOVE. The grasp of the sour COTTONMOUTH infested waters embrace takes AUDACITY. Most of URBAN minds are PROFANE and FIND no WILL to REACH INTO A BOX that could allow them to know a BRAVE HEART so TONY STARK. IRON MEN WIN TITAN TIFFz OVER LESSER BRUTEz ALBATROSS ‘N’ GRITz BUT the CROW we CALL at DAWN is a LIVER-EATING JOHNSON or JEBEDIAH, JIM JONEz who PREACHES to the CHOIR first then takes DONATIONS he SQUANDERz INSTANTLY. THE EYE of BUX is BLIND UNWISE KIND or GIVES US TAKING FROM MOUTHz WE OPEN HUNGRY for COMMUNION. BUT … if we loose our CHAINz and BRAKE ANCHOR, we may very well come to what lies we told ourselves and why we cannot LIVE, GIVE or SAY a WORD in EXCUSE for the wisdom we own on our faces. FAITH FATE FORM SANE SAFE SAME We drop to our own knee in our own hearts to see the light we cannot hide and the love we know in boundless wealth. We can feel a vacuum or void in our hearts when we start to care and consider things that POLE SHIFT or SEXTANTz HUEz or LATITUDEz of BLU MOODz we SUFFER to beat up quick, and CALL US ONE to REST and bless US NEXT. For TRANSFORMATION is REAL and we feel ALIVE TO BE KIND WISE & NOT DIE as WE WALK INTO THE LIGHT AND BELIEVE OUR LIFE IS A GIFT WE CHOOSE TO USE TO SPITE THE LIES THEY USE. WE MIGHT JUST STOP LEARNING TO LIVE AND LOVE the WAY WE WERE BORN FREE OUTSIDE a CIRCLE OV SADISTIC TALES and BOOKz that EVIL MEN PEN and EVIL MEN read And EVIL FOLLOW across OCEANz of CONSEQUENCES and ACTS they pretend as TINY CHILDREN. They can be born in blood worth once of dew drops as TEARS are SCANT. When we choose PAIN over LOVE and EXCHANGE CURRENCY of PAIN, HATE, DEATH and MALICE, they WANT TO CALL LAWS but we call … ME TOO … ?! … SAME … ?! Stand and deliver or stand in the sun as CROWS slowly eat your body BITE BY BITE and the SUN turns the FLESH to a RASIN that NONE SHALL REMEMBER. SO … GO FOURTH … STAND WITH OR FUCK as you may come out of a FACE in saying … BUT KNOW that TIME, SPACE and the LAW of NATURE are the place we live and FOOLS kid themselves upstream SANS PADDLE to CRY RIVERz as they FALL over ACTz, CHOICEz and VOICEz OV DEF." 314.OGE 5:54….1.26.25.000093 HOD NYC PURPLE FOLLOW FOR MORE — IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYC 13
Stone Fruit by Lee Lai (2021) Celebrated as the 2022 American Library Association Stonewall Award Honor Book and a 2022 Lambda Literary Award Finalist, Lee Lai’s graphic novel, Stone Fruit, explores the deep emotional bonds of chosen family and the complex pull of blood relatives. Ray and her partner Bron watch Ray’s niece, Nessie, twice a week. Together, they embark on imaginative adventures and get dirty exploring the outdoor world. A single mother, Ray’s sister accepts the help, but isn’t sure how she feels about her daughter spending so much time with Bron, who Ray has mentioned struggles with her mental health. When the resentment boils over between Nessie’s mom and her aunties, the conflict drives Bron to leave the relationship and return home to her religious and disapproving family. Told through blue-toned watercolor drawings, Lai’s illustrations help to emphasize the swirling relationships in Stone Fruit, heightening the emotion and connection with each character. Each waging their own internal battles, Lai’s character development is captivating and consuming, driving home the difficult choices made when the bonds in a relationship wane. Honest and heartfelt, Stone Fruit is a beautifully written and drawn journey through family, intimacy and self-discovery. Ocultos by Laura Pérez, Translated by Andrea Rosenberg (2024) A tiny shift of an item in your home, not made by anyone who lives there. A dream with a warning that feels so real you have to comply. Mysterious lights floating in the night sky with no logical explanation. In Laura Pérez’s newest graphic novel translated to English, she explores the phenomena that are just beyond the veil, the otherworldly, and the messages that may be delivered to us from the other side. Eerie and beautifully drawn, Pérez sometimes only uses sparse drawings to convey storylines, highlighting her ability to create whole words with only images. Each story in this collection leaves the lingering feeling that something lurks behind you, around you, or darkly within. Pérez’s additional illustration work was celebrated with an Emmy nomination in 2022 for her opening animations on the show, Only Murders in the Building. A perceptive and insightful storyteller and artist, Ocultos truly captures her unique abilities and was recognized by the New York Public Library as one of their best comics of the year in 2024. No. 134 By Hana Zittel
MICHAEL DAVID KING - BEST OF BIRDY 014 15
SKOT OLSEN, ARMY SURPLUS - @OLSENSKOT | SKOTOLSEN.COM
No. 134
No. 134 BEST OF BIRDY 103
ABANDONS – LIMINAL HEART The ghosts of American paranoia and BY TOM MURPHY anxiety haunt the melancholic strains and rumblings of opening track, “Habitats,” like future archaeologists sampling those concerns from abandoned structures in the former hinterlands of civilization. ABANDONS thus explores, in composition and sonic emotional resonance, a certain attraction to the forgotten, neglected and transitional spaces in the places we occupy physically and in our own psychology. “Saudade” is in moments reminiscent of Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s desolate nostalgia before tumbling into flights of fiery melodrama. “New Mysteries” sounds like a journey through cavernous darkness guided toward a distant blossom of lingering guitar awash in luminous white noise. Closing the album with “Smiling in the Midst of Two Armies,” and its clashing cathartic clangor and the disintegrating loop of Robert J. Oppenheimer’s famous quote from The Bhagavad Gita, the trio leaves us wishing we could see the ominous and beautiful movie we just heard. EXTRA KOOL X TIME – THE GRIMIES With a seemingly endless supply of poignant, heartfelt observations and clever wordplay with masterful cultural references, Extra Kool and Time trade bars that establish vivid narratives of personal anxieties and societal disarray and decay. “Orwell Told Me” depicts the surveillance state with a poetic accuracy increasingly relevant. But that poetic truth manifests especially effectively in the anchoring of the lyrics to Denver-specific references. “The Denver Book of the Dead” in particular is like the origin story of the duo’s hip-hop crew, Dirty Laboratory, and one that any underground Denver musician that has had to navigate the Mile High’s fickle musical landscape will recognize immediately. This record is a hall of haunted mirrors that both comfort and challenge in the way instantly identified truths will. GREGORY T.S. WALKER – MINSTRELS AND MINIMOOGS This album was originally independently released by Gregory T.S. Walker in 1988 written to accompany a multimedia performance at CU Boulder’s Fiske Planetarium. It’s a timeless fusion of analog synth composition and archaic music concepts. It sounds like it could No. 134 have come out any decade since the 1960s with synth guitars and electronic drums, expressing the vibes of an overlay of Egyptian mythology and Medieval Christian mysticism. Think Wendy Carlos and Suzanne Ciani scoring a John Boorman film, and you’re on the right track in its seamless combining of texture, rhythm, tone and melody. ORYX – PRIMORDIAL SKY The lyrics of this album are like a prophecy of the future and of a summation of our current era of civilizational disintegration out of an overabundance of hubris. The crushing dynamics and caustic clouds of melodic yet noisy distortion lend the songs the appropriate heft of the subject matter. But Oryx has a way of crafting its soundscapes so that the heaviest portions seem to float and drift after they are unleashed. Like the smoke of the fire of the burning wreck of a civilization, too caught up in its own nonsense to realize it can’t pay it’s way out of the consequences of its abuse of the world, within which it exists but treats all as assets to consume. Rather than seethe completely with the anger at this order of things, this album almost seems to have a spirit of looking forward to a time when humanity’s tools and systems of world destruction implode on themselves and leave ruins from which something better can emerge. THE VELVETEERS – A MILLION KNIVES On 2021’s Nightmare Daydream, The Velveteers established themselves as having a high command of heavy, anthemic blues rock with a creative, dramatic flair and emotional self-awareness. This record builds on the band’s ability to put edge to vulnerability and bombast while exploring beyond expectations. “Bound In Leather” has some modern disco sensibility in its rhythms and Demi Demitro’s soaring choruses. Elements of electronic pop are seemingly more fully integrated into the songwriting, giving the album a cinematic feel as the band’s songs take on themes of emotional abuse, personal integrity, and preserving and nurturing the best aspects of oneself and others. The tenderly rendered title track especially embodies the latter in the heart of the storm of some of the band’s most vitally creative and ferocious material to date. For more, visit queencitysoundsandart.wordpress.com
DANG., REVENANT III - THEARTOFDANG.COM
The Walls We Fix By ZAC DUNN AS children we are told to YES and NO AS we are given play pens and aprons to keep the mess from us AS walls are given to us to keep the world and chaos of nature from leading us astray But as MOWGLI was given a JUNGLE BOOK or LORD GREYSTOKE was left to swing from vines and live When we crawl toward the sword or ball we are always given choice, but in a way our minds may be unable to VOICE The light we see that rises and surprises MICKEY in the NIGHT KITCHEN to flip the switch for the morning cake to bake The WILD THINGS we become when left to our devices and released from hearing all the senseless lies A pouncing feline is clever to sit and lay in wait to spring into deadly action As a bit of feathers and dander on furry lips drips small bits of its flavor to taste in scurrying to the next We prospect for rare gems and fertile meadows so luscious in all seasons But the walls we erect to protect this humble gully can sully the very beauty we stood and chose firmly once The death and decay that must blow away as ashes scatter to all four corners to find a resting place too As sun and moon chase the shadow of the lone LOON upon a remote ATOLL, we hold up high the most firm brick and mortar in hopes the all can’t crawl so high To sneak inside and make the outside wild and free, we must cut the chain of the cage we know is a safe place If we choose to LIVE FREE and only respond to the creature we walk forward into the LIGHT TO BECOME OUR eyes must cast a gaze at the sky and another at the earth in the same breathe For AS ABOVE SO BELOW A NAME WE CHANT IN LIGHT DARK and face SHARP TEETH IS OUR OWN APPALACHIAN CHAIN OF ROCKS WE DECLARE ARE THE BODY WE BECAME 5:55am HOD FOLLOW FOR MORE — IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYC 25 JOE VAUX, FROM ME TO YOU - IG + BSKY: @JOEVAUX
WE GOT THE FEET By Nate Balding History, once unfurled, will recall that there were actually two varieties of Bigfoot. Those shadowy wild men of the forest boasting size 19s, and those whose feet were counted only as big as their heart. The former will forever be unfortunately associated with the tragic Adidas x DJ Squatch drop day stampede that killed 147 and kicked off the Sneaker Wars of 2137 (RIP Generalissimo OG Jordanzzz), while the latter shall forever be a category comprising one: Carl. Herman. Unthan. Ya boi celebrated his zeroth birthday on April 5, 1848 in Sommerfeld, East Prussia, delivered via midwife — not unusual — who immediately offered to murder the child — pretty fucking unusual. Had it not been for Carl’s father’s intervention, it’s said the midwife was poised to take executive action in a smothering event. Young Master Unthan had emerged malformed, sans upper extremities, and it was the opinion of the midwife that rather than live without arms the boy ought to be relieved of his misery statim (extra sentence points for double Latin, bb). Declaring Carl gifted as God intended, Herr Unthan ordered the baby swaddled and held his son with the stoic distance that only a 17th century German could. To wit: Upon seeing the midwife express pity he enacted the first of several rules that would apply to Carl through his childhood — that nobody should exhibit sorrow for the boy lest he learn to feel sorry for himself. A second unbendable rule would be decreed during Carl’s early toddlerhood. Normally clad in the traditional attire of the region — namely the red latex bodysuit Peter Stormare wears in the penectomy nightmare sequence from The Big Lebowski — an afternoon arose where an unsupervised and barefoot Carl crawled into his play area and took his little tootsies to a toy, manipulating a ball back and forth with some dexterity. His father discovered him midplay and declared that Carl should never again don footwear. You’d think Herr Unthan would have been worried he was giving carte blanche to raise a filthy hippie, but he had faith that the joyless environs of 1850s Germany would quash any such notion. The third and final rule would come after Carl deftly swiped a scoop of oatmeal from a bowl being passed around the table and brought the food up to his mouth, chowing down off those walkers. Gross, Carl, but I get it. I appreciate an agent of chaos. Herr Unthan stated that Carl was to be allowed to do what he pleased and that anyone who helped would answer to him, thus forever defining the word “scaregiver.” It worked, however. Subsequent years would find Carl a ready autodidact. He shouldered chores on the farm, conceiving of novel ways to lend a foot. When he heard the watery call of a cerulean oasis, he taught himself to swim. He mastered krumping 150 years before it would be invented. Mornings were spent huddled in the back of the attached classroom where his father taught. Naturally, the challengeminded Carl resolved to learn to play the violin at age 10. And learn he did. When he wasn’t planting, polishing shoes or running a basket twixt market and farm, he was playing. At 16 he was sent to the National Conservatory. A few years on and Carl was performing live. He would No. 134 take the stage with a jacket hanging loosely upon his shoulders then dramatically let it fall, revealing to an unsuspecting (for the time being, anyway) audience his difference of bodily opinion. [Begin mid80s rap] He astounded. He astonished. With nothing but his feet, Carl fuckin’ demolished. [End mid-80s rap] In his 20th year — a mere 10 years after he’d picked up the instrument — he was debuting in Vienna, soloing for an orchestra conducted by none other than Johann Strauss. Blue Danube? Check. Die Fledermaus? Check. A truly insane handlebar-into-muttonchop? Oh baby, tri. Pell. Check! Midway through the show, disaster dawns as a snapped E string brings gasps from the assemblage, and the screeching halt player finally got his meager moment in the spotlight. Carl whipped out his backup strings and, within minutes, was back in forma di concerto. Standing O face. Carl garnered national, then international, acclaim. Having conquered the stage, he was beckoned by new horizons that nobody expected a man of his particular anthroposcopy to bring to heel. He began riding horses, a pastime that would last until his death. He learned to shoot. Like really, really well, blasting the spots from playing cards at long range. He starred in 1913’s Atlantis. The clip is available on YouTube with the wildly incongruous accompaniment of Sly and the Family Stone’s “Sheer Energy.” Highly recommended. Love reared its cherubic visage in the form of singer Antonie Neschta during a multi-country tour. They married and eventually moved to America where Carl became the arch nemesis of Jesco White, regularly engaging in outlaw dance battles for control of the Appalachian methamphetamine trade. At last count it was 13-12 in Jesco’s favor. Near the end of his life, Carl scribes a bestselling memoir, The Armless Fiddler, calling it (rightly so) the world’s first pediscript. Fittingly, the boy who I suspect never considered himself having overcome anything because there was nothing to overcome — simply a differentiation of development — literally closed the book on his life with the following epigraph: “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” Have questions about the paranormal? Send them to: werewolfradarpod@gmail.com or Twitter: @WerewolfRadar It’s a big, weird world. Don’t be scared. Be Prepared.
FROM THE POSTCARD DIARIES - NOVEMBER 21, 2024
ART BY JASON WHITE
p l ay i n g be t w ee n w o r l d s by B E E L B a beeswax candle balancing on the lip of empty champagne. four green tongues of flame licking the underside of a log swollen with heat. sun-bitten skin slick with oil. a red-orange winged body stalking the side of the road. failed attempts to notice. unlit lamps in the eyes of a deer parallel a different road. these bodies asking questions i cannot hear or understand. superior’s chill swallowing my extremities is what i’ll remember. forget the black tourmaline ash. the brakes struggling downhill. the door falling closed. not sand but steady rock beneath my cold feet, superior tonguing my frozen toes. the heft of my body threatening to fall out of fear. contributing to the erosion. thieving rocks as substitute for memories. no shells to be found but a detached crab leg far from home. three months til change, a wish for return crackling across a phone line. forced curls as the braid unravels. a desperation i could have left while submerged in water. but then the water would be permeated by my tangled emotions. bright skies and uncertain rain since waking. red sand scarred my hands. an arcing boat scarred the surface of superior. i asked a stranger to believe me and he did. i held grace in both hands, dripping. i let the end approach me before i was ready. the days slipped away in sweating bottles of dwindling drink. 29
MOON PATROL, NIGHTMARES
Art City By Dan 'DL' Landes On the outskirts of Tucumcari, a town slowly leaking vitality like neon escaping the glass tubes which bathe the settlement in a warm glow, a man walks slowly towards the setting sun. The ancestral realm. He casts a long shadow. We are all in it. To the south, the land of the wild unbridled, a band of horses wander east towards the highway jammed with racing lorries carrying goods that are already dying upon arrival. The man heads west, the horses east, the trucks head north and south. Eventually the horses will attempt to cross the highway. They are, to a one, decimated by the 18-wheelers which don't even break cruise control before plowing into the beasts, splitting them, exploding them, their viscera strewn about like tacky streamers at a quinceañera. The man, just before he dips below the horizon line, turns back and looks at Tucumcari, acknowledging it as the perfect setting for the theater of the absurd. Thanks for playing. RIP David Lynch 31 JOHN CASEY, DAVID LYNCH JOHNCASEY.COM
ASPENTWIN, MY SWEETHEART THE DRUNK – @ASPENTWIN
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