Tomorrow

by Eric Hill


The fucking hippies next door were driving dude nutso. With their guitar circles, bongos, were they bongos? Yea. And those ridiculous fucking circular things they shake that have the bells and shit on them. Do they actually think that shit is music? Unbelievable. The one guy has a beard down to his waist, skinny fucker with a bald head. Likely a premie baby - now he works 9 hours a week and spends the rest of his time smoking cigarettes and drinking PBR while telling the next nearest asshole his views on American consumerism. How fucked up it is we value arbitrary shit like brand names and vehicles and how much better off we’d all be if we’d only stop and play some music.


Meanwhile dude sits in his room, bored, thinking about all the shit he could and should do but likely won’t. Always thinking about it, though. He’ll read, he’ll write, he’ll hunker down and really just fucking commit to it. But it’s KIND OF FUCKING HARD TO CONCENTRATE WHEN YOU GOT CAPTAIN WOODSTOCK AND COMPANY CLAPPING AND SINGING AND SHIT OUTSIDE YOUR WINDOW. So he stops, how could he continue? It’s unimaginable. Dude can't possibly be expected to produce anything of value with this shit going on. That’s just one excuse, though, out of what seems an abyss of reasons to fill the day with nothingness. For every ingenious plan crafted there are two reasons not to follow through. There’s no way around it, and this is the shit that gets dude really irked.


Schools out and works slow, hours once dreaded are hours now missed. Boredom leads to frequent bursts of inspiration, some genius idea to do this and that or that and help people. Tomorrow dudes going to wake up and find a cause to get behind, something to promote, help, preach to anyone there to listen, willing or not, about how fucked up it is that in this country shit like that still goes on. And if motherfuckers would just wake the fuck up and start giving a shit all this could be solved. That’s what he’ll do tomorrow though, tonight it’s getting late and what could possibly be accomplished at such an hour?


Morning now and it’s looking to be quite the good one! The sun’s on its way up and the birds are absolutely ecstatic. Dude smacks on the TV, morning news and whatever, sees that aint shit happened since yesterday and decides that’s probably a good thing. Today’s the day, no more tomorrow bullshit when he’ll have all shitloads of time to be productive as all fuck. Definitely. He’ll wake up tomorrow before the sun’s got the birds all euphoric and get the freshest fucking start imaginable and things will get real serious, names will be taken, bags will be checked, and dude’s world will begin to change.

Yeah, tomorrow will be excellent.

Snack on a Sample

"Untitled"

Forthcoming from Nick Kotecki

***

We revert our speech when we speak to Grandpa.

“All – you – have – to – do – is: press the button.”

“Which button.”

“The defrost button, Grandpa.”

We talk to him as if he were a puppy dog or a kitten, the same way we address our infants, our babies, our toddlers if we have them. We tighten the valves and strings of our vocal cords and inhale extra helium from the air, so that when we speak all of our utterances sound like questions.

“You see, Grandpa, when you take the corn out of the freezer you need to defrost it first.”

“I did.”

“Not on the counter, in the microwave.”

“It was delicious.”

“Well, don't you think it would taste better warm and with some butter maybe?”

Another thing: rarely do we ask Grandpa questions. Our questions are actually little twists of the arm, they are mandated suggestions. We all know the rules. Grandpa is just learning. We are his teachers.

When we do ask Grandpa questions, we don't ask him anything.

“Is Grandpa cold?”

“Grandpa's hands feel like ice.”

“I'm fine.”

“Can you get Grandpa's sweater for me?”

“The sun is gorgeous. Great.”

“Does Grandpa want to go inside?”

We ask those around Grandpa what he needs. Grandpa doesn't know about his sugar intake or his constipation or his sensitive kidneys. We know it for him.

“Does Grandpa want more potatoes?”

“Broccoli. Cheese. I want that.”

“Pass me the bowl of potatoes for Grandpa.”

Grandpa always scrapes his plate clean. He always wears the bib we have suggested for him to wear at family dinners. The bibs are not plain white. They are ornate, often matching the color of the dinner's main entree.

“The cheese is delicious.”

We always wipe Grandpa's face with his bib.

EXCESS BAGGAGE: SUCCESS!

What up bloggies? Can I call you bloggies? Yeah? Sure? Great!

^________________^

HUGE INCREDIBLE ULTRA MEGA THANKS:

to all who showed up last night! Songs were sung, stories were read, dances were danced, kisses were made - blah blah blah - it was a great night because YOU were there. Send your good chi and chakra waves to the good people at Art Bar for hosting!

So apparently our ex's old shit they left at our houses were worth something after all! The auction made a WHOPPING $38!

All proceeds will go towards future SHIFT FREEDOM publications such as this one:

Thanks again lovely lovelies and bloggies!

Animated Poetry: Billy Collins

So I'm looking around for places to submit my stories, The Finger of the Moon, Now Serving Breakfast, and The Song of Abigail Tooskaloo and I come across the Midwest Literary Magazine. I'm unsure whether to submit here. I read a few things in their free my friend's living room, freeloading his wireless internet, listening to loud trashy dance music (TOBACCO), and I don't know if I like what I'm reading. I go back to the front page and find out that they're pretty much a blog just like us. So, hat's off to you Midwest Literary Magazine, consider one of your blog posts so cool as to be lifted into the radiant annuls of SHIFT FREEDOM. The videos are different, the concept the same.





See more Billy Collins animated poetry: http://www.youtube.com/user/JWTNY
Check out Midwest Literary Magazine: http://midwestliterarymagazine.com/

Nashville

By Angelo Ramos

Nashville was a

narrow road

between cedars.

A stop and go.

A bluegrass jive.

The county twang

of a slide guitar.

A truck stop coffee.

The city boys

inhabiting, conquering,

embarrassing.

A big sore thumb.

The radio

gospel sermon.

Torches throughout

the Smokeys.

Blood crosses

on doors.

A grid plan

shared by a river.

The southern drawl

of menthol

in my nostrils. 

THELONGROADHOME

Twentyfive,

thirtyfive,

singledhanded, stringlike, ranklyodored townspeople (supperward).

Twentyfive – woreout: lowtoned, tobaccostained,

thirtyfive puppetlike: woodenfaced, stonefaced.

Laidby moneypaper ebbtide.

Comalike, fatherless, motherless, foreordained comastate.

Clenchfisted unsurprise/unbelief: headlong, bearlike, unbreathing.

***

All words taken from William Faulkner's Light in August

Rearranged/recomposed by Nick Kotecki: