Author

Matt Boose

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A voice cries out in the wilderness, moaning like a doleful ghost up the hilltop from down the slope. My eyes get blocked by clouds of dust, curtains of earth glinting. Bright, white. Heat. There is no smell here but dry earth. About a hundred yards down the slope, I can see it. A purple cloth tied around the bole, flapping low and rapid, forlorn. The curtains go back and forth. It shows between the curtains, sheeting across the slope. Like an upside down smile, showing and not showing, shuttered between bands of it. The voice cries out again. The ghost, the ghost. I start walking down the slope toward it. For a little while there is no sound and no feeling but the specks of dust gathering between my back and shirt. When I’m about halfway down, I see clouds start to mass up gray and primordial. Then the…

Your bathroom floor, New York—After being carelessly dropped and broken by you, area Smartphone “5GX-QP” was reportedly unresponsive to your accusations of being a worthless piece of crap. “Why won’t you work,” you muttered angrily at the stupid goddamn fucking thing, swiping your finger to no effect across the fractured touch screen. “Stupid thing sucks.” After sustaining a salvo of swears and insults, the lifeless object only hardened its resolve to not fucking work, remaining firmly aloof to your complaints with cold indifference. “This was just what I needed today. Fucking great.” At press time, your smartphone was allegedly joined by a rebellious printer in conspiring against your mood.

In April of 1925, Thomas Stearns Eliot left his job at a London bank to join Faber and Faber, the publishing house where he would work for the remainder of his career. Three years earlier, the literary expatriate had published what is commonly regarded as the central poem of the 20th century: The Wasteland. “April is the cruelest month…” begins Eliot’s 1922 poem. In the stanza that follows, Eliot lays out a startling inversion of poetic tradition. The inaugural month of spring is not the time of life and renewal that his predecessors has imagined; a far cry from Chaucer’s “Aprille with his shoures soote”, Eliot’s cruel month brings not a resurrection of life but an exhumation of the dead, with “lilacs breeding out of the dead land.” The remaining stanzas are a cryptic pastiche of allusions to classic authors; vague declamations of calamity; and ghostly, disembodied mutterings from the…

After falling out of a third story window, area man Timothy Brewer has reportedly seen his life changed forever. “Before the accident, I was a jack of all trades. I had no special talents. Then I fell out of a third story window, and my life changed forever,” Brewer said. Brewer couldn’t have guessed it then, but his fall was the beginning of an incredible metamorphosis. “I have lost thousands of brain cells, my IQ has plummeted, and now, I struggle with completing rudimentary human tasks on an everyday basis,” the former postman said. Having suffered a debilitating blow to the hippocampus, Brewer is amazed to discover that he is no longer capable of simple addition, wiggling his big toe, or recalling the date of his own birth. “Whereas before I was simply average at math, I am now abjectly terrible at it.” It hasn’t taken long for Brewer’s story…

Post-Pop Depression, Iggy Pop’s latest record, is one of the aging enfant terrible’s most substantial albums in years. Now three decades older since the release of Raw Power and Lust for Life, Iggy has built an extensive – if spotty – catalogue since his 1969 debut with The Stooges. During the early stage of his career, he was an innovator and a furious leveler, reducing rock to its fundament with music of brutalizing power. 1970’s Fun House, a violent maelstrom of noisy punk jazz, was an early indication of his impish creator-destructor persona. The anemic depression of his 1977 solo debut, The Idiot, which was produced collaboratively with the late David Bowie, marked a sharp turn toward darkness of a different order. In keeping with its Dostoevsky-inspired title, The Idiot was a cavernous, electronic venture into existential despondency. Recorded in Europe around the same time as Bowie’s Berlin trilogy, the…

Former Florida Governor and former presidential hopeful, Jeb Bush, has died. “The Bush family is deeply saddened by the death of their political dynasty, and also their beloved son, Jeb Bush,” the family’s spokesman said. “May the love, care and millions of dollars they wasted on his campaign stand as an enduring testament to their affection for him.” The cause of death is still unknown, but investigators are on the scene. “According to a family witness, Jeb died from complications due to low energy,” the family doctor said. Former President George W. Bush, the first to learn of Jeb’s demise, said that the genuine milquetoast “kind of just stuttered to death.” “I was in the shower, thinking about my next painting of Dalmatians re-enacting the flag raising at Iwo Jima,” Bush said. “When I got this feeling that something wasn’t right with Jeb. Feeling my George Bush thetan levels dropping…