Daily Roach: Feb. 4th

They carried the stories like pollen, golden globes tucked beneath their arms, there to rub off and come loose against the minds of foreigners, a rich and thirsty soil.

Daily Roach: Mar. 3rd

Coins, interesting little notions of security.

Daily Roach: Mar. 2nd

Hold back the sentiment, and with the other arm let loose the inquisitive child.

Daily Roach: Mar. 1st

They're roots, secret gnarls exposed at hidden deeps, fat-fingered fists with spider-leg hair.

Daily Roach: Feb. 28th

Across the night-sky winking, spark-tailed, the sparrow of fire flew a sudden and gentle arc of light.

Daily Roach: Feb. 27th

Nothing so belittles and then realigns the artistic ideal as the practicalities of life: a mother's shout or a father's belt, the hungry stomach or the frozen fingers, a creeping financial debt or a broken ATM card.

Business Man: 1

Listen. I’m at the top of a fifty storey high-rise with my laptop. I’m tapping out the letters that make up these words, and I can see a body falling down, down, down, off the edge of a stone half-wall, which I happen to be standing on, my black shoes bright as spit in the sun, my dress pants dancing absurdly in the chemical wind of this frantic city. Yeah, the body is mine. The imagination, too, and there I go splat, though I’ve fabricated the sound of it. The wind is so loud up here, blowing radiation right into my ear drums. A crowd gathers, little specks of volcanic sand collecting on a cement frying pan, momentarily made motionless, and certainly less stupid. I can see the sirens all the way from five blocks down, but I can’t hear them for this blasted hurricane. Emergency! No, listen. It hasn’t happened, I’m just imagining it, but I’m doing it because work accomplishes the same thing. It’s all politics. No, that’s cliché, lemme’ explain that. It’s perceptual positioning – desk-jockey hockey, all grim and brimstone gossip, but as calm and clinical as elective surgery. We’ve all voted for insanity. It’s not as though we have no choice, we keep on voting, as we assemble the morning’s data and slosh it around like mouthwash, as we spit it out into meaningless report after report, as we graph every conceivable variable on the face of earth to fluff up presentations (I’ve thought of graphing graphs, but no one would get it). “So yes, it seems as though Fart is rising far more quickly than Burp, as you can see by this jutting red line here, and this sagging blue line here.” Do you see my body falling now? So we are in agreement. The inaudible sirens, the state of emergency, brain splatter on the light post, and just another morning.