The city was hot.

But not like last week.

Humid, sticky, murderous.

Bart walked the streets.

The warm stench of urine wafted up from the grates over the subway.

Trudy was working.

She was always working.

Usually, Bart enjoyed taking a stroll around the city.

His mind would fire with interesting thoughts like fireflies in

the woods at night.

Today he went to the local Schlockbusters looking for a movie.

It was hot in the store.

No air conditioning. No good movies either.

He went to a local Great Buy. Nothing good there either unless you had four grand and change to spend on a flat screen TV.

Nothing in the music dept. no new CDs or music videos.

Then he went next door to the bookstore.

All the new books looked the same. They looked like a scam. Like something unreal.

The famous faces on the covers were all ugly and self-important.

He made his way over to the classics section hoping for inspiration.

Bart flipped through a book by Ernie Humdinger on writing.

Even when old Ernie tried to sound humble in his letters to other writers… He still came off as a pompous jerk.

Perhaps he should have written a book entitled “How to take yourself too seriously.”

Or better yet…How to be your own worst critic…kablam!

Bart walked past the homeless guy with the face of a crocodile outside of the drugstore. He would stay there every day and sing to himself. Not a great job, but seemed like he had tenure at least.

The world just was not creative anymore.

There were no great writers, musicians, filmmakers or intelligent life forms in all of Hollywood.

Every day a stupid new reality show was being perpetrated on the public.

The latest had a bunch of rich kids on a cattle ranch.

It was a rip off of another rip off of an old idea that was re-heated and re-cast.

Bart felt like he was inhaling sand and chewing on sawdust. To make things worse…everywhere he looked it seemed like new strange little birds were crawling in the dirt or in the bushes or flying over his head just a little too close for comfort.

An uneasy day.

Even the letters he strung together on his computer didn’t seem to

fit.

He tried to write a poem:

That’s What Happens

They come to me

at the strangest times

these images

of alligators playing croquet

a psychedelic Buddha

pink and white undies

underneath that blue and green tartan skirt

they come like lightning bolts

and dripping water

images of

leopard headed monkeys

with emerald eyes and tails

that never end

in the shower

or on the john

they crawl through my windows

with slimy tentacles

slippery and silent

pigeons explode inside my brain

horses and hippos

bathe in pools of

rainbow-glo blood

I guess that’s what happens

when love

goes away.

He immediately crumpled it up and threw it out the window. Fuck this Goddamn building he thought…no goddamn AC! The anger seared through him… another poem was making its way into his brain…he grabbed a pen and a piece of scrap paper.

Not An Artist

really bad poetry

keeps pouring out of me

like peacock blood

unicorn vomit

and mermaid gas

really bad poetry

like a mountain

of fool’s gold

is easy to mine

but useless to all.

really bad poetry

flows from this pen

ruining perfectly good

loose-leaf paper

words with

no order

or rhythm

or depth

dance away from my

fingers

and glare back at me

with righteous indignation

bad

bad

bad

bad!!!

with no purpose at all

just to fool a fool

who is

not an artist.

Again, Bart crumpled up the paper and threw it out the window. He stood up and looked at his reflection in the metal lamp pole on the desk. Distorted. He grabbed for another piece of scrap paper.

Roxy’s Cat

You’re asleep

I just know it

while your cat

patters about on a

black velvet carpet

of night

you’re asleep

I just know it

while my heart screams

your name

I listen to my air conditioner

it tells me to stay calm

be a cool cat…

while time washes me down the drain

my face

my smell

my laugh

my love

you’re asleep

I just know it

that water dripping

in my bathroom

told me so.

Once again, Bart crumpled up the poem and threw it out the window.

He walked over to the refrigerator.

Opened it.

Looked in.

Closed it.

Stood there.

Took his pen and wrote a note on the pad attached to the door with a magnet.

Then he went into the bedroom.

Packed a bag and never came back.

Adam Kluger (Art by Dreck)