Wednesday, April 24, 2013

[Cowboy] Poet's Korner

"I never thought I'd be implicated in a melancholy closing of the west"

I see 'em, from Main Street,
in their fancy saloon
laughing, throwing
back their heads
and the latest
mixology compliments
of the new barman
in from Saint Lewis

It's their scene and
they revel with un-
hindered certainty
draped in spun
fruits from the Flowery

Things had been
going downhill ever
since Doc Traebis
hung up his bone saw and
belt beguiled
by the glamour of the
haberdashery game
the mud accumulated
on my boot heels

Tante tugs
my duster, she's fixin'
to come by dry
goods by nightfall
I could've sworn the
painted writhing
bacchanals sneered
at her but one
day too their spines
will curl like armadillos and
their eyes will cloud over
like the disinterested sky

The saloon was a
compartment insulated
from space-time or
whatever those college
boys back east posit
Me, I like to think
of it as a
mis-called pocket in
the cosmic billiards
The almighty is
an unseen hustler

We make for
the mercantile and
I pity them in a way
their interactions devoid
of a larger context
I'll take
my chances with Tante
and forge my own
narrative in a sod
house straddling
the urban-rural interface.

--Steed Stetson

Saturday, April 20, 2013

Holiday Korner

Lots of the time, I'd say, mmmmm, once an hour, it's 4:20 somewhere. Like somewhere in the world. Because of time changes? Yeah, time changes, you know. Time is weird, you know? But uhhhh fuck, you wanna pack a bowl?

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Ekonomy Korner

Buy sheep, sell deer.

(Disclaimer: KREATION KORNER assumes no responsibility for any consequence relating directly or indirectly to any action or inaction you take based on the information, services or other material on this site. This stock tip was overheard spoken by a human man in a suit, April 15, 2013, at Boise Greyhound Station, 1212 W. Bannock St., Boise, ID 83702.)

Sunday, April 14, 2013

Fiktion Korner

Part I.

Part II.

Part III. of III. The blood comes in dribbles at first. As the bus moves, the blood is inclined to trail through the air on a parabolic trajectory which spatters his feet, torso, and occasionally his face. Before long, there is a thud, dropped like an extra-large workboot onto the roof of the bus. Angry starlings career through the emergency exit and into the cabin of the bus, he feels their sharp beaks and oily, beating wings on his face. He smells their feverish animalism. They are after the larvae which have appeared, he knows not where from, on the bus floor. What little light now enters the bus has become by turns decayed greens, burning reds. The thudding object is rolling in some imperfect manner from the front of the bus toward the overhead exit. Some exit, he thinks. And he knows the world is purging itself. And how quaint, he thinks, that a municipal transit authority would install such a strange metaphysical apparatus and call it by the mundane name of "emergency exit."

This has been "The Transit Authority Has a Sick Sense of Humor," by Tum Cruz. Look for his other works in the romance aisle of a Krim Kram's Bargain Mart near you!

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Trend Alert!

Here's what's trending:

1. Margaret Thatcher

2. North Korea

3. Texas college attack

4. Children abducted

5. Bird flu

6. Tennessee gun death

7. Annette Funicello

8. Louisville

Have a trendy day!

(Trends courtesy of CNN Trends)

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Kandor Korner

"A kreative act or work is as much what it is not as what it is. So when I tell you a tedious, hackneyed, uninteresting joke, I'm simultaneously telling you the most inventive, sidesplitting and thought-provoking joke you've ever heard. You're welcome."

--Svetlana Mendoza 

Monday, April 1, 2013

Video Korner

Last September, an anonymous filmmaker insinuated a mysterious video into our midst. At the time, we wondered if and when this guerilla kreationist would strike again. Our wonder was assuaged the other day when one of our technicians noticed some unfamiliar frames strewn on the editing bay floor. After several sleepless nights, we have managed to painstakingly cut together a coherent short we believe is true to our unknown kontributor's intent (the frames were numbered). What remains unsettling is how this elusive weaver of moving images was able to infiltrate his work right under our noses. Granted, we have a literal open-door policy, but still, you'd think somebody would have noticed a stranger coming or going. Peep game: