by Andrew Spence 

Tin Foil From Fukushima

No Rain
Not often // Government Conspiracy Theory #1

the Tin Foil is made
in Fukushima now
The Believers are contaminated
rain could wash it away
they know
they sent their weather changers,
those weird orbs,
to stop it to keep it
we might

I send in workers to stop the leak
one by one they come back
glow worms burrow
out their ears

broken larceny plans at rebuilding
buildings of some many lost blue prints

nobody is in the mansion of my childhood
only the old man who told me
is hiding in the basement bunker he made himself
instead of having children

they told me I have those
they are not contaminated because they are so far away
they are in pure space
like a mountain that kept going up and up and up
and up
where nothing could breath
and nothing was happy not to breath
because it was nothing
That is where the children are
they are happy because
they want nothing and have nothing
and see the nothing

I see nothing and wonder
how much longer
I can keep the satellites pointed
keep the non-believers
from believing
I am afraid
if they find it
if they believe
I am scared
I am not special
I am just a man
with space children
and radiation poisoning
and friends with glow worms
burrowed out their ears

We all our helpful hints
from the alt-news sources
they gave out the secret signal
the secret signal for government take over
everyone who was a believer knew about the signal
an article about always telling the truth
then we knew it was all over
we the truth seekers
to lies once again
even if it still sounded real
it was not
the signal proved it

Damn This Day

I will go for a walk. Today I will go to the coffee shop.
Elevated, to see the next town. Elevated to see where the kids play in the streets.
I am here to drink black dark liquid made with poor labor and signed waivers.

I get the spiced roast, because I deserve the kick in the mouth.
Behind me, in line, there is a man in dark clothing.

He is made of dirt and creepy crawlies. He drinks mud with a grin.
He is made of mold and candy corn dropped last Halloween under your bed.
He steals my coffee and throws it at the Red Head behind to counter.

She turns to me, her burnt bad braces spring. He ran before she saw. She only sees me.

I just want to show her it all doesn’t matter.
I just want to show her that we are made of mud and hateful things.
I just want to show her that we are made of moldy candy corn,

but she points to the street out the fogged up coffee shop window.
The kids outside on the street shuffle past snowboards in hand with hateful stares.
I turn to leave and with no drink

Think I might just dehydrate before autumn ever comes again.
Soon the kids will pound the pavement
Soon the kids will prey on the weak. 

About the Author:

Andrew Spence is a broken hurricane of nonsense waiting to crash onto the beach of your boredom. 25 years old and currently residing in Denver, Colorado, Spence first grew up in Midwestern Ohio suburbia before he fell in love with mountain hikes. Recently graduated in the fields of Asian Studies and English Education, Andrew’s poems often reflect his experiences abroad intermingled between the beautiful and sometimes disturbing images of being a lifelong learner in a world so quick to teach him a lesson. Andrew makes a hobby out of poetry, skateboards, alcohol and book collecting. He knows very well that he wouldn’t be anywhere without his monthly calendar with pictures of basset hounds and late night long-board rides full of self-loathing.