Jackson Free Press

Lost in the pages of antique barstool guilds are fairground measurements. I went there. They taste divine.
Totally is a word worth saying
Could you believe in miracles? A baby is born and we yawn. A structure disappears and we slip through the cracks in evening gowns. A tussle syntaxes and we drink the media passes.
Baseless assumption: The next auction item will break-up with his girl-toy.

Sometimes my friends and I play "Word Dissociation Games" (Parker Brothers) and forget what words are.

"A Gun Blast From the Past"
Reporter: Skid Tollison

"When I pulled the trigger, a bullet came out," says Marv Rummels. He did this without blinking. Running for his life from a garbage truck armed with cannibals, the self-proclaimed "Artist of the Free Galaxy," pulled a Civil War-era pistol from the front pocket of his ironed khakis and aimed his weapon towards the cumulus clouds.
"No birds died," he explains.
In an act of supremacy, the sky did not fall, but instead released acid rain. It wasn't scary, it was expected. Hall monitors dare not implicate Marv's son, Alvin, in New Orleans graffiti.
"There is no proof," insists Rummels. Things happen, but only if a tree sees it. Rummels interprets his interest in firepower as a revolt against pacifist incisions from the radical radicals. Fortitude aside, his only chunk of cheese exists in a past realm. He was once forgotten but now he is as sacred as a golden calf. People watch. People listen. He scatters his thoughts like a movie reel rejected by the establishment. If you see him on television, disconnect his doting remarks. He being the artist, he will reveal his weapon, the silver pistol, and dictate what occurs next.
Marv enjoys time travel, but only in spurts. There is an absolute indignation in the approach to fathering a spiritless revival. Empty rhetoric may be a slab of paint in this new millennium in which we can elect pontifications of the 1337 status quo. I welcome it. As does Marv.

Additional reporting by Tiffany McCool