7:55 am

It's unreasonably sunny outside, and the frogmen are all down by the docks, trying to impress each other and make a living throwing around heavy wet ropes.

Nobody cares much about anything but working here, and it seems that there is no end of work in sight. It is too bright to look at the sun and that is that.

There is a lazy seagull that keeps trying to eat my lunch, and eventually I give up trying to guard it. He flops sideways with the sandwich into the bay, and the soda i have been saving awkwardly bobs in the water.

I look at the sky and it seems indifferent as well. Maybe tomorrow I will catch the big fish.


G l a s s f i s h



I can see from jeering McDonald's 00.2 /this bar seat in the taco hell,11.23[that the hall of fame] (the hair of a Japanese animal) turn$ [through] ice, it lumbers off the frozen hillside in its crooked stack of black stilts. In a house [the dist ant house of a colder mountainside] thrown down~ Its deep blackened bits of distance... ladders spread out at a distance’ grown like a cherry- tree-dweller. Cute, little bear in the wintertime [winters of dis tance,] and substance 'program soup' is poured on the whole of the mountainside. The little baby ones need to stay inside now, the ones entering on ships who'd begun cramming tinkers way up in the ozone layer just before the stars grew there, and people cut some down just to make a buck.


[The sails had always been sewn together of coiled rabbit and telephone tails or whatever the [pink workers] on lemonade stands could find in these pixie nights of surgery, full of whispering, on some menace they'd named Churchhill Downs some windy hollow of as they said was a: "fuck-out-dim-shit-ding dong-ditcher" [and in further interviews](Dabney did a little too much doubling up, did a li'l father touching ding ding?) er, who had made them work, oh so hard, clinging t’on, their “dirty dishes” and gloss [the stilts] wobbly on the first day of menopause, for chrisakes! And never mind that buggering station in the back of the lobes of the ccccccc head...Nevermind where the icebergs of Japan linger over the cliffs today. And tomorrow, and the next day. 0567.230 mmm

their eyes fluttered up in 786.90 skulls full of faces under the forehead with blackened butterflies who cannot escape here-


The ship is covered in eels-squid-shrimp & crab-labradors lowering luscious bronze dicks into the mountain, the angles of rock swept in dangerous harsh notes of collapse. Beneath the snow shepherd landscape - The crashing alloy mountain an experimental act of government eight thousand and five, section part 845.001.

Noxious fumes ‘dance wit’ the air, twirling balarinas of collapsed [coming] out in waves-perfume, tilted, purple, curved, spinning from the giant old jutting tubes, out of the back ass of Ivy and danger zone of gnarled metal. The money had to go somewhere.


Below the mountainside, where the wind hollows, and whistles~ is where you will find a team of Australian [men] and they are wearing themselves some red jackets, and they had set up their ‘albino’ beneath the mountain (a tigress with a spiralling timeline) She eats the dirtiest, stinkiest parts, and digs her dirty nails through the cabbage of controlled stone she clutches, in a fog of invitation, throbbing air, p u s h i n g & p u l l i n g the energy above her, stretching out from the beginning of the animal out, in a Japanese Panther of some [form] er’ another [form] lounging in her listless state, buried under the precious mountainside glacier.

pouring her bones out into the snow, and like the finish to this game, she gathers the little pieces together in the warmth of the paws, shakes them [like dice,] and tosses the remains into the sky. [End] this Japanese animal in snowflake, all around her [, a ] brief cloud, .... the dust of her body, but nothing interesting, or eatable. She wakes up on the cliff side on [stilts,] carefully bends down to look into the lake, and smothered in textures and trailing the baron land for a slight movement, she lashes out, and her tongue glasses a fish.


[ x ]

5:22 am

{before first light}

  I am up in the rigging of the USS Stargazer, actually looking at the stars for once. It feels right to be back on the open ocean although being up in the sails always gives me vertigo. I wonder if the old man has the same reaction. There are so many of them that the stars are the negative space rather than vice versa. If they had a taste they would taste like dark chocolate and i keep looking up for more as I am unfurling the sails. It is quite a chore and sometimes i wish the old man would help but I know he is not nearly as strong or nimble as I am.

  I look down and see him taking his coffee but never taking a break from his work, gutting fish that we caught yesterday with a long thin knife that is unthinkably sharp. He sharpens it every morning, and many days it is to this sound that I awake. I call down to him "Alright, Scotty?". The answer is never entirely verbal, and he seems a bit cantankerous in his vague grunts of affirmation although I know this is just the way he is after years of working with him.

  I have unfurled the last sail and am now looking out across the empty ocean as the first light of dawn touches the open horizon. No matter how many times I look out to sea I am always surprised that there is absolutely nothing there -- or maybe a seagull, some flying fish, or if I am really lucky an albatross. Just nothing.


SIDE TIME: GANGING UP ON MY FACE Possible white space lets in their first swift punch. Guts exploded, loosening as if postured on the entry level of the gates districts of prim and proper white fish. The pearls of which loosen up banisters and cab cars tilt in, mid passenger mode. We’re here in the middle, east of the river... Surrounded in grave stones, hoping for a second of footage, in someone else's movie set, the cobble balcony was leading mine eyes, and body most likely hovered in a drift, slumped ambient along, with the sled of the old newscasters insults from mega phone, it was echoing from somewhere. I might see if i looked close enough from in this hint fog.


7:04 that night


Eh? Are you calling me fat? 

The kids talking to himself again with his hand puppets when I get up to the bed we've set up next to the waterfall hologram behind the door to his bedroom. 

You enjoying your new stergea? I ask.

I am, really. But can you tell me? He holds up a puppet of Barky. The one named Van.


Why can’t I see anything wheni look out there? You just caught a fish beneath the cliffhanger and all that... T’was Jolly good crap, nows’ my turn, I’m bloody starving to know, where is the bleeding ocean at? I can hear it… (palms his ear. Cute little guy.) 

It's a dumb kids hologram. I shout. Growling at the poor chap.

I throw him a gored fish and he gets at it, flaying it in his shark teeth (retractable from his gums) and toy hammer, his puppets get a little dirty, but the kids starved, I can’t blame him. I’ve been boring the shit out of him with my senseless mountain climbing camera explorations and what nots...

After dinner we’re leaping light, ok dude? 

Fuuuuddge, not again! He whines. 

Well, you gotta clean up, your filthy, bud. 

okaaaaay. He grumbles.

His teeth contract back into the gums like cats claw.  

I. done. He gulps and hands the bones back.

 Thanks gramps. 

You put on some music? He whines. 

I take down the folded clear glass fish guttings and toss the guts into the subway behind us, lower level.

We both crowd in together saying: LAYERS PLAYER! As the 

the passengers tip their hats in thanks smiling up at us in the bedroom.

Let me know what you feel like doing, we can explore around or just stay here and do our explode smith-wesson-lessons, er whatever you want to do? 

I wanna play puppets awhile. Boy says. 

Okay, I’ll be back in the layers {player, I think}, feeding the armadillos, I promise I will be b-a-c-k... Make sure to water the plants, k? 

ok! Ralph, the giraffe puppet shouts at the ceiling, goo-dirty-face.

I pull back the layers and sign on the signature station dashboard. Computer security takes on the signing and absorbs it into a [sub]screen. Everything's reading. No fee, today Ronson, sir. 

Thank you Stephanie. I spin out, dancing, because it feels so good.

Oh! Would you like some fish, by the way, Stephanie? 

Ermp. No sir. Ermp. No Fish, sir. 

But we got the big one. 

Boy tucks his head through the layers {player, I think} and smiles. 

Who you talking to? 

bio: Zach Hubbird

Zach is an artist working primarily with the written word for the time being,
but he also dabbles in countless other mediums. He is an explorer and a whale. His
imagination knows no bounds. He hopes to someday do something as epically
appropriate and symbolic as Van Gogh cutting off his ear to communicate to his
cultish followers that he is not that big of a deal. He loves French toast, and is
rumored to be engaged to the queen of france. At last estimate, his finances totaled
five cents. He also likes French fries, but wishes that we could all just secretly get
naked & eat salal berries with some pan fried deer meat. He has recently half-
heartedly committed to being “kosher and vegan”, which his mother finds puzzling.
He is thirty two. His favorite color is philosophy. 


Bio: Zachary Scott hamilton has been living the dream since him at: [email protected]

He wishes to someday start a riot during a well orchestrated teaparty.