Back in the day, you had to climb the stairs to the gallows.  In the 1950s, you could take an elevator.  Today, you can ride a rocket-powered spitball to the gallows.  Spitball to the Gallows.  Loogie to the stars.  All our loogies are in hock.  You can expel a phlegmatic semblance of a poem into the machine, and the guy at the pawn shop will give you a ticket to the moon.  Economy class, but what do you expect?

Nevermind that economy class and slave class are built into the fuel tanks, which are jettisoned from the first- and business class sections once the craft has reached orbit.  Most people don't know that the Challenger disaster in 1986 was actually a mutiny of the peasant- and slave class passengers, who took drastic action when realized they were going to die anyway.  The Cold War was still in effect, and people called "stewardesses" still served peanuts on airplanes, so who knows what really happened.  I'm inclined toward the Peanut Fire Theory, which posits that the peasants set fire to their snack-sized serf rations, igniting the giant fuel tank in which they were riding.  "NASA" made up a theory about "O-rings," but the discerning student of historical anomalies will understand that they were hiding the truth in plain sight.  "O-rings," of course, is code for "onion rings," which has caused much debate in the Peanut Fire community as to whether or not they served fast food in 1980s peasant- and slave class space flights.  

Whatever the case, somebody spilled some hot grease from the vat of "O-rings," several snack-sized bags of peanuts were ignited, and the rest is history.

Rest in peace, Christa McAuliffe.

Last week, I wrote a poem inspired by the 1958 film Elevator to the Gallows.  I wrote the poem on a napkin, imbued it with saliva, loaded it into a drinking straw, and fired it into an AI generator in an attempt to finally achieve escape velocity.  I had hoped to be free of the tractor beam of mandatory ignorance pulling down on the souls of those who believe imagination is a gift, and not a sin.  I wrote the poem because I was inspired by the beauty of the original film.  In a world in which inspiration has been rationed like the junk food on a 1980s peasant-class space flight, if not outlawed outright, I seized the moment like the life preserver it was.

“Whenever you are fed up with life, start writing:
ink is the great cure for all human ills.”
C.S. Lewis

I tossed the poem in my mouth and chewed on it until all the beauty had been removed.  Then I turned it into a tight, disgusting little ball, and prepared it for use as a classroom projectile.

Then I took it to the pawn shop next to the gallows tree, to cash it in for a death trip.

This is the result:

I was expecting a slave-class ticket to the moon, or at least some onion rings, but the guy at the pawn shop said they were out.  The supply chain has suffered in recent months, and the wait for breaded spaceship parts has become interminable.

Distraught, I went home and made a video of an old song from the Slow-Burning Fun album.  It's called "Tragic Neurons," and is all about what happens when your suicide vacation to the moon has been canceled by good fortune.  The protagonist isn't aware of it yet, but he's lucky to be alive.  While he's crying in his Wild Turkey in an Albuquerque motel, hundreds of people are still marooned in orbit, from a space vacation they thought they were taking in the 1980s.  If you still harbor any notions that the super-rich think of you as anything but a spent fuel rod, consider that this photograph of the marooned economy-class passengers was taken, NOT by a bunch of benevolent humanitarians on a rescue mission, but by the billionaires who just expelled them.

"Look, honey, the peasants are stranded.  How long do you think they'll survive on 'O-rings' before they start to eat each other?  Hahahahahaha," etc.

I bet this photo is hanging above the bed of Elon Musk, framed by pure ivory.  He only ever eats poached eggs, Elon Musk, sourced from illegal elephants in the Ivory Coast.  Nary an "O-ring" has ever touched his lips. 

O-rings are for peasants.

“Unlimited power in the hands of limited
people always leads to cruelty.”
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

Anyway, "Tragic Neurons" is dedicated to the artificial employees of the pawn shop gallows, and the mutineers of the Challenger liberation disaster.  It's also available on the Sideburns in the Sun collection.

Thanks for listening.

Tragic Neurons

I'm goin' down to Nogales
to find myself some solace
I need some new dust
on my shoes

And I couldn't care less
if I ever see Los Angeles
I'm clean,
but Lord knows I've paid my dues

And if I lose my way
on the Golden State Freeway
it's cool baby,
don't get nervous

Pack my bags
I'm goin' from riches to rags
no need to thank me,
I'm glad to be of service

Sippin' on a 40 an'
playin' an outta tune accordion
watch the dust collecting
on the shelves

My engine is revvin'
I'm'a hitchhike all the way to Heaven
these holes ain't
gonna dig themselves

Baby, what's your handle?
They call me Roman Candle
cuz I roam around
from town to town

Loosen all my lugnuts
these pigs
are repugnant
always tryna keep me down

My baby she's the bitchinest
most delicious exhibitionist
to put her tragic neurons
on display

Leanin' on the fender
in all her psychotic splendor
if you ain't nice to her,
she'll never go away

God winked,
and the world went extinct
take the steering wheel
and turn it

The time is now,
don't be emptier-than-thou
there's a lesson here,
but I'll probly never learn it

A motel room in Albuquerque
a pint of Wild Turkey
the swimming pool
is full of tumbleweeds

I'm slowly losing power,
baby,
meet me in the shower,
punish me
for my evil deeds

That's me gettin' mental
on the Key Lime Continental
I may get lost,
but I never lose my way

She complies with my compulsion
a revolution of revulsion
to keep my tragic neurons
on display
to keep my tragic neurons
on display

©2009 Nathan Payne