MUSIC IN PHASE SPACE

  • The Damaged Portions of Returning Planes

    Frankie “The Wrench” Fritsch wasn’t exactly Army material. Sure, he could strip down a Packard in under ten minutes flat, eyes closed, fueled by a cigarette and a lukewarm cup of joe. But ordnance manuals and parade drills? Not his cup of tea. Except, these days, tea was a luxury reserved for officers and their…

  • Rational Misers of the World, Unite!

  • The White Whale/The House of Usher/VITRIOL

    THE WHITE WHALE I inhaled the tang of brine and decay that clung perpetually to the Spalding Yard, the LAPD’s maritime branch moored in the belly of San Pedro. “I’m Captain Scotland of the Spalding Yard,” I rasped, my voice seasoned by harbor dust and nights spent chasing down leads that evaporated like the morning…

  • Manslow Hammer

  • Robota

  • Magonia

  • Abstractions: Sunken Cthulhus

    The grey boys are at it again, hijacking abstractions like cowboys wrangling shadows. War on terror? Too goddamn big to see the trigger finger on the machine. They paint these abstractions on billboards, pump them through the media static, a virus burrowing into the meat of our minds. The Control freaks love abstractions, man. Easier…

  • Arthur C Clarke’s Monolith

    In the grand tapestry of existence, the monolith stands out, not as a majestic pillar of cosmic design, but as a curious anomaly, a self-inflicted bubble of solipsism. Imagine, if you will, a region of spacetime carved out by the monolith’s very being. Its mass, charge, and angular momentum, writ large in some cosmic equation,…

  • End of History Tinpots and the Last Man

    In the flickering neon wasteland of the Post-Ideological, the Berlin Wall, a concrete scar on the face of time, crumbled like a thousand roach motels, a crumbled ziggurat, became a playground for feral children. History, a rusted jalopy, sputtered its last, coughing out exhaust fumes of ideology. Liberal Democracy, a chrome-plated behemoth, rumbled across the…

  • Data

    Data. A scabrous flesh-puppet twitching on cold metal slabs. You feed it your sins, your failings, and it bulges, engorged with your psychic sewage. A monstrous server-god, howling for more, hungering for the offal of your humanity. Data. Daemons of transgression amassed. A digital confessional where sins are not forgiven, but merely stored, archived for…

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