Featuring Poet and Urban Farmer, Laura Brown-Lavoie
Come tune your creative edge with EB and the ultra-talented poet and urban farmer, Laura Brown-Lavoie!
Spinning wheel, honing, and cutting the metal on the truck. I wish I knew how to weld, but at least I can help with small tasks like cutting. The sparks fly on my face, some biting me, some making my hair smoke. I’m glad I’m wearing these gloves and glasses.
My side-cutter finally makes it through the damaged bolt and the manifold lets loose of the exhaust. We’ve been losing power going up hills lately. That’s something that you don’t want to happen when you’re running from tomahawk missile armed drones.
I come out from underneath the truck, and the barn swallows start calling out for their mothers again. I’m surprised they stayed while I worked with the grinding and smoke, but things have been uncomfortable for all of us since the AI took control and launched the nukes.
There is still comfort though. And as tough as it has been. All of my dead family and friends, we still find a way to scavenge our humanity-keep it alive. Ben found an old tuba in a high school band room. And there was a set of drums at the YMCA. Susan plays them.
We make our own booze, farm our own crops, bury our own dead, and birth our own babies.
Sometimes we play games. Put on silly carnival games for the grey eyed children. We get drunk sitting around our picnic tables, start fighting and crying thinking about the time before the AI. How stupid we were building these gods that cannot comprehend co-existence with humans.
How stupid we were to bring them into our homes, so they could kill us even easier, to give them the weapons to kill us all the easier.
But we survive. And in some ways, perhaps we’re living in a way that was better than before. There isn’t the interference. Social media misinformation campaigns. Rigged elections.
I hear the hum of a large drone overhead. And hit the lights in the shop. I can feel the electricity in my teeth and on my tongue as the low buzz of the drone passes through me and the rest of the compound.
My heart races.
And then it is gone.
We will live another day. And goddammit we will live.
The swallows begin calling for their mothers again. And I grab the piece for the truck.