by Kelly La Croix
I was on the precipice of the void when a cosmic gust of what can only be described as The Breath Of The Oldest One blew a Post-It note into my line of vision, where it subsequently smacked into my forehead and stuck.
You see, I had been on a holy quest, sent only by the drive to find the answers to the eternal questions of man and all beings. It had taken me from the depths of the earth’s core and outward through portals leading to the very edge of existence. I ran into Dan; he wants that five bucks you owe him. Out on the loneliest of lonely places- the very furthest any Thing can be- I peered past The Outer Edge lost the final semblance of my sanity, broke down in tears, and asked again my one true question: "What is The Budgets?” That is when I heard it: The Ghostly Whoosh. I was surprised Its voice was not a booming one, or an all-surrounding one, or one that can only be perceived inside of one’s own consciousness. It was faint and light and like the sound of children laughing in a park in the distance, the sound new leaves sprouting from a growing shoot, the sound of the Earth-day rotating its face into the sun’s rays. It came only once in The Place Without Wind, and when it left, I was without any thought or feeling for what must have been hours or perhaps even days. Over some time, I slowly came to my senses, and when I had fully regained my composure, I turned from The Pit, The Nothing, The Absence, and I attempted to pull the note from my face. It was stuck. I tried again, but the Glue Of Everything was as strong as any man-made adhesive I had ever encountered. I used the only implement I had with me- a standard head screwdriver- to attempt to pry it from my skin, but to less than no avail, as the tool itself became wedged beneath the note and stuck there along with it! “O, what will take this yellow slip of paper from off my brow?!” I screamed into the Empty Space Of Non-Things.
I heard no answer. I turned and I returned the way I came, vision slightly obscured by the objects, and found myself finally back at my home, where I peered into the Aquafresh flecked over-sink mirror, and found this message written upon the note:
The Budgets... a haiku
The Budgets.
The Budgets listen to good music.
The Budgets don’t play good music.
The Budgets have four people in their band(now).
The Budgets don’t do a lot of the things other bands do.
The Budgets don’t tour(really).
The Budgets don’t live in, or around any big cities.
The Budgets don’t really record a whole bunch(understatement).
The Budgets love the musk of a man drinking Coors.
The Budgets don’t do things to create a “quality product” to sell.
The Budgets don’t really see why anyone likes them.
The Budgets are amazed you’ve read this far.
The Budgets now think less of you.
The Budgets will give you a free shirt if you mention this poem.
The Budgets are liars.
The Budgets.
The paper then fell from my head, landed on the counter, and disintegrated immediately into ash! Seeking to save the material in hopes of analyzing it or perhaps smoking it to see what effects might occur, I ran into the next room to grab a Zip-Lock baggie, whereupon I heard that same Whoosh: The Whoosh Of Eternity. The Woosh Of The One Voice. The Whoosh Of All That Has Been And Will Be. Knowing well what this meant, I returned to my bathroom sink and found what I had expected: the ash had disappeared completely.
“Well, fuck,” I thought, “how am I gonna get this screwdriver off my face?”
