January 2001 / Volume Two / Issue One
Paul Brown

Where is that fusebox? The one with all the burned out copper
pennies, not the new type zinc wafers covered with a coat of
primer print copper. I mean the old ones where Abe Line.
ain't got no whiskers, in the way back machine when Rushmore
was knew, from the day when it meant something to have that
chiseled look with a granite stare.

Where is that fusebox? I'm stumbling in the dark now. Looking
for more pennies. I'm downstairs below the kitchen filled
with natural gas burning food. Under the floor that supports
warm leather recliners and bookshelves that line the walls.
I'm down in the lair of rats and gurgling water heaters, down
where all the spiders and watermoccosans do their little dance,
amongst the pickle jars and tomatoes from ages long since past.

I stumble over a stack of moist newspapers and decaying pictures
of V.P. Nixon poising with some Scottish Terrier. One paper has
an advert telling about an upcoming weekend concert starring Buddy
Holly, The Big Bopper and some new kid named Richie Valens. Old
news in a pool of methane.

Where is that fusebox? I slide stumps of fingers across stone
cave walls wet with condensation. I sweat the worries of a 20fh
Century Man. Down here the darkness is natural and cool.
Few things thrive here so well as old fuseboxes. The old fuses
replaced in ages past with temporary measure pennies. Grandmothers
complete the scene with warnings to return with the Real Cure,
not just the Fix Me Up Get Me Back In There Coach And I'll Score
A Touchdown For The Team, measures of the past.

The fusebox of the days end, the fusebox overloaded with modern
decor. The fusebox of madmen crawling through an empty shell of
existence. I find the little bagger I'll rip out the old
pennies go down to the corner store and slap down the dough for a
bubblegum ball.

It's daylight out there but I live in the darkness of the Fusebox
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