JASON BALTAZAR / SOME TRANSCENDENT AMERICAN MADE BACKYARD DOOM MACHINES
1. Silken Skorpion Pulsating Sprinkler®
Lo, the Skorpion crouches a diesel tabernacle atremble upon kwik-lock support poles that do pulse alive, and they are four in number (included at time of purchase for no additional cost), AND WE DO REJOICE, for the Skorpion consecrates the ever three inch blades of our manicured Kentucky blue with droplets of condensation slicking from high polish titanium carapace; WE DO REJOICE, for it anoints the creaseless foreheads of our young as they zip through its shadow upon the blue tongue of the slip 'n slide; WE DO REJOICE, for the ventilation ridges emit the sweet succor of machine readiness in complement to our own offered incense of Kingsford brand long burning charcoal briquette, the gold standard of grilling, may the vegetable and red meat portions of our devotional kebabs char in equal measure; WE DO REJOICE, for the transport tubing does flow with patented piss yellow neurotoxin, and the sutured-in sheep's bladder reservoirs do await taut with aerosolizing reagent for the coming of a rapturous dispersal; WE DO REJOICE assured that upon the day when our Enemies advance upon the cul de sac with proposals for adjusted income housing we shall slide our forearms into the Skorpion's lateral control cavities and curl our fingers around the lever tabs, and WE SHALL REJOICE when the pneumatic whale tooth confirmation component clamps down upon us, YES, we shall cry, snap these firm and faithful wrists, we gladly offer up radius and ulna if only you'll defend good and steadfast property value, WE SHALL LIFT OUR DANGLING PALMS REJOICING if only you'll deliquesce low-income heathen lung with nerve-song of your segmented tail.
2. Mr. Appleseed Clusterbomb Patio Umbrella®
Bless the ergonomic divots of the non-recyclable plastic keys upon your control panel, easily operable even with our wrists bound in plaster casts, for they summon such cleansing rains. And the fiber optic cables joining the panel to the gibbon brain tank, bless them, for they deliver our prayer and our need. Bless the folds of all six of the gibbon brains, wired in serial, for here the edicts of divine will are processed, are a go. And the aluminum alloy pole, bless it, for it produces thrust, and we humbly kneel scab kneed at the altar of thrust. Bless the elongated vat-grown phalanges joined to genuine luxe wingleather to form the canopy clasped patiently closed as the umbrella approaches optimal altitude, for they cradle the seeds of glorious destruction. And the complete set of four swivel top weatherproof chairs around the frosted glass launching pad, upon which Hunter has again neglected to place a coaster beneath his west coast IPA, bless them, for from these we bear witness to fiery deluge. Bless the three hundred ribbed steel bomblets flung free by the expansion of the canopy, for they rain down upon the neighboring subdivision. And the slightly more generous square footage of the plots of the neighboring subdivision, bless it, for we have tilled and sown into it the wrath of our one and true umbrella which drifts now unfurled above its works, judging them to be good.
3. Mk II Taskmaster Adirondack Gender Revelation Turret®
Mark Two Taskmaster, with after-market stabilizing pseudopodia, we praise thee, may the membranous dilation of your alternating intake valves recycle the pneuma of our adorations into combustive yield, a yearning fuel for most righteous discharge. Holy, the mathematically pure and certain line of your lifted barrel announcing the traject of deliverance over terra cotta roofing tiles replaced only two summers ago, which have, we feel, given the house a welcoming Old World charm. Holy, the satellite-assisted targeting drones with their infrared-enabled eyestalks, capable of guiding your precision strikes even through the drifts of black smoke wafting from the neighboring subdivision. Holy, the wide acacia slats of the gently reclined gunner's seat that conducts the reverberation of your gospels through the tender devout meats of our buttocks, and the adjustable straps of your Lil' Tyrant® booster seat, that the children may see and know. Verily, the mere thought of your wide stance domestic steel and thoroughbred horseflesh frame soothes the ache in our hearts, an ache for the absence of a touch that will lift the burden of grief from our shoulders, a grief born in the recognition of our limitations as tragically small and fragile flotsam caught in the eddies of a marvelous but ultimately indifferent nature. How our words echo in the dark of your speaking chamber. How we long to reach that cradle of fire. May we touch, Mark Two Taskmaster? May we confirm with the utterly fallible instrument of our flesh the heat of one so turgid and resolute? Yes, there is the warmth of a knowing throat, scalding the whorls from our fingertips and what does it matter for what identity have we but willing fingers bent in placation of your dancing trigger. May we be born again, Mark Two Taskmaster? May we slide down the rifling of your embrace? Oh, thank you most good and gracious gun, we await ordinance. Speak and deliver us from the clutch of these wounding days, these neighborly brunches and giggle-soaked family board game evenings which seek to strip away the ballistic plates of our body armor, to mollify our hyper vigilant flesh, to dig and tear and plant within our hearts, hearts that only sing of you Taskmaster Turret, that blasphemous bloom of communion. Curse them, break them upon the bend of your injection spring, for tempting us to feel at peace in the company and care of others, tempting us to speak of "we," tempting us to extend beyond ourselves vulnerable and curious into the millionfold currents of being that surround us. Deliver us, we beg. May we remain locked and loaded, may we secure 55mm lives, may we gaze up from your firing pin and see only that closed circle of blue sky at show in the gape of your ever-ready mouth until you speak, calling us to everlasting ignition.
Jason Baltazar is a proud Salvadoran American originally from the Appalachian corner of Maryland. He is currently finishing a PhD focused on speculative fiction and postcolonial studies. His work has or will appear in Boston Review, Wigleaf, Wrongdoing Magazine, and other venues. For more info, check out his website: www.jasonbaltazar.com