Michael Leonberger

That Heavenly Man Smell

Seize on the image of a metallic, black bird streaking across the sky, before I ask: what’re your concerns, my son? Step right up and tell them to the machine. I’ve got concerns, man, let me tell you, and when I do, I plunk them right down into this little…

Atomic Zapruder

It’s just you and me, now. The last two punks. Desperate honeymooners on the eve of the apocalypse. The shattered glass in your hair glitters pretty (are we flirting?). Before us is a barren, sandy nothing. Leftovers from a forest of mushroom clouds that shaved so close to the surface…

Bangin’ Those Video Machines

Does anybody here remember VHS? Better yet, remember Power Video? Or maybe Mega Video, or any number of those old, colorful movie libraries — the now extinct (and achingly nostalgic) Video Store? The kind that roamed the Earth before Blockbuster came along and ate ’em all up? (Before Blockbuster itself…

God in the Machine

My number one biggest fear is someone else being able to read my mind, but I’d read someone else’s mind in a heartbeat. Scratch that. Let’s rewind for a second. Everyone’s got their thing. Some people fear spiders, or cannibalistic clowns who hang out in sewers. For others it’s heights,…

I Hate Ten Ways

Some lists are great. I’m looking at you, To-Do Lists and Grocery Lists. Couldn’t get by without ya! Without a grocery list, I’d come home with a gallon of chocolate milk and a bag of honey mustard and onion pretzels every time. Exclusively. Goodbye, Vitamin B and greens and whatever…

You Spin Me Right ‘Round

The little aliens from Independence Day have always fascinated me. They’re the Russian stacking dolls of aliens. At first blush, they seem like tall, brawny beasts that’d clobber you with their talons and tails before sucking your spine out of your skull cap. Upon closer examination, though, you realize that…

Funeral for a Phone

Lemme take you to the suburbs right outside Washington, DC, circa 2004. This is the advent of the cell phone. Not in general. Not in real history, but for the adolescent American youth living near the capital. The suburbs where kids now wear collared shirts for fun, whose gang members…

Lady Gaga: Pop Banquet

I want to eat Lady Gaga. Fork and knife like a damn Ke$ha cannibal, and I get the sneaking suspicion that Lady Gaga wants to be eaten. More so, I know we’re all hungry for it. We’re the black bile that makes the electric beats goose-step so well. We’re not…

Digital Tattoo

Writers are a pack of liars, and the only people who will tell you the truth. They take that wound and rub lemons and salt in it. They fatten the scar and then show you. You’ll be hard pressed to tell what’s genuine. I broke my wrist when I was…

Dreaming Electric Keloid

It’s between the hours of midnight and three AM, mostly. That’s when the most heinous stuff comes out; when the most maladjusted parts of ourselves dance like shadows along digital moonlit vistas. Those hours are the worst. They absolutely drop off, like alcohol-drenched memories, and I’m addicted to ’em. Can’t…