Garbage Mountain, Dylan Angell

Originally published in Sleaze Mag (2018).

I snuck out of the Motel two nights after my house burned down.
I walked down the highway with a backpack filled with clanking jars.
I ran alongside the traffic until I found my exit.

My old house was now just a limp pile of ashy crippled wood.
Just a garbage mountain with no family.
I stood in the space that had once been my bedroom.

I filled a jar with the feathers of my pillows.
I filled a jar with the melted scabby goo that was once my toys.
I recognized the faces of G.I. Joes.

They were now all blended together into one bubbly, tie-dye swirl of a dagger.

I filled a jar with the ash of school books.
I filled a jar with guitar strings.
I caught a glimpse of a playboy bunny’s leg.

I put the jars in my bag and I headed towards the highway.
The bag was heavy and the air was thick.

“Fuck this shit.”

I stopped under a bridge.
I smashed the jar of feather.
I smashed the jar of toys.
I smashed the jar of books.
I smashed the jar of guitar strings.

An old man stepped out of the dark.
He said “I live here. What are you doing?”

I said, “there is no house here.”
The man yelled, “go home.”
I ran but there was no home to go to.

Dylan Angell grew up in Durham, NC. He is a musician, a writer and is currently based in Queens, New York. In 2016 he released the book “An Index of Strangers Whom I Will Never Forget A-Z,” via his Basic Battles Books imprint. In early 2017 he released “I'll Just Keep On Dreaming And Being The Way I Am,” a collaboration with the photographer Erin Taylor Kennedy. In late 2017, he released the zine “Funeral Songs,” a collection of writings by anonymous contributors who speak of death-related experiences associated with or accompanied by a song.