Rise Above

Rise Above

Bring me your bewildered. Bring me your confused. Bring me your obtuse, your insecure, your plodding, your weak, your dismayed, your diffident, and your nervous: Bring me your humans.

Set a pot to boil on a circular stove of an 18 foot diameter, cut down deciduous trees from the darkest forests, clustered in the tremulous mountains where the vicious clouds behead the summit of ice and the sharp, glinty Sun gets eternally lost…unless one can break through the callous cumulous and forge a path of fire to shield from the ice clustered on this Mountain. Break free from these clouds and breathe again (but only for a transient moment, only for a fleeting second, this breath: your first above and your last below as the wind, the barren air blows you back from where you came, from where you climbed, from where you cut the trees which are now sitting in the cauldron, burning away untapped energy in this circular, cyclical stove from which a plank fifty feet up and jutting out from a slave ship, is hanging above the bubbling pot, and the humans with their weakness, their thoughts, their pains, their fears, their hate, their sorrow, their neediness, their lies, their cunning, their manipulation: the humans walk one after another into this cauldron of burning, screaming trees.)

The fifty foot drop provides them for one glorious moment where the thoughts exit and a new feeling, compassion, ever so briefly, enters into this empty vacuum. All the damages, all the burden, all the weakness is pushed away, is purged away and melted into a meta-skeleton of what we once were. This new man, this falling man, with none of the pressures, with none of the routines, with none of the thoughts (only the fall) only seeing the fall for what it is, embracing the fall and eschewing the past while bringing the future of burning trees into the forefront of consciousness. And what’s this, but people falling at the same time, all going to the same cauldron, the same shrieking cauldron, obstinate in its inevitability and secure in its promises, its burning promises, the trees wavering, vacillating back and forth, mouths gaped open, tongues out, falling man grabs falling woman and pulls her to him, pulls him in her, while falling, no ground, no foundation, they create it! They live it (they die it) they fall, they shriek, they dig their nails into each other and tear away the flesh, they engorge themselves on each other’s bodies before the cauldron can touch a fleck of skin, they dig burrows in their intestines and masticate their eyes while pulling away, while falling apart, falling down, toward the cauldron.

Before they hit hot water, before they completely melt away, a foundation of bliss, a ground, unshifting, is found in each other, on each other, through each other, for this last moment from the airs between slave ship and burning cauldron, a momentary connection, as they have rearranged identities and devoured desires through the fall, for the one moment, in the one moment, in the one person: THE TREES REACH INTO THE NIGHT AND DRAG YOU AWAY FROM HER, MOUTHS WET, MOUTHS DRY, THE TREES, BURNING, THE POT ENCAPSULATES YOU, FALLING MAN CAPITULATED ON BOILING ABYSS, SUBMERGED IN THE WATER. but what is left to burn? what is taken away? redigested food for the trees, for the pot, the cauldron, all skin torn away through the fall, nothing left, nothing there as you melt into the cauldron, which is where I find you again, swimming in the ancient water, which is where I grab in you again, reclamation, reunion, rejuvenation, which is where we evaporate into our senses and rise above this cauldron, rise above the shrieking trees, rise above the slave ship, rise above the cruel forests, rise above the menacing clouds, rise above the mountain, rise above the Sun, rise above the heavens, rise above falling man, rise above falling woman: RISE ABOVE.

There has been a lot of discussion about intellectuals and genius's and where they (him and/or her (the and in the miniscule possibility that they might be a she-man, mutant with a dick the size of the North Pole, which really means no dick at all since the North Pole is slipping into the fucking ocean and us as a species are getting more extinct by the day and prouder of that fact by the night, as we have stood up to a terrible world and brought it to our levels, all the hurricanes unleashed, the comets dropped from the heavens to break down creatures and tear away feeling, send it hurtling back toward that little dot of energy, that original Atom before Eve, that potential, send us back from whence we came and will have ever come, this is proved moot by us bringing the battle to the Universe, here burning carbon is a war tactic, here greenhouse gases is torched earth warfare (we are Sherman and the Earth are inbred hicks!). we stand athwart the world, the universe and bring her to where are the decision makers, where we decide the power of the winds, where we push out all thoughts of primacy, all thoughts of us 'not mattering' in the scheme of things! Really? We brought you Katrina, we raped the eskimos, we purged the Earth of it's nutrients, we tore children from Mothers, we ran slave ships from coast to coast, we dropped bombs onto fertile earth, we burned whole continents! Don't tell me we don't fucking matter!))really get their intellect from. One school of thought thinks that 'thinkers' are created in a vacuum. No outside force teaches them, they just pick up that fiddle and start plucking away, or twist words around in ways that astound, or numbers into intricate webs of logic etc etc etc etc etc. They just 'are', there is no cruel master who forces the knowledge down the throats of the young with hairy forearms. They don't need it; it is innate smarts. It is the four year old prodigy with electricity emanating from their finger tips and setting off reactions in the physical world, the human world, by inspiring beauty and imparting knowledge on us normal folks!

The other school of thought can be defined in one terrible word: context. Oh, Benjamin Franklin was a genius, was he? Oh, so was Emerson and (pick your philosopher ((((except for the notable exception of Diogenes: see, the point I'm going to make after I tear out of these parenthetical walls (oh, another one I have to break through)is that all these 'thinkers' were very fortunate in their upbringing and levels of comfort which allowed them to sit at their mohogony desks, drinking port, reading poetry, the classics, biology, raping slaves etc...not many Oliver Twist's can become genius's when they are getting fucked by lecherous capitalists with spiny backs and cruel teeth; where are they going to learn periodic table, when they are bent over a table by the bourgois pigs with a taste for porking! How about the sailors, the soldiers, the cooks, the labor men, the fish mongers, the whore mongers? Where the fuck will they get the time to talk about transcending father time and shining an innerlight onto your knowledge throught excersiing the right to a liberal arts (well rounded) education. Hmmm, the point is that the lucky few seem to have a better chance of being intellectuals than the dirty many, which brings us back to Diogenes (now we will jump back to the earlier parentherical) Ah, here we are; Diogenes was a believer that all civilization (as in dressing in clothes, chewing with your mouth closed, fucking behind closed doors, shitting in private) was a crock of crap and would delight in rolling around in the mud and trying to bring civilization with him. Oh, he would have a nice wank with himself in public (dirty (literally) tug job), he would piss on the philosophers in the marketplace(literally), he would act like a dog without the creature comforts that money would afford him. This is why we cannot include this ruffian in our point which will be made when we BREAK THROUGH TO THE ORIGINAL CHAIN OF THOUGHT))) They were lucky enough to be born into circumstances where they could spend their whole gilded life pondering the deep questions, which really don't matter (what happens when you die? Is there free will? What is happiness? Are we just a bag of bones tied together by sinewy strings of spinal fluid with animalistic instincts and the illusion of an ego/soul/conscience/etc? Well, who cares? (Obviously, all of these rich, white planters who would pull the wank from behind the slave shed. They had a great capacity for writing and the long forgotten art of conversation.

("Ah, Reginald! How goes your life, good sir? How's your crop?"
"Ah, Thaddeus! a wonderful year! Ah, the crops! The Crops! They are being picked, just as I pluck maiden heads from the crop of 10 summers ago."
"Ah, Reginald! Sounds lovely. So, what is the meaning of life."
"I've had some down time as of late and have decided that the development of self-control and fortitude is the true means of overcoming destructive emotions. Moreover Virtue consists in a will which is in agreement with our true Nature."
"Fascinating. Ah, it's time for my 3 o'Clock wank with my bumper crop from fifteen years ago."
"Pluck while still ripe. Time, as we know, is fleeting."
"Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that the stuff life is made of. Now where is slave girl?)

Ultimately, it seems that the true nature of genious is elusive. OR it is a combination of innate intelligence and context (context meaning: the unique mixture of economic freedom and slaves)

The Barrier Reef

The Barrier Reef

He didn’t like to swim alone. It was just the only way he knew how. A certain trait isolated from the whims of his being. His ever-changing consciousness pulling him every which way, day to day until the autonomous nature of his being was called into question as a quotidian conundrum. Constant questioning, incessant brow beating, and perilous thoughts all lay bare to the bear minimalism stoked within his ribcage. Turn on the fluorescent black light and purge the fat, the pork, and the extras from the tiny orb lying within what he can’t see. Diving into the darkest of waters, moonlight shimmering on the surface, diffracted by fog rising from liquid memories, where the character is constituted, where beliefs, personality and feeling are engendered into what takes disparate urges, desperate inclinations, transient pleasure and all-encompassing necessities to create ONE. Deeper we go into the cleansing Ocean, away from anxiety, away from decorum, away from social grace, away from saving face, away from custom, away from care, soul laid bare, as the last barrier to selfhood is within grasp, deeper and deeper, yet clearer and clearer, the moon’s light still a beacon as it shines through dolorous water to find you, to show us, to comfort them, all in this, the moon’s path in the darkest, deepest section, can’t see anybody, but hear your reflection, taste the salt, excise your thoughts, betray your humanity and wipe away whatever tears might form, the water proves superfluous yet necessary as we drown when the moon is blocked by recalcitrant clouds forming overhead, angry clouds with deplorable thoughts and the means to wage war on our light, now disconnected and floating toward futility; there is no up, there is no down, it is space and you are filling it, until there is no you for the space to interact with, until the water has evaporated, as the clouds rain down stones of fire, as you sink deeper and deeper into yourself, time for one last stand, time for one last primal howling directed at the moon that was never there for you, just an illusion, time to lose yourself in your vocal cords, time to open up and reclaim time, reclaim purpose, incite a fight for what you truly believe in: yourself against the uncaring forces that have spun you out of your orbit and melted your gravitational pull until it’s meaningless, like an ant exerting force on a cannonball, like a grain of sand affecting an ocean, which is where the moon can’t find you, where the light is gone and all you have is your rapidly decaying strength, where all you have is your grasping hand, treading water beneath the very surface and sinking slowly, sinking to where nobody can find you, sinking from dreams, sinking from pleasure, basking in pain, sorrow and lonely…until you get deep enough into this whirlpool of chaos, this torpid uncaring chaos, and you see light from the darkness, not top-down, but bottom-up, no moon to provide comfort and ease pain and erase the grief, but here is where you create your own barrier reef. Find your blank canvass and project, no, create all your fantasies, destroy the world of old, the world of the benevolent moon shining down and showing you the light, banish the moon back to the arcane days of cowardice and pick up your easel (if you can still breathe, if you have the strength, if you are unanchored to this comfort) the nutrients are limited, but pick up your easel; the water is cold, but pick up your easel; there are no directions, but pick up your easel. The (re)generation of your reef, of your shield, of your solace: of you. Provide it with the careful attention, shine your light on it, let it grow, bottom-up, impose yourself in this deep, dark uncaring place; flaunt your values, banish others and grow, as you go deeper and deeper, keep growing, keep learning. As your kingdom from the bottom spreads out in this dark place, as your kingdom expands in infertile waters, as your kingdom fights on, as your kingdom takes everything you have, if your kingdom saps you primal strength, if your kingdom is unsustainable, maybe, just maybe you will run into another deep sea diver and the barrier reef will be breached; but what will replace the irreplaceable? Seeds of germination spread and two into one: The Great Coral Reef.

Reading

Reading

The pages on the book were moist in a dry sort of way. This, seemingly, is a contradiction, yet the moistness still dried off over time, while leaving the remnants of wetness in this ghastly desiccation, as if it was eviscerating the molecules of liquid on the spot and turning this damp organism inside out and on itself, collapsing like a cruel world, like a cruel pyramid on brave grave robbers who just wanted a good old fashioned loot on the Pharaoh’s temple, who just wanted a nice wank on the austere, anthropoid coffin until the lid swung open and liquids could be sprayed on the book of the dead, limbs shattered off, dry but moist limbs after years in the sarcophagus, after all the liquids preserved the limbs, held it together, these raiders would break the Ancient God of men to paper, would shake the ink from the pages, would deconstruct and recombine, regenerate human tissue, break jars of Sodium Carbonate mixed with Sodium Bicarbonate, break the jars of the organs, suck the resin from the brain cavity, steal the amulets from the wizened body, anger QEBEHSENUEF by fingering intestines and pulling them through the tomb like slaves pulled blocks over logs to build the very pyramid that is collapsing on your séance, exhort yourself as you unwrap what lies beneath the bandages…

The Salesman

The Salesman

The man strolled from shop to shop with one wish. A wish to please through the sell, to fulfill through himself, a tool for the shop keeps and a fool for their families that they lay to rest in beds made of gold that they spun from the straw that the man sold in bulk, wholesale, marked off, door to door and night by night he gained their trust, he gained their esteem, the virtues of the man, the straw speaks platitudes as soothing as the aforementioned beds that the shop keeps and the shop keeps’ wives were spread on, like old mayonnaise out in the sun on stale bread with apples’ worms peaking their heads from decaying cores as the world spun and man walked on, and man walked on, until the worms were as dried as the apples and the world spun and man walked on, and man walked on, door to door, night by night…

The Maple

Remove the artifice and what do we see? We see untapped maple trees, the bark stripped, the leaves sheared off with sharp, rough scythes; we see the foliage burned, birds, squirrels and spiders purged from the ranks of the living; bee hives splattered on the ground, roots torn out and strewn on the ground like intestines, we see grass uprooted and downrooted, we see rings of the trunk torn out and spread onto the ground beneath, we have violence, we have silence, we have fear and it is not near an end, but a beginning, untapped potential, unseen renewal of resources, energy unleashed into the Auburn sky above and wrapped around the whole of the forest, as what happens to one happens to all and to all to one until we get to the potentiality, the meanings, the energy: The Maple.

Daggers at Dawn

Daggers At Dawn

“Daggers at Dawn” was the cry of the hour if not the day. Nay Centuries struggle by with nobody brave enough to answer the call, swinging from the mountaintop, which shuddered over the village. A creature as black as midnight swamp and twice as damp screeching into the winds that circumbembulate down the mount and through the crevices of the village. The fires that burned in the hearths of man and family, they look out into that darkness, peril in their eyes and clenching of their loins. Who to take up this cry and rid the township of a monster, while creating a hero: whoever dared the trek up that circular hill, to brave wind, rain, sleet, snow, hail, as well as the unfortunate monster. Who lay, baring his teeth, daring, watching, threatening anybody who looked twice anybody with apples in their teeth and the wind at their feet who dare beat the Sun into submission and soar through the expectations of a village and into the Monster’s deepest, darkest nightmare, which started when he was a lad. A lad for all seasons, but not stopping at one in particular, but fighting through the ambrosiatic feeling that one gets from too much shelter and not enough entertainment, through too much faun and not enough fauna. Oh, the nights are long with the beast, the burden, the cry, the scream, the taunting, the lonely! This is where we find the beast yelling to the sky, beating his many arms against each other, tears welling up in his many eyes, Oh the glory of lonely! A young man, no wife, no kids, no family, no friends, no enemies, no contemporaries; just his two hands and his mane. His glorious mane! He had nothing to win, lose, tie, untie, beg, bag, O but his mane! He stroked it thoroughly as the screech “Daggers at Dawn” emanated down the barren hills and right into the man’s soul, which wasn’t there. A long walk, but a fruitful one. He took a bag, which had one instrument: a dagger upon his weary body. He stroked it when the Sun went down and the Moon partially veiled in a foggy solace to what he couldn’t come back to. To what he couldn’t come back to. This march, this death march, this life march, this melancholic call to strangers who knew not his name, never mind his mane! He dangled his cane over the edge of the precipice and tottle went his head. Who to find over on this laborious journey? Who to fling upon his sharp utensil? The beast lay in a prone position, eyes still moist, hands linked together covering his knees, rocking slowly back and forth. All his pupils made the slow trip from nothing to Man, who stood there, blankly, blinking, tongue licks dry lips…

Firedance

Fire Dance
Far below the tall trees, rivers, hills and subsequent valleys lived a village unlike any that you may glimpse with your mind’s eye. Far below these prehistoric land marks lives a community in pain with desire and desirous for change. The ruler, the man with one eye, gathers all the founding families in the center of the vista. A circle of stakes protruding from the ground with the diameter of five meters. How to pick a new leader? How to gain the power of the all-seeing, all-feeling, all-knowing, all-hearing, all-judging ruler?

The family of the caves had never been invited to such an event. They hadn’t upgraded to grassy enclaves, which they thought better suited for ox, cows, deer, and all the rest of the herbiferous animals that they had grown so fond of, but still felt provincial in the strongest terms. They stuck to the winding road and strolled (maybe a poor word choice, as the family of caves, although a proud people, were not cocky as much as confident though a fine line delineates the two categories, it can be safely said that the family of caves were modest in mood, but in walking they strolled, so we must remove cockorious connotations from said word if we can paint a most accurate picture of how this family moved: indeed, we could compare them to a lion’s prowl—cautious, yet dangerous and ever-fleeting) through the village. The came upon the circle of stakes. They’d heard about this ‘game’ the village played and never asked to be included in such superstition; after all, the leader let them languish in their cave in languid peace and they never thought to provoke any sort of potential conflict in the man with one eye. One eye equals two fists, which in turn function as a mouth (or vice-versa) which stimulates the villagers to fury, not compassion; anger, not friendship and above all: status quo. Guess what family didn’t embody this status of quo, but a family of caves. This is why it was so curious that they invited to this solemnest of occasions. Content to sow the seeds in their caverns, they still made way out of the darkness, the dankness, of the somnubelent nights, and non-days, their skin, veiny and drained of all that Helios could shine upon the moles of the village.

The ruler steps forward, his left eye blazing, his right eye shaded by his miraculous hair, parted to one side, as was his lip. A half-grimace functioning as a gruesome smile. Blood on the teeth, more to come surely as the night drew on, painted the moon, which rose over the cliffs and shone into the circle, already ablazing, as the stakes were set afire. A wall of flames with but one entrance, a little corridor into the middle, it was shaped like a ghastly mouth, with the same dimensions (ratio-wise) as the littlest cave-dweller, mouth agape with wonder, as he watches the flames jet higher and higher with the swirling winds blowing in from the mount, circumambulating the fire as if demons were riding in from above and immersing the crowd into that surrounding feeling which can only be described as surveillance. Surroundance. Firedance.

The leader stood by the corridor of hell and beckoned to the little cave-dweller, mouth still open, eyes still wet, adjusting to the light of the white oval directly over their heads (he was accustomed to fire from an early age, no surprise here), he gestured to a girl from a village family around the same age as the wide-mouthed youth. With a flourish he motioned toward the doorway, through the mouth of hell itself, which grinned back to the villagers, the cavers, which winked back until fire filled the void, which sang songs of the ancient upon these families with their brave youth! The girl entered the circle of flames first and found a comfortable part in the middle. Then lied on the ground in a semi-fetal position, her legs parted, her mouth trembling, as well as all other pertinent features, her eyes closed, but suddenly open! The leader, the ruler, the king looked upon the boy, opened his fire-red eye, glared into the non-soul of the cave, mouth, bloody, talons, curled, poised, ready to attack, tear the boy’s limbs out, feed to the birds, the beasts, the villagers. Steps close to the boy, who is getting smaller and smaller with every coming step. Father steps in the way, pleads the virtues of letting a cave boy live. What were they thinking? They have their rites and the village has another set; no doubt, just as important as the cave-kin, but they don’t see the need for life; they don’t see the need for lack of light, just lack of life! The boy takes step toward the ruler. With every step the ruler gets bigger, one eye glistens, drool from his lips, legs quiver, fists clench, boy walks. Boy walks through the ruler, through the door of fire. The girl gets smaller and smaller with each passing step…

The Box

The Box

The boy, no more than eight, waited his turn. The expression on his face was one of scholarly indifference –a blank screen where his desires were frozen deep into the projector. A box in his hands, cardboard, anonymous, wrapped, silent. A hush went over the children as the boy made his way to the front of the barren classroom. They gathered around the boy, still no words, but silence functioning like verbs never could, never would. The haggard, surly teacher motioned with a skeletal paw and the boy opened the box with his little hands, gingerly gaining momentum as the ribbons unfurled and the box began to take form. Murmurs escaped little lips as the anticipation grew and filled the room like an invisible fog, clouding their senses and dissipating emotions. Broken sneakers and unkempt collars were witnesses to the package underneath, as frail bodies and undeveloped minds wrapped their way around to gain a preferable vantage point. The bell rang. The children exited in a thoroughly controlled manner and left the boy with an unopened box. Broken sneakers and unkempt collars made their way out the door and into his dreams…

The Cry of the Rodents

The Cry of the Rodents

The screen door opened with a whimper, a high screech filled with anticipation and not a little loneliness. The man busy at his table glimpsed at the perfect right angle and saw a stranger in his house. He knew why the stranger happened upon this city, the road, this house, but kept it to himself for the time being. A gentle motion to an empty chair was suffice for a greeting, for a pleasantry. A nod to the tea kettle, hot liquid in small cup, fingers inadvertently mingling over the pass, eye contact half-made and above all: clearing of throats. Let the mucous in and out, swallow the tea, grab at the meager bread on the table (crumbs really) before the rats get to it, their teeth glistening, their mammalian senses whirling in overdrive, their tails flickering like the fire the man was busy tending for this unexpected visitor who finally arrived after all these days, all these nights and was the wait worth it? The flames burnt tender wood, kindling saved up for weeks during this rainy season, saved for this. There will be no need for logs again. There will be no need for crumbs on the other hand, as the rats made their way through the dark and into the night, which is where they found the man. Mouth agape, eyes a blank canvas and skin the paint. The rats gaining in numbers, gaining in weight, as the man lost his. As the man lost an eye; as the man lost a foot; the rats gained a meal. The night’s tea overcome with rebellious warriors in fur coats of their own making. The cry of the rodents will be the last thing you hear, the only thing you hear…

The Leaf

The Leaf

The leaves fell from an elder poplar tree just above the playground where the children gathered after school. One in particular (leaf not child) was swept away by a gust from the north, carrying it past the slides, past the monkey bars, over the children’s heads, but for just one fleeing moment it appeared as if the littlest one had a chance at it. Time stopped and the collective attention of the children merged into one eye, one view, one desire as the little one reached his hand to the sky and took a little eternity from the grasp of his outstretched palm, an empty eternity nonetheless, but enough for his taste buds to enflame the tongue and cool the throat. The leaf continued its first fall, its last fall, when a lucky gust sprang from beneath and the parabolic rise over the boy’s dreams, never to be realized, fluctuated into a flat-line, signifying stasis, emergency rooms, sterility, but life again as the parabolic inverse of the cousin carried in from the South and tore it away from was known, down it went, further and further into the descent measured in seconds, but felt with that piece of eternity firmly clenched in the small boy’s palms…

The Storm

The Storm

He calmly steered the stern toward cruel storm, broken wind, flashing waves, as the mighty vessel galloped like a prize pony through dark night. His forearms steady as the wood was sturdy, as one thing remained on the sailor’s mind. This all-consuming, no-knowing thought process proved virtuous as the eye of the storm glanced back at the sailor, for it had passed leaving the boat flowing on the waves instead of sinking beneath the frigid waters, which is where the sailor’s mindset lurked. He had been at sea for seven years, and had seen storms as severe as this latest one, but his heart barely started on account of unfriendly skies, terrible forces from below, but only initiated frantic beating when thinking of his love, whisked away from his unguarded arms all those years ago. He was on the scent like a bloodhound and wouldn’t let pesky storm stand in his way or contaminate the trail. Through the seven seas he traveled, each as barren as the last. One thing remained the same: the cry of his love to the wind. Oh, how he would follow that beyond the gates of hell. They’d make their own heaven amidst the flames and conquer fallen ones, bring above crashing to below and create sweet harmony amongst chaotic forces.

When he was a pup he met her. The golden-hazed romance belonged to a time far different than the disease-ravaged ship of his. Gout, dysentery and the worst the Gods had to muster in warrior’s way to create obstacles unseen but ever felt. How he’d held her in safe arms, how he’d wiped away tender tears (or was it her wiping his?), how they learned of each other’s bodies in the dark and brought pleasure to light. When a random and terrible world was brought to its knees in the face of young love…

But this world struck back in a fashion he hadn’t known. He’d seen the forces of nihilism, he’d seen hate, but not like this. Torn from him, raped through him, shamed at him and spirited away from him. The tears of fury turned to icicles of hate as he began his search, as he began his revenge! Always a man to project his will, his desire, into an uncaring frontier; now he’d change the current, now he’d change the tide, now he’d change the spin of the earth, the pull of a compass in his never-ending quest to plant a stake into betrayed soil and leave nevermore, bring her to him or face the consequences. The tears then turned to flame…

He felt the cry of his love all over him, all through him and it pulled him, it carried him toward her. Damn the Ocean and damn his pain, her pain. The ship closed in on his goal, after all these years. The ship gained ground on a canoe tethered to a dock, the entrance to a hut, the entrance to his love. He pulled his vessel forth and dropped anchor, while clutching anger. His first step on land was a tentative one, but one full of purpose, mindless purpose but steadfast in implication. The dock swung as right foot passed left and so on. The hut stood on a frozen hill, a barren land, the Sun since banished (if only for a day) and the moon swallowed whole by callous clouds forming overhead.

As he reached inside trying to find anything that the seas hadn’t mercilessly stripped away from his very soul, his sanity, he tried to find an anchor in an unattached land. Hand touched varnished wood, the door, and pushed it open. Light met him, after seven years, light took him in, light attracted him like a light, like a beacon, signaling boats from afar and bringing in from the darkness. A love, his love, waiting, for she was the source of this bright, fluid energy that he had clung to in dark tunnels. His tears of fire extinguished and all was forgiven. All was new again. Revenge was his, as he looked deep into his raison, deep into his reason, deep into what had escaped him, deep into those eyes and he saw what he’d been running for, what he’d been sailing for, dying for. The reflection, those eyes, these mirrors, and memories, long forgotten, sprang back to that night, as the enemy was staring back at him from her muddy brown pools, who he’d been chasing to avenge, who had kept him hungry, the cruelty of the world was as bright as the light emanating from her warm body. Only to be eclipsed by the sight into her reflection, he, the moon, bringing darkness to her Sun. Lips trembled, hands tremored, as the storm continued unabated overhead. His heart finally felt fear…

The Canvass

The Canvass

The boy lived on a white canvass. He tied paint brushes on his shoes and skied across his world, across his universe. On days when he was sad, he would use blue paint; on days when he was mad, he would use red paint. Sometimes the boy would feel creative. He would mix all the colors of his palette onto his brushes. When the day was over he would grin as broadly as his world, hands on hips, eyes gleaming, and would sleep well that night. Sometimes the boy wouldn’t put pain on his brushes at all. He would stay in his corner of the canvass and think of wild dreams, of painful futures, glorious pasts, while the day got dimmer and dimmer, his prospects turned bright. When it became too bright he decided to use black paint. He painted his whole world this non-color and sank into it, sank into the Universe and floated forever more. There was no more paint. There was no more canvass. There was only a boy…until there was no boy, but darkness, a void, never-ending, no stars lit up this desert of blackness.

The Play

The bench was cold. Fortunate for myself, as it was the hottest October on record. How the bench was cold relative to the airborne temperature was a mystery that I was too bored to solve. Some questions are better left to fictitious detectives to solve. We don’t need to know why, as long as someone does. All I needed to know was how to fill my time—empty as space and twice as consuming. All I had was my cool bench and my warm imagination. Young couples with empty strollers carrying on like I knew they could. Sun from behind scorched clouds trying to shine on their happy days, but only half-succeeding as they walked by the bench from where I sat.

I unfurled my paper with the restraint of a priest, meaning a priest that had restraint, not many left I suppose, but the ones that don’t, the ones who don’t let lustful flesh impede on wild imagination. They would do well for my play. They would do well for our play. I scoped the park, the beautiful park which lied on a hill with a vantage point of my glittery city, people bustling with electricity, which also propelled cars throughout, everyone in their private lives, private mysteries, secrets, lies, lives, but still carrying on, during my scoping I saw two fabulous actors with so much inherent potential that only I could reach in, only I could bring it about, only I had the key to a life, their life and only I had the courage, dare I say compassion, to turn it just right and set one on the other with the flick of a wrist, the flip of a tongue, the gaze of two eyes and the touch of ragged flesh, aged flesh. They were very welcoming to my concerns. At my age you can never have enough and I played it just right, as I should, I’ve had enough practice after all.

Her name was Lily; his was Peter. Perfect. I rambled with the incoherence of a maniac; I brushed next to them clutching at them, tears rolling freely, hands tremoring, jaws shut to open again. Gentle hands to stop the shaking, as I fell—only to be caught by this picturesque young couple. My star actors! My love for them eclipsed by my very real intentions: to start the chain reaction. They soon learned of my ‘past’ which I told not with a little pain. An old man, barren fields, empty house, full heart, no compassion, only time, always time, but what to fill it as my lips trembled. My actors looked at one another, while true, this was a heart breaking story, but what do we do with it? A warm meal would tide me over, would mean ever so much to this broken down demon. What else could they do?
They lived even higher into my hill, up my hill. No signs of children; they were still young after all. They hadn’t heard about the war, until I brought it back with my second wine, my second bottle, their last bottle. Look at them try to get rid of an old man, and look at an old man feign ignorance. I wasn’t going anywhere; I had nowhere to go, as far as they were concerned. A warm bed would tide me over and dare they say no?

I spent the night in the comfort of child, brought in from the storm and tucked away with warm tidings, warm milk sucked from cold cup, and love wrapping up child in velvety arms, as the parents stand in the doorway exchanging warm glances, knowing glances. These parents were different. The glances were worried, and they had their first child sleeping like a king on a queen size bed.

Breakfast was made with a flourish. At the subtext of this grand meal were suggestions. Luck was wished upon me, but boundaries were outlined, borders defined and a child swept to an orphanage—my park on a hill overlooking the glittery, glamorous city, again parentless, but still excited. They had passed the first act and already their arc was apparent. The next act would have a twist, but would it be a comedy? A tragedy?

My brave actors never seemed to enter my park after that fine evening. I would have to move the stage accordingly. I lit my tobacco pipe while glaring into the city, the wondrous machine, the terrible efficiency of our world: the buses, the trains, the cars, the bikes, the shouts, the whispers, the murmurs. I needed an obstacle for my protagonists; I needed an antagonist or else the narrative would prove flat, and I started this exercise to solve my boredom, my time, my space. Or else it would be useless, I would be useless.

The next day I followed them to their work, which is where they must have met. I followed them through the glamorous city, smoke coming up from the streets and lingering at the eyes of the skyscrapers, which looked down to my city but up to my hill, sitting there like a beacon, sitting there to bring in lost sailors, gasping for breath and lost at sea, searching for something, anything (think a light house) to hold onto to calm their terrible hearts, to provide comfort to shaking knees, to drown out fears of Ocean rats eating out eyelids, to have to look at a fellow sailor, a fellow passenger, and know that he felt as you do, as you will once the food runs out and the water turns black with plague ridden lice! The sailors suffocating in the ocean, that is my city, glance up to see where the escape will be laid bare—my hill.

Time for the next plot point. Sprint at them as fast as my gnarled legs can, tears flowing like Thames, mouth shaking, blurbing, saliva on dry lips. To see their expressions, to see their horror, their contempt shining on my screen ever so briefly only to be eclipsed by hatred, fear, sorrow, and confusion. Always confusion, it will act as my antagonist in this tale. Come from behind and surprise from the front, sweep in from the side, come from above, don’t dare think about diving from below where they will stomp you, beat you, bruise you until there is nothing left but a furtive glance, a fearsome gesture, powerless in its beauty.

The Apprentice

The woodcutter finally found an apprentice. Word had made its way around the village, to every nook, to every cranny, to every pub, ale house, whore house, residence, business eventually to the apprentice—who had no identity yet, just a boy who got in his share of trouble. The first day, as is the rule, was the hardest. The boy came fifteen minutes late and was treated to a knuckle blow above his eye for wasting the woodcutter’s precious, yet molasses, time.

All was forgiven when the apprentice showed himself valuable at swinging the axe to and fro. A might blow delivered to the trunks of trees, while the woodcutter nodded (out of apprentice’s eyesight for masters can’t compliment apprentices or they’ll have an inescapably big head, which a sharp tack will puncture ruining all the master’s work, as they try to tear down the children and rebuild them in their own image and you can’t repair a popped balloon or ego) in approval. This was turning out to be quite the protégé for the woodcutter. Dreams of an early retirement materialized out of dusky air. Kicking up his feet with an ale, while the boy brought in business with his stout back and robust chest, swiving trees down mightily like a young woodcutter.

Dreams turned to reality awfully quickly, as the woodcutter hung up his axe and brought down the bottle. The apprentice soon was doing all the cutting, while the cutter did all the drinking, all the whoring (he even brought the apprentice’s Mother to his minimalistic hut and had at her over the wood oven that the apprentice made), all the drinking while pocketing all the money. Now, the apprentice was very grateful for all the cruel (yet useful) tutelage the master gave him, but felt that he deserved some of the profits that labor brought in. He wasn’t asking for anything outlandish, a 85-15 split would have been for the apprentice.

One foul-smelling evening, the apprentice approached the woodcutter and made his business proposal. Blasphemy! An apprentice is not a partner, but a step up from a slave! Leathery and worn fist met fresh, young face, as the apprentice was treated to a beating of epic proportion. A youthful beauty tarnished and bruised over, while elder seed dripped from above on young hair.

The apprentice ran back to his shameful house smelling like the woodcutter. The monthly bath taken a week early, as he planned his terrible and wicked revenge. The hot water felt cool when anger was taken into formula and teeth were chattering in his vengeful tub. The apprentice took a back road to master’s house—through the woods he went, shadowed by benevolent moon smiling down on him, smiling down on imminent actions and the future that must result.

The hut stood on its lonely hill. Dark clouds swirling overhead, illuminated by ferocious lightning and the impending echo of terrible thunder. The apprentice travelled ever closer, his axe in his right hand swinging threateningly, just the way the woodcutter taught him. The wooden door creaked open upon soft touch. The hut was dark and the apprentice could see nothing—until lightning lit the room up and the woodcutter appeared in a chair not three feet away, scowling, eyes dark, waiting for the apprentice to say something, anything.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

The axe followed with a quick, albeit effective, retort that took off the left side of the woodcutter’s face. Now he wore a half frown—until it righted itself into a half grimace. The horrible laughing was cut short by a second swing which detached the rest of the woodcutter’s ample head.

The apprentice was now the woodcutter and would in turn need: an apprentice. Word had made its way around the village, to every nook, to every cranny, to every pub, ale house, whore house when he finally found one.

Black Licorice

Black Licorice

The call came in on the landline. He was a little nervous every time the ring rose an octave higher than his cell—the landline was only for family and telemarketers; both made him equally flustered.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

The voice from the other line was saccharine with the aftertaste of black licorice, kind of like absinthe, but even woozier; even more lucid of a feeling, like getting hit with a toy sledgehammer while wearing a real helmet.

He slammed the phone down. Tore the line out of the wall and defenestrated the phone. This action brought on a car alarm and then another and another, until the whole neighborhood awoke with indignation and fury.

The doorbell rang. This was even an octave higher than his landline, and accordingly, made him just as agitated—only family and strangers rang the doorbell; both made him equally flustered.

The door swung open as if pushed by a bellicose ghost.

WHOOOSH!

It was no ghost, however. It was far worse. The townspeople gathered round, the pitchforks gleaming in the sky, the moon illuminating the cold, nefarious edges of the cruel instruments and creating shadows of obscured light which reflected off his terrified face. Effigies burning, mouths chanting, imprecations hurled like javelins aimed at his very being.

And there was the voice again. The licentious voice that could intoxicate him with grenadine; the powerful hymn of not liberty but of libertines!

Eyes inundated him from all directions, as he realized his time had come. The orb of dolor was upon him and it was a transient effect of relief followed by fear and something bittersweet as the aftertaste, but it was not black licorice he tasted: it was familiar, familial, pain and sincere gratitude for sheparding him through to adulthood, incontinence and pride, long gone and forever lasting…

Awake

Awake

The clock on the white wall started buzzing. It was time for Gerald to wake up already. He had just closed his eyes five seconds ago—at least that’s how it felt. The eyes wouldn’t quite open, the body wouldn’t quite initiate the energy for his arms to maneuver his hands to the cold sheets and press upon them with half his might to leverage his body into the air and let him start this day, this nightmare, this dream, this journey from bed to bed, from AM to PM from start to stop and over again until his days were over and the eternal night could engulf him, enslave him, put him in captivity of darkness and denial and no contribution to the arts and society, friends and family which kept him going, breathing, living all these years, all these decades, this quarter of a century, a blink in his eye, a bullet in his pistol: still, this wasn’t enough to get him out of bed and down the stairs, to set the table, put water in the coffee machine, open his cereal, eggs in the pan, take the coffee out, spread the jam, and so on. And this was just the first part of his day, the easiest part of his day. There were numbers to dissect, people to dissuade, persuade, manipulate, errands to be run, cows to be milked, cars to be driven, screeches to be deflected to less sensitive areas by the powers-that-be. Oh, and then his head would softly fall on his goosy pillow, his eyes would shut and then? And then his eyes would open and the same damn thing would happen again and again and again until…until the monotony of his life would turn into even more monotonous death…

Today would be different. Today would be a new life. A new death. Today Gerald would change the order of his decayed state of being. He strolled down the stairs, head high, spirit low and proceeded to take the egg carton out of his narcissistic fridge. He splattered the eggs all over his body. One at a time. The first one on his head—he used it like a styling gel. He combed his hair all the way back, even spiked, and then proceeded to bring it forward in the style that our Hollywood starts of the early millennium preferred (think Hartnett). The next one dripped all over his naked chest, those stringy hairs oozing with yolky brilliance. It travelled further down his nubile and precious skin until it proved entangled with his curly pubes from Australia. By this time, the third egg caught up to the second and quickened the pace of this methodical descent (think of a rainy day from your childhood, driving in the back seat of your comfortable car, a raindrop on your window moving methodically down the pane, until a quicker raindrop catches up and joins: now the super raindrop moves faster than either had; same case for this egg of ours!) a little gets caught in the foreskin of your euphemism, but the rest travels south to our saurian legs, and finally to your feet, so you make footprints gingerly around the kitchen of unborn, unprocessed food/babies.

Gerald knew that this would be the last of a new day or first of an old one. His account depleted, his dreams dashed; now all he had were nightmares. Nightmares of others are more empowering to create then your own. You know it’s a dream. Do others?

Let’s start off on your drive, shall we, Gerald? Let’s start off on your commute.
Gerald noticed a school bus whimpering up Flower Street. He followed it as inconspicuously as he could. Always half a turn behind this behemoth, always slow on the accelerator but quick on the brake. Oh, how he followed it to the Elementary School. He’d be late for work but early for play.

Mrs. Jenson loved her homeroom more than she fancied her life. Her life: drab, depressed, useless, pointless. Her homeroom: booming with potential, intelligence, like an oil field undrilled, like a maple tree untapped. Please tap, please drill! Well, she proved herself a regular Canadian woodsman with a degree in Exon with her homeroom. She put on her helmet and got at those national resources. Until one fateful morning when Gerald showed up…with a grin…and an idea…and other things that we shan’t mention in this sordid tale.

After this detour to faux-academia, Gerald decided to take a lavish lunch over at his mother’s house. This was the day to end days (or start?). His mother, his poor mother, his broken hunch-backed Dickensian whore of a mother! The trip was short, as his death would be long. Long and cold. We already mentioned dark, right?
His mother was taken care of (notice the lowercase ‘m’) and Gerald’s gourney gontinued. His work was the obvious choice to finish his excursion into murky, gray waters. It was the denouement of a terrible, blood-worthy story.
He went in and saw his second family, his third friends, his fourth lovers and came to realize something. Something silent or violent? Only Gerald knows (and maybe an astute reader).

On Gerald’s last day on this Earth of ours, on this life of ours, he learned a thing or two (perhaps three?):

1. Mrs. Jenson could tap/drill into these young minds/bodies with four thousand dollars in her back pocket, which she can invest in books, maps, pencils, pens, papers, desks, windows! She can now show these children what life is about!

2. Gerald’s Mother (notice the capitalization on Mother) can be paid back what is owed: love and compassion for years of caring, of being there for a young, unsure Gerald.

3. His workers can gain access to the greatest resource of all: undying support in a coffee bean grind of a life.

Unfortunately, none of them accepted his gifts and were quickly (and relatively painlessly) eliminated.

Gerald woke up with a start the very next morning. His eyes popped right open. Kinetic energy was circulating in his arms, as he exploded out of his bed like a spaceship to the moon. His moon.

The Quest

In a very small village the boy lived. His Father was stout and important. The boy was frail and disinterested. Until the day, the terrible day, when his father was impaled by a spike of his own making in a ghastly accident which begged the question: why?

They said the boy wasn’t up to the challenge. They said the boy couldn’t do it. They said the boy was too weak, too sensitive, too inexperienced, too unprepared, too immature. Overall, the boy couldn’t do it—live up to his father.

The boy decided to create his own journey, his own quest, to show the villagers that he may not be his father, but he was a human: a human with ideas, with morals, with a code, with the code: to live his life justly and with not a little conviction.
The villages jeered at this seemingly vainglorious spaniel, this cocksure boy. They drove him out of this town—and the next for unknown reasons. When he landed, he was in a place with a different currency, a different tongue, a different creed even!

He strolled up and down the marketplace with a glint in his sea-weary eye (his other one gouged out by a maniacal townsmen).

Nobody noticed him. Nobody cared. He changed his name to Noughbuddy and nobody understood.

The boy threw an apple at the jester. Noughbuddy laughed.

The boy moved seven towns and three counties over. The air was warm and the competition was fierce, too fierce for the boy.

He struggled back over kind days and odious nights, nefarious winds and troublesome whims.

He made it back, but why? Back to where it all began. Back to where he remained.
The chorus sang a sad song. A family gave a warm, but unsure hug. A boy blindingly looked to his window and wondered what could have been.

Thanks John Barth!

To Brom Bones: MY LOVE

Christopher Columbus railed on his nearest companion, Brom Bones, first mate, second lover, and third friend.

“Brom Bones, you son of a whore! Literally, you rapscallion! Ah, a storm’s about and we must keep ourselves warm. So bring your diseased blankets into the dirty room full of boards, wood, and pirate’s rum. We’re no pirates though. Our alliances lie elsewhere, nowhere, Spainwhere! Find the fire that will light my loins, Bones! Find the light that will fight my desire, the fire! Make it a warm one, with rufflely roars and whimsical chords. Fan the flames and call on high, let the Spanish Gods have their pie, sir. Oh, Brom Bones, ‘tis land ahead, go steady yet in due haste and don’t stop until we have the correct momentum, don’t stop until we can memorialate and consummate this party for our very Spanish souls. Did I mention we’re Spanish?”

Christopher Columbus finished his flogging and tore into the deck.

“Men! At least you call yourself men! Man the gaps and anchor the mast! Land I seek on a ship so meek to pray to lie to sit to dive into waters so pure the blue hatred of one’s eye washed away into the memories that sand encapsulates.”

The men did what they were told and Christopher Columbus was gratified. His lustful loins pressed into Brom Bone’s femur. Feeling moister by the second and drier by the minute, Christopher Columbus summoned to the sky with the fury of an angel and the cunning of a tradesman.

“What will meet us in these untamed lands? Who will seek us and in sooth, who will we seek? How will we find the strength to go beyond the floggy rails of our past months at sea. Me, my men and the old man (not the river, but the Ocean, fears the ages and fights the sages! Crack the whip and kneel there be nips! India we shall call this unsacred land).”

They slowly got off the ship and all fell at the same time. Sea legs were upon the crew and none the wiser. They all shared a polite, cordial laugh, eyes shining, and got up only to fall down again. The laughter this time was cruel, callous, empty, putrid, presumptuous, cunning, devoid of meaning and dependent of viciousness.

“Before our very sea-weary eyes! What do we have, but savages. Bearing their God-given goods for all of nature (and civilization) to take in. Damn their flesh, damn them, Bones, carve them up, tie them up, to the rails!”

They tied the enemies of their God onto a canoe that they fashioned from the alien trees upon the shores. In a symbolic gesture that would have made Homer blush, they pushed the canoe out into the sea, dragging the savage warriors out to the Clementine-inspired death, but not before setting the canoe afire!

“What element will do our work, Spain’s work, first? Fight water with fire and fire with water. This is the coliseum for the Gods! This is where the Romans are in present day, past day and the future combining to watch fire take savage flesh while the cool temptations of water seduce mother breath! Oh will the flames penetrate the heart of man (do they have one?) or the intellectual power of waves!”

The answer proved moot, as a hailstorm of arrows turned the light into dark, blocking out the Sun! The cries of the noble, Godless warriors eclipsed the bright shining screams of Spaniards gone amuck! Brom Bones took one to his fibula. And a brave sailor stayed by the side of his love while the storm continued.

“Brom Bones! My love, my pet, my friend! Hang on to your dear life as Father Time is shorter, but even more valuable in these dangerous times. Hang on to my eyes and watch love flow forth and blind you in these dark tides. Feel my hand press on yours and my caressing pets will prove a torturous ally of longing into your descent up into what we can only hope, what I can only hope is a gentler world! Please smell my body next to yours, inhale deeply, my one, inhale softly, my dear, as this sense of purpose of place in an unfamiliar world will provide you guidance on your way into another unfamiliar, but not (hopefully) unfamilial world. Take this kiss, take this present, take this past and wield it into your unstoppable future, Brom Bones!”

Christopher Columbus wept as the brave Brom Bones sunk into his embrace with a deathly weight. The rain of arrows stopped and a flood of noble warriors began. They took the courageous Christopher Columbus prisoner and escorted him up to the palace. A broken down teepee the size of an average Spaniards hut. He insinuated as much and was savagely beaten with a stick by a savagely warrior who threw him down savagely, beaten, bruised (in body not spirits, except for the void in his very soul that Brom Bones plugged with his formidable wish bone).

“You savages! You Godless fiends! You have torn my heart in three! One for my country; one for Brom Bones, a love that will echo through the ages; and one for me, but don’t cry for me, else I bring death upon your township, else I bring sorrow to your mothers, your fathers, your sisters, your brothers, your nieces, your nephews, and your lovers!”

Chief Powhattan had heard enough. He motioned for his second-in-command to cut Christopher’s Bone off. The sturdy steed wound up with his eye on the soon to be worthless prize and swung down with a force that would eventually bring Custer to his knees! But a young, seven-year-old beautiful princess, Pocahontas, dove onto the skeletal strumpet and the Indian stopped his downward descent into glory!

“It appears that Brom Bone’s spirit speaks again. You, my princess, my nymphet, my love! My cipher for the Bone and of the Bone, you will be mine and our nations will merge and lead as one! We will build roads, schools, museums to commemorate this joyful occasion. Aye, I must wait a good four years to sow my demon seed into this angel, but sow I will and plant and water with my desirous nectar, let it flow from the mount of forbidden pain to the valley of sorrowful forgiveness! We are one!”

With the princess’s attention diverted, Powhattan took a mighty chop at the Bone himself and all was lost…

Election Redux

The Campfire

To say it was roaring would be an attack on the English language, as well as the primordial language that the fire spoke in its crackles and snaps back and forth, swaying with the invisible wind, no, the wind that the fire made visible with the flames shooting with the whims of Zeus blowing from afar. But this was well before Zeus's invention; it predated Gods. It even predates Prometheus, the maker of the fires. These are how stories float across generations to create the Gods that ensue to create the fires, our one passion, our one desire. Who does not desire the warm eminence of the hot arid breath and comfort that springs like a reverse liquid shiver into your very being. A man, his son and the original giver: the fire. All sitting, this three way conversation. Warm tones all around, stories told, marshmallows roasted and platitudes confided. The fire answers every query with: "crackle, snap," and oozes of warm blankets and hot cocoa, of an anchor on a tumultuous night at sea; the original white knight, red sight, orange blaze.

A stranger limps to the father and son. Please, have a seat. Plenty of room by the fire. Please grab a spot and let's swap stories, let's gaze into the light show, let's gaze so intensely that we see more than orange, and red and yellow, but see a rainbow (water can't have all the fun) let's make eye contact through this gentle beast and keep our voices low and intimate, as we gather close to keep the demons at bay, as the ghosts sway and live through our words that the fire will coax out, in time. And the fire knows time; the fire transcends time; the fire is time. And soon we will be too. Burning brightly, if as short as the narrowest campground, transient in our lives, but timeless in our deaths. The only thing keeping our memories, our livelihoods, in the present time of our shared loves is this time machine, this time beast, this crackling womb, this hole of death, which rips a hole through our mortality and strangely brings us closer to immortality, hear it crackle, hear it crackle, hear it whisper, feel our spines, feel our goose bumps, imagine our legends, breathe out our shared myths and let's collect a big death as a substitute for our small life. From insubstantial to immortal; from beggar to God, from poor to rich and all inbetween….crackle, pop.

Some more election musings...

Hold it in, thought the brain to the mouth, hold that breath for just a little longer. The mouth acquiesced to the brain’s whims and Carter held his breath for 47 seconds longer than his competitor, Niles.

On the walk back from the contest, Carter saw an opening in the conversation, as big as a five yard hole that two 350 pound meat grinders carve for an African American running back (at the writing of this story there were no European American running backs on any team, be it college, high school, European, NFL etc, that had two 350 pound meat grinders carving holes like a young Jack the Ripper working on a fetal pig in science class (full disclosure: Jack the Ripper didn’t have science class and never practiced on fetal pigs. He preferred whores. He would seduce them with a whistle that started at a b flat and worked it’s way up the scale, this would tickle the Ivory scented throats of these robust young demons swaying back and forth on the cold streets of London. They would approach a striking young man, deep set eyes (why do killers always have peculiar eyes?) his mouth still pursed from the whistle and anticipating a kiss. Oh, they would feel anticipation to as the cleaver swung forth. Oh, the brain, the monitor of the five senses we live by! How that brain wishes it could turn off the sense of feeling. A little morbidly curious to keep the eyes open, the smell of decaying (already?) human flesh, the sound of one’s alien voice, the vision of one’s loved parts scattered across non-sterile floor (but who cares?) and the feeling! Oh, the feeling of leaving this world with a crescendo, like the operas of old, the symphonies of our past where conductors would fire cannons at the end to wake the audience from their stupor, now the mundane pleasures of whoredom were escorted out like they used to escort Johns to their non-marital bed! Oh, there were rapes, beatings, thievery and everything else you could imagine, but never a knife piercing flesh, never the primal howlings from the human animal (well, to be fair, there was some of that, but it was an act then! Here is life and it is coming to a close!