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There Will Be Sharks 03
*************************************************************************
* There Will be Sharks
*
* Volume 1, Issue 3
*
*
* Flux = Rad
*
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issue 3, volume 1, a bit late for preambles. what a gaffe!
this is not another post-teenage manifesto, rife with the anti-erudition of
a corroding counter-culture that's choking on the butt ends of trust fund
indie rockers and pretty blonds from the very heart of Affluentia who eat
taoism and shit an admixture of vonnegut and hummus. this is brass tacks.
we will conquer or we will be subjected.
the vast grazing fields of slack are disappearing and the free range
slackers being herded up or just hunted down, stuffed and displayed. the
grassy elysium we have known is being razed and, exhausted. many are happy
in their cages, having had their insides burned out by their own ill- formed
nihilism. but not everybody is happy as part of the corporate menagerie.
some of us have retained our Selves.
it's a new feudalism. the workforce is full of well fed serfs who think
that because they can eat enough to get fat and can afford cable to watch
football they have things good. they even �surf the web�.
not everybody is happy. this world was created, our cages built, by those
who were not originally happy with this option, though they have come to be
the ones who lure us into the cages.
and people are shocked at the youth violence, at its callousness. but the
shocked, these are the very people who started it all. the architects of a
half-assed revolution culminating in the partial ecstacy of 1968. love and
love and altamont.
they took things only so far and then cut their hair, bought new cars and
moved out to shaker heights and lake forest and, eventually, brentwood. and
then they wonder at the state of the world!
every year takes us further from whatever progress was made, every year the
tears and bruises in the societal fabric heal a little better, stronger than
ever. it's the terror of watching this reversion that panics some of us.
it was like we were fucked 3/4 of the way to orgasm but now it looks like we
may never get laid again.
so it's time for a goal line stand against the encroaching corporate
feudalism. more than that, it's time for an all out offensive, and this
time it must be sustained. we *have* beliefs, we have souls, we have a
culture, we have style, we have everything the corporate dystopia can only
pretend to offer. since the 80s, our culture has been growing, now we have
a civilization of our own, one that must be defended at all costs and, once
adequately defended, it is time to go on the march as conquerors, the sons
of blood facing off against the sons of dust.
fight this generation. fight this generation. fight this generation.
fight this generation.
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this issue:
fallow summer kitchen slanted
AGE.exe y^||}{thre||/\\7&#$thw**&><<(
Impressionisste zoetica
Lamenting Adonis Phyllis Grant
Ishtar elusive dreamer
fairytale noir midori
savagery rendered heartless
the fabric of folly epcot fitzgerald
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
fallow summer kitchen--slanted
fallow summer kitchen, part I
she was upset, apparently, because the stars were too far away.
that's what she said, anyway, as she sat looking out the kitchen window,
blowing smoke through the screen. it was a hot night and the breeze was
teasing us, coming right up to the window but bringing no relief. four
years ago, the last time i saw her, she didn't smoke except for to get
stoned. she smoked sitting in an ersatz slouch--it made her sexier than
usual i had to admit. and tracy was sexy to start with. on the table,
between us, was a spent bottle of gray goose vodka, her purchase. she had
a classy way of throwing her family's money around. actually she was in
her third year of law school, so soon she'd have her own money to throw
around. like most of her classmates at the eastern lawyer factory she
would graduate from, she had already had years of practice at spending
money and would consume in a way that was a credit to her lineage. (she
had talked earlier about the boyfriend of a friend who, upon graduation
from an eastern medical school had borrowed 1,000 dollars in tens and
twenties and stood on top of a dorm roof and thrown the money down, while
the rich kids who were between checks from home scrambled for it. that was
the sort of story tracy always *had* loved to tell and laugh about.)
the night before, in a dream, i had been in bed fucking her, female
superior position, our fingers interlaced, with her smoothly rocking back
and forth while i groaned and smoothly moved up and down. i couldn't see
her face, i was looking in the corner. there, slumped and frumpled in a
gorgeous careless heap against the wall was her ex-boyfriend, watching us
and grinning broadly. adam julian katz. my best friend, a beautiful
brilliantly flawed example of trust fund angst. dead four years. i would
sooner have put a gun in my mouth than fucked a girl he loved, and he had
always loved tracy. ending their affair had not been his idea, and he never
fully disentangled, right up until he died at 21 in a flophouse in london.
waking up from the dream, and noticing a hard-on, i felt like shit. i
longed for a hair shirt and something with which to flagellate myself. but
then, seeing tracy, seeing someone who knew me the way i used to be, that
was flagellation of a sort.
"we worried about you," her voice brought me back to the present,
"it's been forever."
"yeah, how is everybody?"
the only "everybody" i especially cared about was dead four years, a
year from the day after she dumped him, 11 months from the day after he had
first found out for sure she was sleeping with a new boy.
"oh," she said, now facing me, exhaling smoke over my head,
"everybody is fine. rumi invited you to her wedding."
"yes, how is rumi?" it was a question i didn't need to ask, like
"oh, is 2 and 2 still 4?" rumi was my first girlfriend, a gorgeous girl
whose family had come from delhi to the suburbs of chicago. i was 16 and
she was 18...she fell in love with me and i with the notion of having a
beautiful girlfriend. everything would always be perfect with rumi, her
daddy would make certain of it. besides which, she was an ex-lover of mine.
if a girl ever is down on her luck and wants things to change, all she needs
to do is make love to me for a few weeks, lay cuddling with me, exchange
sweet words--have all the functional aspects of a relationship with me.
it's true i may be hard to get along with, quite a drain at times, while we
are together, but all my former lovers go on to have brilliant lives once
one of us casts the other aside.
"she's doing well, she and her new husband just bought a house out
in deerfield. she's very happy...you're still her favorite though." tracy
winked and guffawed. she was very drunk from the vodka we had been doing
half-cold in shots for the past couple of hours, drinking to everything we
could think of.
"oh, i would have gone to the wedding but i didn't have a date."
"i'd have been your date."
"oh...it's been years since you haven't been attatched to *someone*."
adam had waited, waited months, for her to be unattached, to have a
chance to win her back. it never happened. which is not to say he was a
chaste paladin waiting for his lady. he was gorgeous and smooth and
promiscuous as all hell, as he had been before meeting tracy. but he held
out an ultimately ridiculous hope that she was as unable to leave him alone
as he was to leave her alone. to my knowledge, she never looked back, nor
did she ever regret anything, even after his death. horace byrd, a big good
looking dumb frat boy had been her 'escort' to the funeral.
"look," her voice was suddenly like vodka, grabbing my attention and
knocking my stream of consciousness on its ass, "what the fuck is wrong with
you? i adore you, we all do. we always have, and you have so much promise.
but what the fuck are you doing with yourself? you flunked out of school
and now you just sit here in this shitpit. you're wasting your life. we
all have to move on, somehow."
that hurt. i was fond of my shitpit, for one thing. i'd put effort
into making it at least a stylish hovel, a sanctuary, no matter how
delapidated. the antacid white walls and low hanging ceiling fans even gave
it something of the feeling of a bungalow in the tropics, i liked to think.
she had no right to comment on my sanctuary. besides which, who was she to
nonchalantly toss my life for the past four years off as sitting in a shitty
apartment unable to move on. she had no idea, none at all, what i had been
doing, only that it hadn't had wardrobes designed by ralph lauren or
furniture made by ikea.
"you've moved on enough for both of us. in fact, you've moved on
enough for an entire whorehouse," i said.
the vodka bottle flew just over my head, i heard her yell "fucker",
the bottle exploded somewhere behind me, a shard of glass somehow flew into
the back of my head, i said �shit� and moved my hand to the back of my head,
where there was blood. �oh god, i'm so sorry.� she was on her knees now,
pushing my head gently forward and looking around the back of my head. �i'm
so sorry. i just lost it...that was a shitty thing you said though.� she
was softly picking through my hair, grooming me as it were, making sure the
shard of glass she had pulled out was the only one there. "god, glass can
get in your bloodstream and work your way to your heart and kill you you
know, i have to make sure to get it all." tracy always had a hairline
trigger of a temper and was sometimes quick to regret, if she could see
physical blood or bruises.
"it's fine, it's fine, it's fine," i said, adding greater conviction
and magnamanity to each ensuing "fine" until i seemed to mean it. i was
up, off in the corner, picking up the shards of glass. the light bouncing
off the shards made them shine and it reminded me of adam's eyes shining
through incipient tears, the last time i had seen him alive. at that moment
i resolved to poison her.
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
AGE.exe y^||}{thre||/\\7&#$thw**&><<(
>//FILE: AGE.exe
>/*DESCRIPTION: Illusory arrogance, diet cat food, and deja vu: another
closed system.*/
>
>#include <iostream.h>
>void main()
>{
>
> //Local data
> bool The_Lord_Is_My_Shepherd;
> bool I_Shall_Not_Want;
> int COUNTER_Random_Ego_Sodomy;
>
> The_Lord_Is_My_Shepherd = 0;
> I_Shall_Not_Want = 0;
> COUNTER_Random_Ego_Sodomy = 0;
>
> while (I_Shall_Not_Want < 0);
> {
> //Commitment.
> cout << "Do you accept these terms? (0,1)" << endl;
> cin >> The_Lord_Is_My_Shepherd;
> //consult ad banner database for input placement
>
> if (The_Lord_Is_My_Shepherd == 1);
> I_Shall_Not_Want = 1;
> else
> COUNTER_Random_Ego_Sodomy ++
> cout << "Your total number of interpersonal dissappointments
has increased to"
> << COUNTER_Random_Ego_Sodomy << endl;
> } //end while
>}
>
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
Impressionniste--zoetica
Impressionniste:
05/09/00 7:07:00 PM
***
[Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!]
I.
It's a nice bridge [they are taking it down]; I walked there once,
it felt like a million things at once, thousands of years of history
rolling; the river today is cold and suggests a continuation of the bridge's
arches in its wave structure. Splash, you mathematic!
Rain, cigarettes, 'ob�issance � un sup�rieur eccl�siastique',
monkshood in the shadows; trees halfhanging, puddles streetwise: the
cacophony has ceased for today. They say one day of silence can eat up a
hundred years of discord [fanfares ebullient, stillness in echoing bell
tones swallowing].
Expansive greys ahigh, skyward tumbling puffoons, stomach churn of
pyroclastic, Blacksmith smog; what about the rich pine green on summer days
with Dawn's opulent circus palette? Palatable neon verde of budding trees,
red dots, yellow wisps in the shorn grass. Vagabond cats near the railroad
tracks, heaven turns the spirits on the earth in moaning browns flowing
earthtoward drenching us down to the clay; forests, ochreplains: fly,
sweetbird spring, show us your season's wingspan!
Punctiliously inward, I hear a muttering poet afar, shrieking,
"Walking into darkness, happy times, heroin usage, make stop emotions,
intensity, spiral madness, architecture of destruction, good old trumpet
playing." It sounded like a grocery list, or maybe he walked through one
of those spiritual doorways those New Age persons tell me about when I close
my ears.
Ah, shore of Lethe, black, you Samaritan knitting baskets; I haven't
read the newspaper in ages, my vision is still laser-sharp, abstinence from
newspaper-reading, then, must lead to good health. I see a broom and a
cardboard box floating on the Nile, pants dangle off a telephone wire. Neat
place, this burl of boggy bleakness, convoluted in its eerie raindrabness;
what a paradox, rainy, bland, yet so fucking marvellous! Tweeters climbing
the mount to nest, a long cool springtide is unfurling; trees are budding,
branchtips like a magician's wand: poof, a flower!
Agreed, redeeming a light flocon, rundel, rail del dumpster Trinit;
ah, baffle me my nightingale in song, swing by me in ruptures rapt attending!
Who can become the rolling tumble Dawn, afly with effulgent waveries casting
thimbles in quaint newly-fragmented drawls of mood expectancy? Old Man
Mumblepoet, there, in the street, his hat, not black, red, jaunty, actual,
nor real, in fact, it's gone now: I never saw it, or my attention is freshly
inclined to new machinations.
Limber thumbs, the raking lassif flask, rad that you, you cumbersome
rotundity, call me fluster when casually I sit, sit I, right there upon the
broken shade whose tower is a buckworth's frim pocket. Oh, the rainsnow,
the rowbrain tailspinning infinitely wide renouncal tuct in the breathing
aspic tax, luck o'th'North, redeemer quadratic! Pencil shortening, you fat
leady wits!
If there was nothing worth walking for, I wouldn't walk along this
bloodriver, this endless contorted road, spasming my lungfunestra trampling
diatribtic, opposing the invisible rainbowlers, flagging naft a printer's
droop; anvils comical drop and I am a piano behemoth broke: my notes are
monotoxins, tonal naught, yet I can string a verbal souvlaki cinematic in
its countenance any time of the day, even in my pyjamas, my pi-gammas, my
alphabits in visual figmints [deltas ingracing].
Round el torro, tonnerre, donnerblitzen and all the raindears, the
rainbulls, cataclysmic in their floodcovenant, aching spittles, bark of
Nephos aclatter; drown me bitter in sweet tears, carpagent! Razorsharp, you
litanies, cudgelled morning pigmentscarf when looking eastward; oh, glory be
to thine enemies when they forget they hate you� I peer at the mountaintop,
I see Vulcan metalworkers in the rockface, flourishing greenery exposited in
dill shrubberies, plantation minxcoat antipistachio-meanwhile, abutting me,
I see trees propped up like pipeorgans on the landside; Greenhouse,
trickling hydropods from a leaning papaya branch; skywide greyghost, ahoy!
Mucilaginous stonemansion with bearded towers, alabaster strobelight from
moving roadcraft; grape vignettes in Mona Lisa's eyes: charge!
The bridge will be down and done, wind will still meet my hair and
face in a glut pastiche, my rhythmical thumps, steps along the riverroad, my
heels parading will always meet an incomprehensible bounty of grovelegends
mixed with shimmerist confluxities, all finalized by the penman's right to
cut short infinities and make unkempt the smoothies of a globe, his
grammarian tendencies towards the untoward fabling of instant sensory
dissimulation, enshrining meaningless particleshrouds like it was manna,
launching paradata hand-grenades lexified in thinkink, projecting his inert
self onto the omni canvas, moondrips in ivy broods peeking into the chasm of
concentrated upliftion, the Pazuzu whirl that came out of the muttering
poet's e-bonnet, always a mutinous cavalcade at a million miles per,
daybright bridgenigh promenading [cavegardens in living glass, I nihilicized
the afterthought].
Alex Lavigne-Gagnon 2000 (c)
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
Lamenting Adonis--Phyllis Grant
One bright morning in August, Joyce squeaked open the rickety screen door of
her parents house and stepped out onto the porch. She felt the cool air
surround her warm, tan legs almost immediately. She loved mornings like
this, when the air was crisp, holding that distinct air of autumn hovering
just around the corner. She knew the city of Fredericton, New Brunswick
would warm up soon; hence her cotton shorts and white tee. It was always
like this. By noon, she would be abandoning the flaxen colored cable knit
sweater slung casually over her shoulders. As her feet bounced down the
steps and onto the sidewalk, she thought of her Grandma at Ronenburg
Hospital. Grandma had suffered from diabetes for ten years now, but it was
not this that admitted her to the old hospital. A devastating fall on a
narrow staircase put her there. The doctors thought it best for her to wait
until her arm healed reasonably well before returning home. It seemed to be
taking longer than expected, but then again, Joyce had to take into account
her Grandmother's disease. Diabetics don't heal well. Especially not 70 year
old sufferers. She imagined Grammy Ella sitting up, stirring her tea with
her free hand, turning her delicate head in the direction of the window she
loved to peer out of. It overlooked the quaint hospital grounds, and from
her vantage point, Ella could see a small, yet enchanting rose garden;
carefully attended to by the groundskeepers. The garden had a tiny, white
gazebo in the middle of it. Ella loved to stand next to the window briefly
each day, watching the many couples, patients, and doctors frequent the tiny
shelter. She felt like a guardian spectator, observing the sweetest of
intimate settings. There was the young, blonde nurse who seemed to love
crouching and smelling the wild roses on her break. Then the bubbly
candystripers who huddled together, strolling haphazardly along the stone
paths. Joyce knew all this, for her grandmother told her of her sightings
every time they met. It would be no different this morning. Joyce had been
visiting the hospital every morning since Grandma Ella's accident; which was
about the same time school let out in June. Her grandfather had died a few
years before, and Joyce had moved in with her Grammy to keep her company.
She did not enjoy moving back to her parents house, to the bustle of her
mom, dad and two younger brothers chaotic way of life. It was not that she
disliked her family, she just became used to the quiet sanctity of the old
Queen Anne home. She almost felt like she were living on her own in that
house -grocery shopping, tidying, making sure the bills were paid on time.
Joyce was not like other young girls her age. She preferred to keep to
herself, and spend as much time as would allow with Gram. Talking with Gram
over tea was when she felt most content. So it was here, in the four
occupancy hospital room that she found her Grandmother, just as she had
envisioned her, swirling her morning brew with a small spoon. "Good Morning
Grandma! Still wanting to gaze outside are you?" Joyce asked cheerfully.
"You know, you really should be allowed to go out for a walk sometime. I
could get a wheelchair Gram, and push you around the garden; then you could
get to smell the beautiful roses as they bloom." Grandma Ella's eyes shone
at the site of her granddaughter. "Joyce!" she chirped, in her
quintessential, optimistic tone, "It's much more enjoyable to see it from
here! A few days ago I saw a man pacing the garden. I think he may have been
an expectant father." She motioned to get up as Joyce moved quickly to
assist her. She held the frail woman as she shook to gain balance, and
together they ambled towards the window. As they both looked out, they saw a
man walking beside a nurse wheeling a woman across the grounds towards the
adjacent parking lot on the other side. On the woman's lap was an infant
carrier seat. "That's him Joyce! I knew it! Oh, how wonderful! It's just so
beautiful to see a new family together like that!" "Yes Grandma, but
wouldn't you like to see them up close? I could arrange to..." Before Joyce
could finish two nurses barged through the room door, pushing a bed holding
an elderly man hooked up to intravenous. His face was cluttered with various
tubes. The man appeared awake, but did not speak as the nurses pulled down
the metal bed rails, and transferred him onto the bed next to Ella. Ella had
had many room mates since arriving at the hospital, but never a gentleman.
It was indeed a new circumstance. "Can you hear me Mr. Gunackle?" asked one
of the nurses, in a loud voice. The other nurse, a burley woman who appeared
blatantly forceful, rose her voice significantly higher saying, "Mr.
Gunackle, you are in your room now. I am certain you will be feeling better
soon enough, Sir.". It did not appear that he understood what they were
saying, but they acted as if he did. Joyce stood there quietly, a little
jilted by the surprise guest, but mostly by the dominating voices of the
nurses. "Oh Dear," Grandma Ella whispered, pulling Joyce closer to her, "I
hope the poor soul will be okay." "I think so Grandma. He just needs time to
heal. It looks as if he has just been out of an operation, or intensive
care. Don't you be worrying now, Gram. He looks like he's past the tough
part." The nurses soon left. The man did not move all the time Joyce sat
there and read to Ella. Grandma Ella liked to hear Joyce's voice. She would
close her eyes as Joyce read aloud a story from a national magazine. Lunch
soon finished, and after settling Gram in for her afternoon nap, she left
silently, glancing at the old man on her way out. The next morning, Joyce
entered the room with the same quiet steps, expecting to find her Granny
pondering thoughtfully to herself. This time, instead of seeing her Granny
contemplating in her quiet solitude, she found her giggling softly; facing
away from the window. The new roommate was sitting up! The tubes that ran
through his nose had been removed and the man was propped up on a few
pillows. He appeared tired, but well nonetheless. "Horace, meet my beautiful
granddaughter Joyce!" Ella exclaimed. "She comes to visit me every day, she
does! Hasn't missed a day since I've been here." She smiled proudly at
Joyce, who suddenly felt shy from her Grandma's exuberant enthusiasm. "Yes,
yes, hello...Joyce," he uttered as if her presence really did not matter to
him. He had an English accent, and from the looks of it, an arrogant manner.
"Oh, don't mind him dear, he's been a sweet lad all morning. Even recited me
a few verses he wrote. I'd say he has a very good memory for his age."
Grandma Ella was obviously enthralled with her new guest. Joyce smirked as
she listened to them chatter. Horace, grumbling about this and that; Ella
counter-reacting everything he said with an uplifting anecdote. It was
charming to watch them banter back and forth. Joyce barely got a word in,
but decided this man seemed nice enough; especially since her Granny was so
pleased with him. She enjoyed just sitting quiet every day, contributing the
occasional laugh. A couple of weeks passed swiftly. Now, when Joyce entered
the room, Horace would chide graciously, "There she is! The Girl of Cadiz!"
He called her this because, as he so bluntly put it, "She has this Spanish
quality to her that is like no other! She is the vision described in Byron's
poem! I know these things," he'd grin, "I'm English!" Grandma Ella and Joyce
learned much about their charming new friend. How he had immigrated to the
United States as an adolescent. How he had written over 200 poems in his
lifetime, some of them published -most not. He told tales of true love, love
lost, heartache, pain, and most anything they asked of him. He had become
agreeable towards them, but remained mean and disgruntled toward the nurses
who would pop their heads into the room every now and again. One day he
requested that Joyce bring in more books. "I am weary from reciting at
memory," he said. " I can't remember all the great ones accurately." Joyce
complied. She went to the library and signed out as many books as she could
carry. Keats, Byron, and Shelley were among the names graced along the
binding of the many volumes. Now, when Joyce sat in the room to listen to
Horace and Ella trade stories about the "good old days", she would find an
appropriate poem, and recite it gingerly. Her small audience seemed quite
pleased, savoring the words as she read them. On odd times, when Horace
seemed to be busy with a doctor or nurse, Joyce and her Grandma would wonder
why Horace never had visitors. Joyce's mom and dad would come see Ella a few
nights a week, as did their two little sons; but Horace -he always seemed to
be alone. "He does not speak at night." Ella explained in a hush one
morning, "He becomes very sullen, distant. I don't bother him then. Perhaps
it is just this place. it isn't easy sometimes, letting others take
control...." Her voice trailed off as she lay back on her pillow. "Or maybe
it's regret. Something gnaws at his soul, I see it. Ah, but what can be done
now? Our time on this earth has almost past us." Ella closed her eyes as her
head fell back further into her pillow. It was the first time Joyce had
heard her Grandmother be pessimistic about anything. A sense of worry washed
over her as she leaned down to feel for her Gram's breath; its steady rhythm
on her cheek. She placed her tiny hand over her grandmothers heart. Still
beating. All was well. With that, she kissed her forehead, and snuck out of
the room. Joyce dressed more warmly now that the weather had become much
cooler. It was almost September. She would be starting her senior year in a
week. She looked forward to getting back to learning; the bustle of the high
school halls excited her. She also knew she would miss being with her dear
Grandmother and new friend. Joyce would most likely retreat to her usual
routine of sitting by herself at the break, reading, and catching up on
notes. She was not interested in socializing with people her own age. The
many times that she conversed with other girls, she found they shared
nothing in common. Convinced no other 18 year old person on God's good earth
enjoyed English breakfast tea, she remained in what she called, her
"element". It was certain. Now, without Grandma home, she would be lonelier
than ever. Instead of rushing straight into the hospital, Joyce decided to
take a detour this time. Entering the modest rose garden, she treaded
softly; looking at the beautiful roses that grew all around her. Soon, their
soft petals would succumb to the inevitable frost. Fall was almost upon the
city, and Joyce knew that this was a great time to take in some of the last
few days of fair weather. She bent down to smell the heady scent of the
luscious pink roses, when another thought came to mind. Grammy! She felt her
grandmother's presence before she decided to lift her head up towards the
window, where she suspected Ella would be peering down. When she looked up,
sure enough, she could make out the faint form of a womans head and small
shoulders. Grandma appeared young! Joyce gathered an array of rose petals
that had fallen to onto the grass. "Oh! Gram will love to smell these!" she
said to herself; and with that, she headed into the building. With the rose
petals firmly cupped in her hands, Joyce headed up the stairs to the second
floor. Before she entered the room, she held the petals to her face and
breathed in their scent. She was overcome with a feeling of completeness, of
sheer joy. In an almost absent-minded strut, she walked up to her Gram's
bed, greeting Horace on the way by. He was turned over and appeared to be
asleep. The curtain, that was usually pushed to the side of her
grandmother's bed, had been drawn all the way around. Joyce saw the curtain
flutter gently with movement. Grandma must be changing, she thought. She
waited for a split-second before it dawned on her that the movements were
too swift for Grandma Ella. Fear gripped her heart as she pulled at the
curtain. A young nurse veered around quickly, startled. "Where's Grandma?"
she demanded. "Are you Joyce?" the young nurse asked. "Yes...Where is my
Grandmother?" Joyce repeated. "I am so sorry sweetie," the nurse began,
holding open her arms, "but your grandmother passed on a half hour ago. She
had a massive stroke. There was no reviving...it happened quick. Horace
buzzed us, but it was too late. We wanted to let you know first. The other
nurses are informing your family as we speak." Joyce's heart, so open and
light just moments ago, plunged. Her chest felt heavy and her head began to
spin as the nurse crooned, "Oh dear, dear sweet child, sit down right
here..." She quickly guided her to the chair next to Horace's bed. The nurse
held Joyce's head tight to her, as her hands that were once clasped, fell
open, spilling the fragile petals to the floor. "She was a light, Joyce."
Horace choked, turning over to see her, " A rare, beautiful...light." He
could manage no more. Joyce caught a blurry glimpse of him shutting his
watery eyes that mirrored her own. The funeral went well. Friends and loved
ones gathered around to offer help, support. To Joyce, it still seemed a
dream. She maintained a certain degree of control all through the
arrangements, the funeral. She felt numb. She had lost more than a
grandmother. She had lost her best friend. The day after the service, Joyce
woke up like clockwork. Her body had been accustomed to getting up at the
same time each day. She dressed quickly, ate a light breakfast, and sat at
the kitchen table at her parent's place; preparing to pour a cup of tea. As
usual, no one was up. It was much too early. An unbelievable emotion of
emptiness seeped into her cells. She had to go; be somewhere, see someone,
DO anything! Out she ran, onto the porch, and out to the sidewalks she had
strolled upon all summer. She still could not believe that Gram was really
gone. With no thought to where she was going, she let her feet guide her
where they would, and before long, there she stood, at the entrance of
Ronenburg Hospital. That was when she remembered Horace. Up the stairs she
went, to the second floor, this time her gait not so airy. "Horace wouldn't
mind seeing me," she thought, only half convinced. He was such an iffy old
bugger. It seemed only Ella had captured his complete respect. Horace was
standing at the window when Joyce walked into the room. "Look at that," he
muttered, without turning around, "another new life being brought out into
the world. Your grandma loved to watch...and delight in all she saw below.
If you are the Girl of Cadiz, then she is the Lady of Shalott - 'course,
without the curse, or the mirror. She did not live in shadows, she would
say. She was blessed! Even in this damned, dingy room, she felt blessed..."
"Tennyson." Joyce pronounced, her voice lilting. She began mouthing the
infamous lines: "...Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space
of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott." "...Sometimes
a troop of damsels glad," Horace continued, "An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad..." He
stopped, while his shoulders sagged. He appeared defeated. Joyce felt sealed
to her spot. The room took on an ethereal energy. "Are you half sick of
shadows, Joyce?" She shook her head, not comprehending his remark. "You have
to get out Joyce...do things. You close yourself off too tightly from
others." "I do?" "Yes," he chuckled, "and what's worse, you know you do; for
you - my dear - are like me." He smiled at her warmly as he turned around to
continue. "And look where it has gotten me. I am an old man, all alone with
my thoughts, my memories, my...poetry. I have no immediate family living, no
children, not even a dear wife to remember. I am happy for time spent with
you and your grandmother. I could have remained aloof when Ella so sweetly
prodded me about my operation; but, after such an ordeal, I was not about to
turn away such a kind angel." "You have to do that too Joyce. Don't turn
people away. You are so young, so full of goodness. Sensitive, caring people
like you don't come along every day, you know. Open up! You'll see Joyce,
you'll see what comes your way if you just open up a little bit. I realized
this when it was too late." "No," Joyce said, reaching over to hold Horace's
hand, "it is not too late - you have me." He looked down at her young hand
intertwined with his, and sighed wistfully. "Ok, now go. Don't think I'm
going to let you spend time here with me 'til I kick off!" With a spirited
laugh he led her to the hallway. "Enjoy your life my dear, it is a gift.
Gather ye roesbuds and all that! Toodles!" he shouted mischievously. Joyce
didn't take his goodbye as good riddance, though it felt that way. She
laughed to herself as she "toodled" off. She would see Horace again,
frequently, in between outings with her friends. And even though she was the
only friend to be at his funeral, she knew, that for Horace, one was enough.
The wind seemed to sprinkle dry leaves over the headstones of the town
cemetery. Joyce kneeled down beside Horace's grave, as she pressed her palm
into the freshly dug earth. She whispered the words of Percy Shelley as her
gaze fixed upon the granite headstone, inches away. "All he had loved, and
moulded into thought, From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound,
Lamented Adonais. " It was part of an elegy on the death of John Keats.
"From now on," Joyce whispered, "I shall remember you as Adonais."
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Ishtar--elusive dreamer
Ishtar
He wondered when life had changed. He had worked that day, another routine
and boring day at the office. He had been quiet the entire way home. Life
was lonely. So going to the house party was no surprise. He was bored and
the party always offered some amusement.
The place had been rockin' when he walked up the drive. The Piebexar
Brothers were out in the pool area throwing the girls into the water and
wrestling in their rough and tumble way. A couple of silly guys, but who
could really mind them? There were rarely serious about anything. There was
a jello fight going on over by the kitchen door. The girls were right into
it, and it was a pleasant diversion to watch. He watched and then moved
along.
The constant on-going party was supported by the generosity and equal
boredom of Stephen Ewings, IV; a man of few words, but an insatiable desire
to be amused. Since the first time Stephen had invited Evan, it had become
habit to drop in and chat a while, dance a bit, flirt where ever it was
possible, say outrageous things when and if the mood struck him, and leave
alone: very much alone. Nothing warned him that the party was any different
than usual.
She watched him enter and marked him for her own. The twitching fingers
along her hips the only betraying gesture to her thoughts. They were dancing
in the huge dance room. Nothing involved, just a slow, yet well paced dance
music. The couplings too were normal. Dee was dancing with James and trying
to stay out from under his feet, she chatting away, he aloof. The English
girl, Meg, was dancing with the Marine from the beach, and the two married
couples were with other partners. It was the life of the room. The couples
shifted and changed at will. If one wanted to dance, one simply cut in and
expected to be cut in upon. There were nine or ten other couples dancing as
well. There was no tension and no arguments, for once.
She watched him walk in and look over the dancers, a half smirk played at
the corners of his lips. She watched him as he walked out. The eddying
currents shifted the flowing skirt hem at her calves as he passed. When Evan
walked into the library it was full of people chatting about books, drugs,
and sex. Nothing new, nothing different. Some raised their hands to say
hello, some smiled at him, the rest. . .well, the rest just went about the
business of occupying another endless night.
The women were talking fantasies and men, the men were talking booze, women,
and punk rock. He wandered in and sat down, being sure to pick a chair in
the middle of the room so he could see it all happening. Ishtar stood by the
library door frame and watched him watching the others. She dropped the cord
in the hall by the kitchen, just out of the light. Later when Evan moved to
the kitchen to get himself a drink and stooped to pick up the dark blue
velvet cord laying on the floor, she watched him and was satisfied. He
looked at it for awhile and ran his thumb along its edge. The texture of it
felt good in his hand. It was about eighteen inches long, soft, and, when he
held it to his nose, the smell reminded him of something he couldn't
identify: a woman's scent perhaps. Shrugging, he put it down on the table,
got his glass of wine, and walked out--picking up the cord and shoving it in
his pocket. He'd look for the owner. Yes, yes, indeed he would. He'd like to
see who owned it and ask what the cord was for. I t had piqued his interest.
Thinking it would be a shame for the cord to get trampled into the dirt of
the floor, he took it away with him. People rarely looked where they were
going. He had intended to go back to the library, but instead turned back
toward the dance room. He was barely in the room when one of the Australian
students grabbed him and pulled him onto the floor, slopping his wine on the
floor.
He didn't resist, it was easier to go with it--the path of least resistance.
The dancing moved on, the talk went on, the partners shifted and changed
like an underwater ballet. Back and forth, around and around. She walked up
and tapped on the back of the smallish Chinese girl, who smiled and slipped
away. Ishtar moved into Evan's arms. They said nothing. The woman said
nothing, she just smiled. Just matched him stride for stride across the
floor.
He liked the way she felt in his arms and began to work up the courage to
talk to her, but the golden-eyed girl cut in, and the woman was gone in the
sweep of the dancers, leaving a whisper of her scent on air--a warmed spice
he found instantly and tantilzingly familiar. But when he looked around for
her, he couldn't see her. She stood silent and watched, shrugged, and walked
out of the room. Biding her time with a patience others could only hope to
own. The dancing went on , the music played, and the talk never stopped.
Tempers flared, tempers cooled. Flirting went on, flirting went off. Groups
hugged, individuals kissed. People became paired and left, or paired, spilt,
and re-paired. He watched, became bored, and finally decided enough was
enough and turned to leave for home.
A hand on his arm stopped him. "Would you like to dance," she asked, her
voice deep and husky. Her touch on his arm burned into him--insistent. "Yes,
yes, I would," he said, surprising himself and some of the room. Finally, he
thought. They moved to the center of the dance room. He lifted his arms to
her, drew her toward him, and the whole world changed, but he didn't know
it, then. She fit the length of him well. Her tall body fit into his 6'
frame and there were no awkward nooks and crannies. She moved with a grace
and sureness. She felt smooth and soft to his touch and smelled of fresh
cinnamon and the moon light, he thought. when the dance ended, she moved
from his side and he did something unheard of, he followed her from the
room. She knew when he stopped and picked up the silk scarf and put it in
his pocket too, but she walked on. "Wait," he said, "where are you going?"
Ishtar knew he would ask her to stay and talk. She took it as her due.
Incling her head, "home," she replied. She counted on his desire to have her
stay. "No, stay and talk with me, please." She smiled into the darkness of
the back hall. "Why?" she asked him. "I don't know. You intrigue me." "Well,
then, come out onto the patio and we'll talk. I don't like crowds." She
would have him. He wanted her, by the Goddess, he did. She could feel his
desire.
She smiled again. All was well. Evan was confused, he wanted her, and he
wanted her badly, but he was a careful type of man and didn't usually rush
headlong into anything. He watched her move away from him, her hair, hanging
loose and falling just below her waist, swaying in the night breeze. He
watched her body's movements. He noted the velvet cord on her right ankle,
and a raging desire to have her shook him to his marrow.
He followed her. With the moonlight playing off her face and body and the
gentle breeze blowing her scent into his heart, they spent several hours
talking. He prying at the edges and she, well, she just smiled and looked at
him with her deep slate blue eyes, saying little, but much at the same time.
When they finally parted, his heart tore asunder. "Here," he said, "here is
my number, contact me," and he handed her his business card. She smiled into
the night and drifted away like smoke. He dreamt about her that night. They
came to each other in the darkness of his room. They moved together, kissed
gently, explored, and coupled at leisure. He exploded in wave after wave of
completion.
When he awoke later in the night, he was sweaty and sticky, and thought he
could smell her scent on his pillows. The rest of the night was a jumbled
agony of tossing and turning. And in the morning he took a note to Ewings'
house and left it for her. He left it for the woman without a name. She
stood by the oak tree and let him pass her by. She went again that night to
the house party. There to wait. And so it was. His need for her became real
and tangible. And she came to him often in the dark of the night and enjoyed
the depth of his desire and his delicious sense of self. They danced in the
moonlight and made love on the moss of the forest floor. They met on quiet
afternoons and made heated passionate love with no boundaries and talked of
life. All in a quiet non-threatening way. And so it went. Life had changed,
she had spun the threads and woven her magic through him, had captured his
heart, and it was good. It was very good indeed. He was hers and she would
keep him for a long time and he didn't even mind. Yes, the goddess, Ishtar
thought to herself, this invention, the computer, it is a good thing.
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
fairytale noir--midori
Once upon a time, a prince was born in a far off kingdom. Soon, his family
fell upon misfortune, so he had to move away from the wonderland at a young
age. The family moved to an evil kingdom, full of morally and
intellectually bankrupt citizens. Being so young, the prince was quite
impressionable. He grew to be more and more like the people around him.
Nearby in this evil land, a girl of the same age lived. When she
was born, a piece of her heart had been removed and was buried in the soil
of that same far off wonderland the prince had come from. Because of this,
she grew into a very different person from those around her. She was very
trusting, caring, and loving.
One day, the girl and the prince chanced to meet. She fell in love
with him instantly, but he did not return the feelings. He had become too
much like those of the evil land. He had very little left inside him of the
good place, if anything at all. In this girl, he merely saw an opportunity
for exploitation. He used her for a short time, then turned her away. Even
so, the girl continued to have hope that the prince would love her.
Then, the news came. The prince had taken some common street-slut
into his bed and created a child. The girl wept, for she knew that this
child would not be appreciated as royal blood and would most likely be
destroyed - if not literally, then figuratively. This betrayal was too much
to handle. The girl sank into the depths of despair, turning into a
monstrous witch. She performed an operation on herself to remove the
remaining section of her heart, which was now broken into pieces.
Unfortunately, some pieces could not be removed. These were the pieces that
felt pain and sadness.
In addition, this witch had a mother. The mother learned of her
daughter's plans to murder the prince's slut, steal the child for herself,
and keep the prince as a pleasure slave. �What would the neighbors think?
This is an embarrassment to my family!� the mother thought. So, she locked
her witch-daughter into the basement, where she slowly grew more and more
insane. She never found out what happened to the prince or the child she
wanted so desperately. She lived many, many years but had died in her soul
a long time ago.
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savagery-- rendered heartless
SAVAGERY
The van careened around the curve and the back doors flapped loudly as
they were hurtled about. Something small and soft and flailing wildly
thudded to the ground as it was pushed from the interior of the van and
rolled to a stop at the edge of the dark highway. The headlights of the van
wavered as the driver regained control and sped on.
Unseen to either occupant of the van, night shadows quickly swallowed
the small bundle.
"Fuck, you killed her, man!" The driver whined as his partner shut the
back door of the van, struggling against a door that was slightly sprung and
forcing it shut.
"You don't know that, asshole, shut the fuck up! Damn, she went crazy,
she was biting and clawing like a damned animal. You should see how fucking
torn up my arm is!" Mason sneered.
"You fucking KILLED her, man!" the driver said again, beginning a
strange mantra of "fuck, fuck, fuck" as he tried to concentrate on the road
ahead.
"Don't you freak on me, shithead, don't you lose it! You did her too,
remember? Nothing connects us to that kid, nobody saw ANYTHING! Walking down
that country road and not a car or a house for miles, NOTHING to connect us
to her. Now YOU shut the fuck up and calm down. Pull over up here so I can
take a piss and we'll have a couple brews and calm down. Yeah, that looks
like the place!"
The van eased into a road with a wooden sign announcing that they were
entering Rocky Ridge State Park family campground. When they stopped at the
little office building, Mason glanced over, grinned at Dave, the driver of
the van and got out to read the directions on self-registration.
"Here it is, man, we just set up camp here in this secluded part of the
campground over here and have a couple brews and get some sleep." Looking at
his watch, he subtracted two hours and put that in the space marked time of
arrival; he put money into the envelope and dropped it into the
self-registration slot. Grabbing a map, he hopped into the van and directed
Dave to their campsite.
* * * *
The broken and violated body of the child was still warm, she had lived
long enough to receive the loving touch of her mother's tongue. The alpha
sat back on his haunches and watched as his mate continued to nudge the
body, wishing it to breath. He knew that she would never breathe again,
their little White Paw, with the human name of Candice, was gone forever.
Several others of their kind had run with them, tracking the van as it
sped away with Candice inside, their ribs still heaved with the efforts of
their run. They surrounded their pack leaders, trying impotently to offer
nips of comfort.
The alpha male trotted from the circle, transforming in mid-stride and
becoming a tall, dark-haired man. His eyes blazed with anger as he looked at
the highway on which the van had disappeared. He turned to the others, some
of them now in their human form, others in the graceful swift wolf bodies
that carried them in this pursuit. With narrowed eyes he threw back his head
and emitted an unearthly sound, a deep gut-wrenching howl with primordial
savagery exhibiting his pain. The others joined him in sounds of anguish,
many of the females surrounding his mate to shield her as her own agonizing
emotional cries ululated above the others.
After long moments of listening to the echoes fade off the distant
hills, he spoke, quietly and strongly. "We cannot risk detection. I will go
on from here alone."
"The Hell you will!" a nearby man growled, "That was my granddaughter,
Jason."
Jason looked, sadly, at the older man, "Dad, you're winded now, stay
here with Carol."
From the center of the circle she leaped. Her leap carrying her over
the backs of surrounding wolves. The cub had transformed and was now a
perfectly formed and beautiful wolf pup, now motionless and quite dead. An
old, gray wolf was cleaning the soft puppy fur with her tongue. The Alpha
female faced Jason and was horrible in her pain, partially transformed, the
words she spoke ripped from her as if they caused her pain, "I want their
HEARTS! You are NOT going without me, I want their blood, I want to eat them
ALIVE!" her voice in garbled choked words of agony. She wavered on tiny,
delicately formed paws, her tail held high and twitching a challenge to any
who tried to deny her. Some of the Betas cowered, knowing that her wrath
could be terrible.
Jason sighed and tried to reason with her, "Carol, let me go alone. One
of us, the authorities will mistake for a large dog, even a lone red wolf
won't alarm them, but if they suspect a pack."
A Beta female stepped forward, even her human form showing by her
posture deference to her Alphas. She cleared her throat and spoke softly,
"That is why we must carefully cover all sign, but Jason and Carol, you can
not go alone, none of us want that. They might have guns. Take the young
Beta males over there, Carson and Gregory are anxious to help, Nathan won't
be stopped, that was his little sister�"
"What we ARE going to do is to stop talking about it and move now while
the trail is still fresh!" Carol demanded. Jason wanted to speak, but one
look at her face told him that there would be no argument. He sighed,
relenting.
"Friends, neighbors, go to your homes. Help my father with Candice--"
One of the men spat on the ground and drawled, "Damn wild pack of dogs
is gonna take down two of my calves tonight--" he stated matter-of-factly.
"I'll have to call the sheriff and have him come see the damn destruction,
broken fence, big mess--"
"You're gonna have the sheriff busy, so I'll have to call the park
rangers to come and check on the bloody mess in my sheep! Hell, I think it
must have been dogs to tear a throat out like that and not eat a damned
bite!" this farmer, when he finished the drawled musing, turned to Jason.
"Give us an hour, Jason, let the blood dry afore the rangers get there."
Jason tried to smile his thanks as his pack and community began to work
out covering the blood bath explanations for the authorities. He turned to
Carol and held her for a long moment, signalled to the young males and
transformed. The five strong young wolves moved down the highway in pursuit
of the van, the stench of emissions from the old engine still strong in the
air.
They were able to cover ground quickly, only needing to leave the
highway once as a southbound car in the other lane whizzed by, its driver
not even noticing the shadows fading into the thick forest.
* * * * *
Mason smiled as the stream of urine slowed down. Two beers and enough
sex to take the edge off meant that he would sleep good tonight. He looked
around and grinned. This campsite reminded him of when he and his friends
would hike out behind his grandfather's farm and camp in the woods. He
looked up at the stars and took a deep breath of clean air.
The pretty little girl's face was fading into his memory but he closed
his eyes remembering the soft curls against his lips. Damn, she'd been so
pretty, probably at least CLOSE to being ripe. He looked down at the deep
scratches on his arm, how the fuck did her tiny fingernails do so much
damage? He grimaced as he touched the torn skin, then put a hand to the bite
at his neck. The little bitch deserved to die for that.
He felt no more guilt about killing her than he did for killing that
other kid over in Pennsylvania two years earlier. Hell, if they bit or
scratched you, they left too fucking much evidence anyway.
Shaking himself off, he put his dick back into his jeans and pulled the
zipper up. He took another deep breath and smelled the woodsmoke of the
campfire.
What the fuck was he going to do about Dave though, the damn coward
could blow everything with his whining, sniveling misplaced conscience. They
needed to get out of Virginia, they needed to leave the Blue Ridge far
behind.
Mason smiled and put that worry out of his mind and headed back for the
campsite. A good night's sleep and a visit to the ATM in the morning would
do the trick. He and Dave had worked all summer in construction and would
have more than enough between them to get to California. Yeah, California
would be great, his old buddy lived out there. They could shack up on the
beach for a while and cool their heels, give him time to see if Dave was
going to have to be gotten rid of or not.
He came into view of the campsite and stopped in his tracks; he need
not have worried about Dave talking. Dave lay on the ground, blood gushing
from his opened throat. Tearing at his chest with huge, powerful jaws was
the biggest wolf Mason had ever even imagined. He raised his muzzle to look
at Mason and, in his fear, Mason could have SWORN he heard a distinctly
female voice, off to the side, say, "Oh, no, dear, this one is mine!" Did he
hear right, did he hear a woman say Mason?
Stepping out from the forest on both sides of the fire were other
wolves, their coats bloody and gruesome with gore. Mason whimpered under his
breath and watched as the smallest of the five wolves took a few very slow
steps toward him, her body close to the ground, her ears laid flat on her
head. With one final glance in disbelief at the mess that had been his
friend, Dave, Mason threw himself around and ran, screaming, cursing the
fact that he'd picked the most remote campsite, more than a half mile on the
other side of the lake from its nearest neighbor. If only he could get to a
well-lit area. He ran his heart out, throwing himself along the forest path
when he realized that the wolves were loping along beside him, barely even
fully extending themselves. He realized he was doomed. One of the wolves,
who looked to be little more than a pup, closed on him and Mason felt an
agonizing pain in the back of his leg. Unable to continue and yet not daring
to give in to the pain of having been hamstrung, he grabbed a branch about
the size of a man's thigh, swinging it at the wolves and screaming.
"Stop! I want him to know!" A voice rang out through the darkness. The
command seemed to freeze the wolves in midstride and Mason actually had the
insanely optimistic hope that he was being offered salvation from this
nightmare. From the forest stepped a tall man, his shirt soaked with what
looked to be either sweat or oil�His glare held Mason's eyes as he strode
forward.
"You picked the wrong child, you sick monster," the tall man said, his
voice soft but authoritative. He approached, the wolves letting him pass as
they circled Mason, cutting off any chance of his flight.
"I don't know what you're talking about�what child�me and my buddy were
camp--"
"Enough!" the dark man commanded, raising his hand. "Your van REEKED
of her fear and pain!" At this comment, one of the wolves whimpered and the
dark man glanced over apologetically, then looking back at Mason, looked at
his throat and then slowly down at his arm. "She fought you--" he said, his
voice cold as stone, as lifeless as a robot.
Mason looked down at his wound and a sense of realization hit him. He
looked at the dark oily substance on the man's shirt and realized that it
was Dave's blood. He was doomed but not resigned. "She was a good little
piece of ASS," he screamed, swinging a blow at the man.
The female took him off his feet with her impact, her jaws closing on
his chest and twisting in mid-air. Their eyes met, eyes that looked so
familiar to Mason, he realized that her eyes looked just like those of the
little girl. His brain registered the fact that this wolf was the girl's
mother just a heartbeat before his chest was ripped open and his heart was
stopped by her furious attack.
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the fabric of folly-- epcot fitzgerald
The Fabric Of Folly
Because everybody knows the fabric of folly is falling apart at the seams.
/\ i had names, names like Pythagoras
and Kerouac and John Cage
scattered about the floor like tattered flags marking the presence
of
some
immanent imperious eminent imminent entity of ecclesiastical ennuied
OMNIPOTENCE
suddenly muffled by the silvery hand of a viral communication breakdown
but it's okay 'cause here i am
with an equally interesting song:
cryptic to the bone and nearly nonsensical blathering lathered up
blabbering babble of hubble space bubble gum shaped like the world and full
of as much of its unfurled gun twirling, usable fossil fuel plausible losses
and feasible casualties fault lines and deadlines and chocolates and candies
for children in strollers to throw on the ground where a mother in somewhere
scrambles around for the bottle of water her daughter unleashed on a plate
full of rice saut�ed with Disease and served fresh with kerosene burning
away on the hay until pay day in a firefly's daze in this haze of a maze
flying around day by day face to face in a lexus convertible that never was
made an expensive costume in a cheap masquerade that plays on the radio full
flair to fade, until I fall asleep, phase by phase
... one day
i am going to grow wings
...one day
i am going to float free
time immemorial
the big potatoes are coming, the big potatoes are
coming
fetchup the ketchup
fess up, dress up, the less you wear the more i gain,
so
fess up, dress up, the less you think, the more i obtain...
[and no, to the audience, this is not merely gibberish, though the form
is
indeed lacking, the substance here is packing a punch to the gut of the
ephemeral mutt called Cerebus, whose three heads can never get along]
but it's 3am, and i'm exhausted, and my attempt to write you initially
fell
through, so here i find myself, i fine myself [$1.00], i find myself,
and
holler that as hard as it is for me to believe, you will somehow
understand
this, and perceive, this one extended poem, and work your way
past the fluff.
13 June 2000
#######################################################################
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7/20/2000
