by Tomorrow's Man
Samhain 2003
Dying embers and memories of Lenore, the shush of black velvet across worn leather the scent of a parchment skin that holds eyes far too old to still be staring, there is a noise I think is at the door but perhaps it is but in my mind;
I slip through time and veils to touch the moon and her baleful gaze is sick with fear, her luminous light shows me nothing above my shoulder but, but I can feel it there, the breath of a dragon in human form; the empty heart of death has no beat but steals life with each echo, and it is this beat I think is at the door but perhaps it is but in my mind;
Where I walk there are no moors, yet the air along these dark-lit streets is a throat swallowing the burning electricity that tries to keep the demons at bay, I hurry my steps to your door, my steps, my steps, like the heartbeat of death they have no echo...so what are these echoes I hear? Something someone in my steps, as I run they run right behind, I can hear that empty echo again, I can feel that cold cold breath again, my neck chills to the bones that tighten my spine and I slip through your door, I slip through your door and make some noise that you think is but in your mind;
Behind me doe snot exist if I do not turn, a crow laughs at my shaking hands as I crawl back home beneath a shadows' gaze, something inside, there's something inside all cold black skin and livid gold eyes, on my knees am I shaking, crawling, did you not answer your door? I'm caught in the cold, so far from home, I feel that breath again, closing in, I feel those eyes as gouging needles twisting into my skin, I hear it again, I hear it again, that echo of a heart, that echo of what my life means to death, I crawl and cry and open my eyes --
-- and in my chair, here, I am safe and sound; a tear slides down my cheek and I chuckle at this dream, this nightmare phantasm that was not what it seemed; and I take a breath deep...and then hear more. Yes...yes, there is a noise...I think it is at the door...no, closer than the door...it is a dull roar, an echo without a beat...and it is right behind me....
There's that edge to everything, as if the squirrels themselves were made of sharp tin, there's no soft and fuzzy 'round right now, it's time for the veil to fall again like Salomé's whip across my back, in everything's eyes resides a rising tide cold and salted with fallacy, time to costume up, time to be not what we are not, but indeed be what we've always hoped we could be.
The ham keeps rotting, the ham keeps rotting, I know it was an animal now made into me, but it just keeps rotting, it just keeps rotting, no matter how many days I hold it in my mouth.
Imagine it. Mmm, yes. There we go, put it in your mouth. Feel its thickness, its heat. If you run your tongue around it before using your teeth, you can get a sense of how salty the juice inside will be before it explodes down your throat.
Go on, take it out. Look at it a bit, it's girth, its meatiness, it's gentle curve toward you, as if it can't want to get right back in there between your lips.
So do it. Oh, yes. Put it back in. Feel it, how it fills your mouth. Salty, salty, oh yes. Just savor that for a minute, just savor that salty flesh.
Oh, and, remember, brats are a hundred times better with spicy mustard and a grilled roll. Mmmmm, delicious meaty brats....
3:38 PM
It is getting...dark.
I do not care that I'm old enough a codger to be familiar with daylight savings time almost since the day Benjamin Franklin invented it, I am still thrown for a creepy loop when dusk begins creeping in while soap operas are still on.
Here it comes. I can see it. A big, slow, toothless panther with all kinds of psychological problems. Here comes the night, oozing in over the day, the big bucket that holds it, way up there in the sky, leaking an hour sooner now.
I see you coming. You don't fool me. You big ol' panther. I like ya. Yeah, that's right. Creep on in, you, and let me rub yer belly at 4 PM.
"Your actions will follow you full circle 'round."
The priestess sang to me today as I took center stage.
You watched me prance and cavort, perform magic and entertain, while, in my head, the priestess sang and the owl circumnavigated the pentagram in which I stood.
The owl, when I finished, lit upon my left shoulder, and we gazed out at you. One of us blinked and the gilded rays from two eyes momentarily let you free.
The priestess sang, "The higher you leap; the harder the ground," but you could not hear her. I bowed to you, to faith, to fate, and to the owl for maintaining my soul, and we exited, stage left.
Follow the widdle worm, follow him where he crawls awong the fwoor, wook at him! Wook at how cute he is! Cute widdle inch worm, inching along, inch inch, where is the widdle worm going? Well, I don't know, but I just wuv to fowwow him!
I try to glow brightly, try so hard to glow brightly, without thinking that the brightness blinds me, or burns others.
Trying too hard is a way to compensate for fearing not trying hard enough; but when it is a mystery -- when you're never quite sure what would be the perfect medium -- you treat every moment as a lottery of fate.
Await the great job, or settle for work?
Say love, or just think it and write it in a secret place?
Be honest, or be protective?
Everyone lives on a lattice of balance beams, and we always wonder who is there to support us, who is there wanting to push us off.
Relax and hand your heart to faith. This is my advice...that I need to be taking myself.
Placid
I let things well up. I let them splashdown in me like a crashing shuttle. I don't know why; I don't grasp my inability to make my liquid surface as a sheet of glass.
"Cultivate the ability to let that which truly does not matter slide," was said to me today. The best advice I've gotten in years, besides "Look out." What keeps me from taking it?
People, people like tossing stones into others' lakes. People love causing ripples. It reminds them they're alive. It makes them feel important, despite the ramifications. They feel that once the stone leaves the hand, responsibility flies with it.
Alas, the trajectory always leads back to a hand -- a hand of a person who does not seem to grasp agreement and tranquility. I'm not worried about the people in glass houses -- I'm worried about the people who are arid, barren, empty lakebeds where all has died. I'm worried about people who care not about throwing stones, since to throw one back only raises in them a cloud of choking dust; a reason to cast more stones into the lakes of others.
I want to be placid. I want to reflect the beauty of others, clearly.
I want you to touch my hand and feel a channel of loving energy; pure; powerful;
placid.
push the razor in
push the razor in
cut the hair hit the skin
push it in push harder push it in
cut the skin hit
muscle hit muscle
push the razor in push the razor in
part red sea muscle part it
like the power of God part it
and dig in dig in
saw bone
saw bone
sawbone
sawbone
soon I'll come out the other side
I lost some of the underside of my green tea leaf when I surfed off the dark side of the moon, some of the edges burnt up a bit on re-entry over Portugal, A jagged rip was torn by the tip of Mount Everest, I got waterlogged and soggy in a monsoon just South of the Penrhyn Basin (though my ragged tea leaf did dry out as I soared in the jet stream over Maui), the Rockies jogged me a bit and tore at my stem, then I touched down with a sweet two-point ripple in Lake Monona just yards from my apartment, a bit winded, my intergalactic green tea leaf battered, but in good shape and hungry for a ham sandwich.
"Mister. Mister. Get over here. Yeah, you, with the short hair and crazy eyes. C'mere. I got somethin' for ya to put in that notebook you're always scribblin' in. Wanna know something? I'll tell you something. Heaven. Heaven. Got me? Heaven? Heaven is just a bus stop in Hell, my friend. Just a run down, bullet-hole ridden bus stop at the end of a defunct line of transportation. Sure is. There's where you'll find the angels cowering. There's where you'll find your God, blacked out under a newspaper. There's you're Heaven. Write that in your notebook. Sure. Write that right down."
Where did he go that man in black with the face like a melting wheel of bleu cheese where did he go was it to follow her to the corner of the earth where she cowers from trust and curls back into the womb where did he go was it to shuffle the planets like cards in a fixed game of 9 Pick Up where did he go was it back to her side when she re- emerged reborn was it back to her side to sully her again where did he go was it to laugh at the moon was it to laugh at the moon is he laughing at the moon how do we know if he is laughing?
Confusius say:
"There is no shame in death. Heck, even if you die on toilet, you die like Elvis! What else you gonna have in common with Elvis?? You got it, Bub. A big nuttin'. So, Respect Death on Toilet."
I am not ruled by walls.
I am not ruled by the digits and dollar signs that puke my worth. I am not ruled by the distrust of others. I am not ruled by sirens and firepower.
I am not ruled by fear.
I am not ruled by lies.
I am ruled by the word. I am ruled by enough trust grown in my heart to Jonah a whale. I am ruled by the scent and flavor of only woman. I am ruled by laughter.
I am ruled by the everything wonder in kittens' eyes.
I am ruled by love.
I am a happy slave.
Once, when Superman went to Montreal, he stopped by Madison, Wisconsin on his way. He had a nosh going, you see. For cheese. So, he grabbed up a bunch of cheese curds in his fanny pack, and flew off to Canada, munching cheese.
When he got there, he thought, hm, I want something salty. Fries. Yes, French Fries. So, he Super-flew on down to St. Catherine, and got himself an order of French Fries in turkey gravy, mmm mmm.
The thing is, he spilled some of the cheese curds into the fries and gravy due to a drunken group of teens up from Boston who were in Montreal for the Bruins-Canadiens game.
I was one of the teens.
Boston lost the hockey game; but hey, I got to elbow Superman into inventing poutine.
Sweet glorious baby Jesus melted over fries in turkey gravy, I need me some of that right now.
When they came up with the phrase, "A walk in the park," what park were they talking about? I hope it wasn't the park next door to me, the one with the gang fights all night.
If you have been in this park at night when the chipmunks and squirrels square off, you're already dead.
Never screw with a squirrel.
It all started with a checkered tablecloth. Upon it, three drops of oil spilled from the flask that stood next to the flask of balsamic vinagrette. She commented on the pattern the drops made on the checkered red and white pattern of the tablecloth. He commented on her comment.
Like this it happened, these comments and patterns, locking in on a destiny.
Sometimes, that is where it all begins -- with a basic pattern in basic colors.
So there was this story about some guy, then something happened to someone, then there was a lot of fog and a big brown thing and everyone died or was eaten or something, but I can't remember exactly because my parachute never opened and I've only got about 3 seconds before I hit the
Imagine being a ripple.
You are not the source, you are not the inevitable result; you are a rolling fill, the reason Baal invented the snare drum.
Now, have you done it? Are you a ripple? Good.
Here's the test.
How big are you?
Hm?
Me, I am a tidal wave large enough to consume the Rockies and make Kansas gargle salt water.
But then, I think big.
Remember: a tidal wave, after all, is just a ripple.
A spectacular ripple.
It just happened.
I completely sensed a chipmunk.
I am sure of it.
More to follow. Stay tuned.
He dares talk to me that way without a hat. It is about time we stopped all this, this noise of no hats.
I hear heads. I hear your heads. Screaming, babbling, whining, singing so far out of key you could shatter wood. Hatless, this is the noise you make.
And I am just about tired of it.
You have been warned. I am getting the mayonnaise, and do not doubt for one pathetic, deadly moment that I do not have the guts to use it.
I woke up wondering if I was still stuck in this slick, silver cavern, then realized I was indeed: I fought my way out, but it was only up and over, up and over, ridge after ridge and groove after groove, this moon was full of mares as brutal as any rock circling the distant third of our galaxy, but yet I climbed and climbed, slid and slid down the smooth silver surfaces, then clawed my way back up the pitted sides of the next mountains, onward toward...what? I prayed a respite, a veldt, an oasis.
Instead I found the edge. Instead I found the truth: The world was never flat; the moon is.
And in the bleat of a bus horn I awoke, realizing I had been dreaming, lost in the lakes of the moon.
Of course, the moon was a compact disc.
I spoke German while I spent the Summer of '91 as an athletic supporter for the neighbor's puppy of Wayne Gretsky.
Boy, I tell ya, that was one summer job I would gladly have traded for some cold turkey gravy.
Yes. Cold, even.
Cold as the sky is not rife with meat.
Just that cold.
As tension increases, the cogs in my shoulders turn; the piano wires that run from my shoulders to my fingers tighten. My fingers consciously resist curling up from the pressure. My wrists pay for the battle between my shoulders and my fingertips by feeling almost a sense of suffocation; of pressure like The Bends, like they are desperate to burst from my body.
This is not a dream.
Confusius say:
"If one feels like the massive wound in his head is bad, maybe he oughta get lots of hammer and duct tape. Oh ya, and alka-seltzer. Cos boy sure does that help a bit."
Why did I write down that word that made me think of that day that made me remember that minute, that one short minute of that hour when everything changed, everything in my life blended from black to indigo touched by green, why did I write down that one simple word and where did I get this power?
I can see her mother in her tilted face, in the frown that seems forced when it wants to be a smile; I can see her mother in her emerald eyes, when she hears lies from those around her and feels them like fire; and I can see her mother when she sleeps, and though she may not know how much peace she brings, as she lay she is an icon of prayer.
It was something about tiptoes after masturbation, and something about a private outdoor shower, enjoyed in dazzling sunshine; but damned if I can remember the rest of it.
It figures. Yet another day that I spend in its entirety -- from the opening of my crusty eyes right on through happy hour's happier quarter-hour from 1:20-1:35, then stumbled into dusk and all that "spooky dark" promise it brings, with all around me in a state -- yet again -- of Me No Habla Pepperoni.
This is getting just far too irritating.
Me No Habla Pepperoni Indeed.