Friday, February 25, 2011

Mouthful


Headlong I see through the hut. In a distance, from the golden sun, a kettle of vultures descend. He asks one more favor of me. This I’m not sure I should be obliged to. Would I do it if it were a last wish?

I’m married to a beautiful woman and we parent a robust five-year-old. Our first five-year plan, if not anything else, amazed us by falling into place. We’re happy. I shouldn’t say that yet. Then there’s the girl next floor who says I’m her fellatio model – no more no less. Here’s where I should have said we’re happy – very. I’m here to feed the hungry. They got the best dishes packed and I toted it to where the huts are.

The poor boy, though, cannot eat. Overlong he’s starved he lost his appetite. His body is a bag of bones, his face a dish to skull. There’s no one else here. They all moved leaving him behind. Not their fault. You cannot expect those who cannot carry themselves to carry others, children or not. Even the boy wouldn’t blame them. He said so. We grew spork where they grew crops. He said as well. He asked me to bring him out and lay him on the ground. He wanted to see the setting sun. I cannot recall my dream.

Is it our fault they lost their crops? Is neo-colonized an authentic state to be in? I think we should believe in the existence of God for the single fact that there’s the back of our head. We can push as many unpleasant facts as we want into it. If it were to take a form it would be that of a mountain. How does one bring Mohammed to the mountain? Am I just a cog in the wheel of fortune? Can my inadvertent actions affect nations? It's not like I haven't things to worry about. Would my mother's hospice bill put a hole in my five-year budget? What’s the next best car to buy? When’s my 3D TV arriving? My favorite fantasy is not so much the one in which I’m penetrating the girl as the one where she and my wife tribbing when I’m not home. Am I not altruistic? My dream eludes me.

In a perfect world, I would’ve called for an ambulance. What’s perfect? He’s fed and revived. Then what? What if he ends up in the traffic a beggar? What’s a perfect world? I gather a handful of sand and just like he asked me to drop it in his mouth wide open. His eyes close as though for the last time, mouthful of sand. The vultures land. I sense in their movement a Danse Macabre. I see in them my reflection. My dream comes to me. Alongside my company, I feed on the dead. I empty a dish and stuff in it a little meat meant for those of them waiting. A bell tolls and I know it’s that time my wife awaits my arrival - time for church and good company.

Satiated, I tote the dish back to where I came from. In a distance, a politician speaks to great applause: Show me one hungry soul in this district, I will step down. It’s not without proof and reason do I say we’ve abolished hunger.



Saturday, February 12, 2011

Choice

Dearest

Know this that a city lives on its illusions and it is the illusions that feed on its host and never is it the other way round. You will find a girl. She’s so ugly inside she wants to hear told to that she is beautiful. It is not there where the root of the crisis lies. You are so bad inside you want to hear told to you are good. There’s no excuse if you want the golden rule applied both ways. You have got to kiss, if you were to, heart and soul, that one person who hates you most. You can call what’s between you love. No foul there because it’s a collective feeling. What you think true and real, as it were, always are sinister. The longer it takes for that fact to dawn on you the longer you remain in a relationship. It is a place you can thrive in only if you are good at wearing the mask of charade around you. You have got to be, again, so good at it because those you will come across, rest assured, are so. You don’t want to be told no to, not at a rate that will crush your spirits. So, son, put that mask on and smile…a lot. You will find there those who have shed their masks. They are the counterculture. Do avoid them like plague. They grew wary of what they once were part of. They are a cliché with their own delusions of grandeur. In positing what came first between the two, like between egg and chicken, there is only amusement to be had and no definitive answer. Suffices to say culture and counterculture are two sides of the same coin. I am not saying you will not grow wary of the culture. All I am saying is you will, similarly, grow wary of the counterculture were you to choose it. Favored or no, when comes down to it, they are all just people. You can pick what you think fits you fine. Wherever you are, remember this, even if it is at crossroads, be your own man. To live so, truly, is to live at your own peril but then it’s no pleasure if it doesn’t come after pain.

Wishing you the Pyrotechnics of Life
Your dear father

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

An a-diction

F.B.i. abbr., the augmentation of which is topical, denotes a person who Facebook’s at least once a day.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Voice

They say the voices tell us and we do it. In the Town of Silence we hear them inside our head first and next we put them into action. Action is a virtue we are told. No, it’s not something that needs to be told. We know it like an instinct. There’s the voice of  reason and there’s the voice of intuitionThe best of us know its dividing imaginary line is an illusion. The best in all of us, I’m impelled to correct. If you know our history you will see it’s full of contradictions. There was a bohemian at one point in it. He was ugly to a point no one desired himHe taught our ancestors. Strictly speaking, not our direct ancestors, he was sold to us for change. Who cares. He taught among other things the merits of inaction. Those spectators heretofore not having heard merits being attached to nothing other than action called him a usurperThey put a spear through his heart, dismembered his carcass, and left it for pigs to feed on. There’s a version of this tale for babes written a century or less after that reads he was buried and resurrected on the seventh dayThey painted a portrait of him pretty too. A once usurper was declared a hero. He was made a red herring to a grand plot no one could see the end ofHow could you if you followed a straight line when it’s a circle. I do not, however, believe in bawdy miraclesA hero who’s dead remains dead. I do, though, believe a hero can resurrect inside a person long after he’s dead, even if he’s not the hero of our ancestors, like what just happened to me.


It all started when a voice told me to kill my mother. I’ve put into action what voices told me. I’ve killed a lover who betrayed me. I’ve also killed her father who wanted to avenge her. But this was something else. Kill your mother! I want inaction. I’ve found there are too many of us wanting inaction. Too bad because if that’s true, and it is, we will be hunted down soon. There cannot be choosing against action, not so many at one time. I learned from most of them that they did not want to act against their worst enemies. Hearing that I thought I must be a very bad person.


Lately, I’ve become so obsessed with seeing patterns in chaos I’m often called apophenic. If I kill I will be killed. My sister is smarter than me and I know it. You may think I’m not killing because I’m afraid I will be killed in return. You are wrong. I love my mother. I’ve seen the action and its reaction. It’s a pattern that never ends. I do what a voice tells me to and my sister does what her voice tells her to. You got that? It’s a vicious circle carved in blood and gut.


In the mean time, I’ve established that I possess not one soul but two, one for purgatory another for paradise and I am close to finding when exactly a person lives these. It cannot be plain like living it one at a time. Do those worlds connect? Can there be peace between the two? Such questions make my endeavor harder. There are, however, things that warrant my equal attention - like friends. They keep me from my goal. Perhaps...I will never find answers to questions I ask. Perhaps someone else will find them. We have chosen at this point to do what the most of us think is prudent. We are one thousand of us. We were nine hundred and ninety nine of us until my sister joined us. She’s my twin and so far since her induction I’ve only had suspicion concerning her joining us. In less than a minute we all in unison will jump off this cliff. Our bodies will dash against those rocks waiting for us. Some of us will smash our heads, some of us will open our guts. Some of us will die instantly, some of us after minutes of agony. We’re going to jump all the same. We are too good for this world.

My sister screamed wait. I watched my friends withdraw from the edge of the cliff. They sat down. Their body shook as one big tic. I’m not afraid. I stand at the edge. I asked my sister why. She addressed all of us. She said we all wanted to choose against the voices but we did not. That we wanted to ignore one voice and heed another. That we ignored the voice that told us to kill and heeded the voice that told us to kill ourselves. We concurred she was right. We are now to go back to our Town of Silence. We may be killed before the setting sun rises again. We may be tortured. We will defend ourselves when there’s call for it. We may live a lifetime. It’s not for me to tell. Certainties aren’t for the likes of us. I just wanted someone to know if there’s that some other people we are told are out there. Please understand that it's not a cry for help. If there's anyone who can take care of us it's ourselves. I did not, however, think I will end it like this. That I will not end my life. I’m standing at the edge and dropping my device. Thank you for listening to my voice...

SPLISH!


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