Category Archives: shards

the would-be angel

THE WOULD-BE ANGEL

There were times he’d stand on the head of a pin and pretend to be a angel. He tried not to notice that on the needle’s other end, upside down on the glinting point, danced a whole troupe of angels, smooth-skinned and sexless and defying gravity, floating in gossamer. He’d assume postures that he hoped were Greek in nature and let his eyelids droop, but he was no match for the angels.

Later, back in his solitary room in the cheap hotel, he’d boil water on a hot plate and make instant coffee. He’d stare out his shadeless window at the night street below, and sometimes, when it rained, he’d pretend it was the angels weeping out of envy for his majesty. That always brought a smile to his face, but it never lasted long.

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top secret

Top Secret

(written in 2009)

He was shorter than Hitler and had no facial hair to speak of, but he could puff out his chest and fly into rages, and so they appointed him Leader. Elections had long since been abolished for reasons of national security, and a Leader and his cabinet members were routinely appointed by a self-perpetrating corporate board.

Before his appointment, everything including the lunch menu was classified Top Secret, but once in power he issued a decree that (because of its highly sensitive nature) only he was privy to, that it was Top Secret that everything was Top Secret. This triggered drastic repercussions.

Soon cabinet members as well as members of the corporate board were being whisked away in the dead of night by death squads from the Leader’s Top Secret private-sector army for refusing to show their files to investigating committees of a titular congress, declaring them Top Secret: in so doing, they violated the Leader’s Top Secret decree that it was Top Secret that everything was Top Secret.

The Leader, short and hairless though he was, was no fool. With a single decree he’d abolished government, broken the back of corporate power, and become supreme ruler without a shred of evidence available to prove that anything had changed.

He ruled until he died at the age of 89, at which time the country erupted in chaos.

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the wild-eyed bodhisattva

The Wild-eyed Bodhisattva

“I think, therefore I die,” realized an early humanoid on some distant savanna, giving birth to the abstract in the bassinet of his ego.

Death is a misnomer for the absorption of ego, and it’s spread like a contagion to all living things. The plant dies, the cat dies, the goldfish dies and then abstractions themselves topple into death’s maw. Humanity gets engulfed in the black curse of time.

The wild-eyed Bodhisattva ate it all, emptied the fruit bowl, streaked thru the blue night like a hawk, built monuments out of longing and laughter, gave a wink to the Emptiness that spawns color and form and then reels it in again, absorbing and projecting in a colossal furnace of fire.

Death is the mother of misery, and the wild-eyed Bodhisattva ate death too, he ate it like a jumbo banana split and shat it out again into life’s zany garden.

Alone on the mountain he also ate his own loneliness and the small fig of doubt. He got swept along in the flow of things until he came to rest at the right hand of God in the throbbing heart of the Mystery.

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the worst thing

The Worst Thing

I’ll tell you what the worst thing is. Without prompting, without payment, without promise of a pardon for me and my gang of Upstarts* who never meant any harm, we don’t know how things came to this, what triggered the escalation, if there was a single cause. But we don’t need your stinking pardon, that’s for sure, and there I go, uping the ante again. As weary as they are from never-ending forced rides, the Upstarts saddle up and head out to do battle.

And there it is. Weariness is the worst thing, deep down exhaustion. Worse than pain, worse than deception or false hope, worse than anything.

There’s no need for hot pokers up the ass or waterboarding or drilling holes deep into molars, just keep a man awake for a week and he’ll tell you the names of his ancestors and where his dirty pictures are hidden. He’ll weep uncontrollably and on his knees wrap his arms around your legs and beg mercy.

But those are extreme measures for people who have been turned into terrorists because all their relatives in a funeral procession for thirty people who were wiped out by a Freedom’s Cry* drone missile got wiped out by a Freedom’s Cry drone missile. The deeper threat sleeps closer to home–the average Joe who salutes without thinking and will work his fingers to the bone just to pay off his credit card.

In the Gone World*, working the masses 12 to 16 hours a day was all that was needed to achieve the right amount of weariness to keep the Drone Zombies* in harness, but today great numbers of them have become listless and refuse to work a lick. Consequently they’re not weary enough to play anyone’s game, not even their own, and there goes the work force needed to manufacture bombs bridges and spin, to hell in a hand basket.

Unless we can come up pretty soon with ways to render the Drone Zombies weary, our way of life that requires war and a below-poverty work force will topple.

This realization hasn’t found its way into the Think Tanks yet, but it’s there in a blend of fantasy and detail in a novel called Tire Grabbers, the self-help book that we’ve all been waiting for.

 

*Terms that can be found in the novel Tire Grabbers. To learn more, go here…

 

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the way we were II.

THE WAY WE WERE

After my aneurysm surgery back in 06, Al Horvath of Kirpan Press, a descendant of the Sixties Cleveland poetry scene, quietly put together a collection of my Shards, called it After the Break Up, and announced that all proceeds from sales would go to my recovery fund.

The first I heard about it was when a check for $164.24 arrived in the mail.

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the tire guy

THE TIRE GUY

The guy in the tire place handed me the bill and then leaned over the counter.

“I read one of your books,” he said.

“Was it Rodeo Town?” I asked.

Rodeo Town is real popular in these parts, essays about valley people that I wrote for the local paper a number of years ago.

“No, I read some of those Shards,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. “Oh, well. What’d ya think?”

“They’re like Picasso paintings,” he said. “All the body parts are in the wrong place.”

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