Epiphantile
I. A tribute to e. e. cummings and Nikki Giovanni
outrage is just a stone,
it does not melt away,
but it is ground away in the machine,
and becomes a thousand useless little irritations.
yet ... o (no),
u left your ! and made even the most . a ?
and those () dear friend. They belong to JONES
softer more uncertain than the [],
buried
and our bodies for what they are worth,
were never meant to be accounted,
and when multiplied, squared, or exponentialed,
these conceits form no transcendentals.
I yes I yes I
II. Reflection and an important allusion if you want to understand this poem.
why do the heathen rage?
it is because I know a boy can fly.
that's why the heathens rage.
C. Gulliver on the shore.
Once he lay asleep,
"Them" up to him softly creep,
Lest he turn and "them" there bury.
A thousand million eyes are wary,
Of any gesture he should make,
To give portent that he awakes.
And with their little ropes like thread,
Try to fix his arms and legs,
But foolish, nameless, hapless elves,
Their magic works but on themselves,
and When his shoulder starts to rise,
The terror fills their bright wide eyes.
4. I reflect on what I am doing
but why talk so bitterly,
and in couplets give any accidental praise,
to consider their vane thoughts,
in terms like human innocence?
no, they gave up their humanity,
the moment they ate again of the tree,
and no third coming's coming,
to replace the second fall.
All miracles are virtues in an evil age;
and what can be more natural,
then to deny the supernatural,
and see nothing outside the ego cage?
None. The real problem is the answer came before the question
Mirthless laughter heals no wound,
And mockery mocks down friend and foe,
"But this lies all within the will of God,"
Yet, I swear this is not the only language I know.
To see, to hear, to taste, to feel,
We turn towards the cooler air,
Perhaps we shall find him there,
And his shadow passing over, heal.
For to Job was given a riddle, and to Jonah a great sign,
To Elijah a widow and her child, and to Peter two coins.
I myself am rooted down by a thousand cares,
but may heaven forgive my pride,
not, of myself; No, I would not compare,
or dare think myself in that way justified,
The poet is infinitely greater than his poem.
No machine exceeds its inventor,
But there can be no art without an artist,
and praising a creation I praise the creator.
Showing posts with label Miguel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Miguel. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
Friday, August 19, 2011
The last breath warmed
We waited with him all the night
She in her blanket
Me in my coat and boots
Like the watchers of the tower
Thinking that sometime that night
The sappers mines would be sprung
And we would tumble among the falling stones
Crushed and bruised among the ruins
And so we did not sleep
And at dawn, breathing still came
She rose to boil water for my tea
And I looked at the profile of her face
Long the shadow of her eyes
"It was the doctor" I said
"Bad enough that he killed him
but he made us all poor in the bargain."
But she said nothing though her lips
sang silently psalms as tired as her face.
"What should I care for all of that."
I said. "It is not even a single spark."
As the sun rose over the hill light burst in.
The gray room became a cold furnace of color.
Just then the dying man coughed,
his blue eyes opened
Every whisker of his beard stood out
around his dry gray lips.
She dropped the kettle and fell down at his side.
I remained standing in terror
Never had I seen...
"He," the lips said. "He."
The eyes stared down the long nose
And met mine.
We three silently exchanged accusations.
And I wished him dead.
But the eyes kept staring
long after the last breath ended.
---
Thus it is I conclude my contributions to the sterquilinium with this final inspection of mortality. I think it, perhaps, my best as it contains all my thoughts on the matter.
Quod Erat Demonstratum
She in her blanket
Me in my coat and boots
Like the watchers of the tower
Thinking that sometime that night
The sappers mines would be sprung
And we would tumble among the falling stones
Crushed and bruised among the ruins
And so we did not sleep
And at dawn, breathing still came
She rose to boil water for my tea
And I looked at the profile of her face
Long the shadow of her eyes
"It was the doctor" I said
"Bad enough that he killed him
but he made us all poor in the bargain."
But she said nothing though her lips
sang silently psalms as tired as her face.
"What should I care for all of that."
I said. "It is not even a single spark."
As the sun rose over the hill light burst in.
The gray room became a cold furnace of color.
Just then the dying man coughed,
his blue eyes opened
Every whisker of his beard stood out
around his dry gray lips.
She dropped the kettle and fell down at his side.
I remained standing in terror
Never had I seen...
"He," the lips said. "He."
The eyes stared down the long nose
And met mine.
We three silently exchanged accusations.
And I wished him dead.
But the eyes kept staring
long after the last breath ended.
---
Thus it is I conclude my contributions to the sterquilinium with this final inspection of mortality. I think it, perhaps, my best as it contains all my thoughts on the matter.
Quod Erat Demonstratum
Sunday, January 02, 2011
A short play in the style of Yeats (2)
Lady: Aye and the cherries have pebbles and when those pebbles are planted grow in Irish ground and become English trees.
Old Man: Says ye that now. I could not agree more. Everything that stands may be commanded
Lady: And ye in the woods with the boy's axe?
Old Man: I reckon I plan to be planted to, and then I be as English as any other dead man.
Lady: He'll not dig your grave with his axe.
Old Man: There's some that make two grave's with an axe, but I am not such a man.
Boy: And I am not such a one neither!
Lady: No you're a good child and never made a mother weep.
Boy: It would have been hard since I have not a mother.
Lady: Not so, all men even him who had no earthly father have a mother. But it was her who made your eyes water... (laying her hand on his shoulder)
Boy: Not so! (striking her hand)
Lady: What's this?
Old Man: Aye, the boy knows his case and does not want pity. He is ready to learn his lot. Come along with me.
Boy: (Shaken) Only if the lady commands.
Lady: Do as ye like.
Old Man: Come along.
Boy: What am I to do?
Old Man: Come along.
Lady: You know where your home is, but I have seen you pawing the earth and see now your inclinations (touching her own stricken hand).
Boy:(hesitantly) ma'am. I am sorry.
Lady: Away with ye then, ye seem to wish it. Take your axe and follow the old man. You all follow the same road, tarrying here and there for a while. And some never rise but sleep.
Old Man: Says ye that now. I could not agree more. Everything that stands may be commanded
Lady: And ye in the woods with the boy's axe?
Old Man: I reckon I plan to be planted to, and then I be as English as any other dead man.
Lady: He'll not dig your grave with his axe.
Old Man: There's some that make two grave's with an axe, but I am not such a man.
Boy: And I am not such a one neither!
Lady: No you're a good child and never made a mother weep.
Boy: It would have been hard since I have not a mother.
Lady: Not so, all men even him who had no earthly father have a mother. But it was her who made your eyes water... (laying her hand on his shoulder)
Boy: Not so! (striking her hand)
Lady: What's this?
Old Man: Aye, the boy knows his case and does not want pity. He is ready to learn his lot. Come along with me.
Boy: (Shaken) Only if the lady commands.
Lady: Do as ye like.
Old Man: Come along.
Boy: What am I to do?
Old Man: Come along.
Lady: You know where your home is, but I have seen you pawing the earth and see now your inclinations (touching her own stricken hand).
Boy:(hesitantly) ma'am. I am sorry.
Lady: Away with ye then, ye seem to wish it. Take your axe and follow the old man. You all follow the same road, tarrying here and there for a while. And some never rise but sleep.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
A short play in the style of Yeats (1)
Scene: A cottage as you might find in any county, far from the sea. A road, a stone wall behind which are hills webbed with stone walls and dotted with cottages. AGainst the stone wall lies various farming implements, picks, shovels, etc. A young boy is using a hoe in the garden.
A man comes on stage. He is old but walks with long strides.
Old Man: Go grab your axe, boy and come with me!
Boy: Where are we going?
Old Man: To the forest that lies underneath the stone house.
A window in the cottage opens up
Lady: Boy! Who is that calling?
Boy: It is the old man.
Lady: Old man! Why are you waking the dead?
Old Man: It is not I who wake the dead but you who do not let them sleep.
Lady: Phaw.
Old Man: Now grab your axe.
Lady: Boy! Keep your hands to the hoe and your eyes to the praties.
Old Man: She will be telling you that boy until you can't see moon or sun even if you did look for them.
Lady: Shut your gab, if we have words it will be nose to nose and eye to eye.
Old Man: Fist to fist suits me better.
Lady: Have you no respect?
Old Man: Aye ma'am. I have respect for the young one here and his axe.
Lady: I am coming out and we'll see whose boot is sharper.
[Window shuts]
Old Man: Listen here boy, get your axe and come away now. We'll have so many words you will eat no dinner tonight 'less you come right now.
Boy: I must not upset the lady.
Old Man: What does she ever do for you?
Boy: She gives me praties.
Old Man: It's you that give them to her you young fool.
Boy: But it's her garden.
Old Man: Does she plant it? Does she turn it? Does she pull all the brown stones out and make herself a wall?
Boy: No, she but she boils the cabbage in her pot and sweeps the table and mends my socks.
Old Man: You could do all that for yourself. Now come away.
Lady: What is this? Why are you stealing my boy? Are your ears long now and your coat green?
Old Man: I ain't stealing nothing but what can't be stolen 'cause it can't be owned.
Lady: Boy, is he talking of the sweet wild cherries?
Old Man: Aye, that I am talking of the cherries is certain.
Lady: Go inside boy and you can eat now.
Old Man: Go on in and eat the fruit of your labor boy, but first listen to what I will say after she has it out.
Lady: Well enough for him to hear.
Old Man: Aye well enough.
Lady: Let him hear of this work he will do with the axe.
Old Man: He will make a clearing in the wood beneath the stone house.
Lady: Near the creek?
Old Man: Aye, where the cherries grow and where there are harts.
Lady: And build you a hut?
Old Man: Of dry wood and he can live there too.
Lady: Until the Lord of the Stone House comes back.
Old Man: There is no more Lord there. He himself is stone and wood now.
Lady: I will not hear of it.
Old Man: Boy, I am an old man, and I know it is true. There is no lord in that stone house but a lord in england who says that is tenant land. But there are no tenants, the last one died and I know he was so poor that he never paid and he never owned and yet he had his hut.
Lady: You tell me you old fool what pebble in Ireland is not loaned back to us? What silver we have that is not from the English and goes back to London?
Old Man: Aye, the Irish Pebbles are English and rightly so. The english may have them all for all I care of them. But there is no beast in Ireland save those on the pinion that is not Irish. And no Irish cherry in the mouth of a lark is the property of the man in a bowler hat.
A man comes on stage. He is old but walks with long strides.
Old Man: Go grab your axe, boy and come with me!
Boy: Where are we going?
Old Man: To the forest that lies underneath the stone house.
A window in the cottage opens up
Lady: Boy! Who is that calling?
Boy: It is the old man.
Lady: Old man! Why are you waking the dead?
Old Man: It is not I who wake the dead but you who do not let them sleep.
Lady: Phaw.
Old Man: Now grab your axe.
Lady: Boy! Keep your hands to the hoe and your eyes to the praties.
Old Man: She will be telling you that boy until you can't see moon or sun even if you did look for them.
Lady: Shut your gab, if we have words it will be nose to nose and eye to eye.
Old Man: Fist to fist suits me better.
Lady: Have you no respect?
Old Man: Aye ma'am. I have respect for the young one here and his axe.
Lady: I am coming out and we'll see whose boot is sharper.
[Window shuts]
Old Man: Listen here boy, get your axe and come away now. We'll have so many words you will eat no dinner tonight 'less you come right now.
Boy: I must not upset the lady.
Old Man: What does she ever do for you?
Boy: She gives me praties.
Old Man: It's you that give them to her you young fool.
Boy: But it's her garden.
Old Man: Does she plant it? Does she turn it? Does she pull all the brown stones out and make herself a wall?
Boy: No, she but she boils the cabbage in her pot and sweeps the table and mends my socks.
Old Man: You could do all that for yourself. Now come away.
Lady: What is this? Why are you stealing my boy? Are your ears long now and your coat green?
Old Man: I ain't stealing nothing but what can't be stolen 'cause it can't be owned.
Lady: Boy, is he talking of the sweet wild cherries?
Old Man: Aye, that I am talking of the cherries is certain.
Lady: Go inside boy and you can eat now.
Old Man: Go on in and eat the fruit of your labor boy, but first listen to what I will say after she has it out.
Lady: Well enough for him to hear.
Old Man: Aye well enough.
Lady: Let him hear of this work he will do with the axe.
Old Man: He will make a clearing in the wood beneath the stone house.
Lady: Near the creek?
Old Man: Aye, where the cherries grow and where there are harts.
Lady: And build you a hut?
Old Man: Of dry wood and he can live there too.
Lady: Until the Lord of the Stone House comes back.
Old Man: There is no more Lord there. He himself is stone and wood now.
Lady: I will not hear of it.
Old Man: Boy, I am an old man, and I know it is true. There is no lord in that stone house but a lord in england who says that is tenant land. But there are no tenants, the last one died and I know he was so poor that he never paid and he never owned and yet he had his hut.
Lady: You tell me you old fool what pebble in Ireland is not loaned back to us? What silver we have that is not from the English and goes back to London?
Old Man: Aye, the Irish Pebbles are English and rightly so. The english may have them all for all I care of them. But there is no beast in Ireland save those on the pinion that is not Irish. And no Irish cherry in the mouth of a lark is the property of the man in a bowler hat.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Before
Before
Kiss my lips while they are still warm
And the breath you gave me
Still dwells in my breast
Before the last sigh
While I still have time.
Before.
Who named me such a name,
To bear before the world,
A constant accusation,
Of all the pagan gods?
To remember for all,
That our days are counted,
And every sin is weighed.
Open my lips, so that I may confess
Through suffering and pain,
But before torment.
Kiss my lips while they are still warm
And the breath you gave me
Still dwells in my breast
Before the last sigh
While I still have time.
Before.
Who named me such a name,
To bear before the world,
A constant accusation,
Of all the pagan gods?
To remember for all,
That our days are counted,
And every sin is weighed.
Open my lips, so that I may confess
Through suffering and pain,
But before torment.
Monday, October 12, 2009
The empty
Don't you know he can fly?
Willow, willow, wailing
We will wisp about the baby
With a nonny-nonny-nonny
And a nonny-nonny-noo
With a nonny-nonny-nonny
And a wisp-o-will-o wailing
Wisp-o-wispy whisper, whisper
Willy-Chilly-whispy-whisper
A nonny-nonny
Empty all about the shadow
Nothing about, nothing about
Steady, steady, hand is shaking
Breathless giggles, giggles quaking
Laughing, smirking.
Colder lips, lips upon my cold lips,
Breath taking, breath stealing,
Dull dead air lifeless air
Stirless, black, and silent air:
Sharp as flint, hard as stone,
Shiny and black against the dull, dull, shadow
Eyes winking, eyes twinkling,
Starry, splintery, glintery,
Nonny, nonny, whisteley
Prickly, prickly, bristeley
A sudden Crack
A snap, a snap, a mighty snap!
A snap a snap, it made me clap!
Twig, twig, dance a jig!
Dance a jig, with mister pig!
Worse o worse to think of things,
Things with featherless, leathery wings,
Wings that beat upon that air,
Shrunken, twisted, clawed or fisted.
Nonny-nonny, will-o-whispery
Empty, O God it's so empty!
Nothing at all about it,
Nothing there, there's nothing there,
Empty-hempty-shmempty
So giggly, so wiggly-jiggly
All about, so empity-jempity
Giggaly, wiggaly, let's all be giggaly
What is that sound
In the distance
That dull thudding?
Willow, willow, wailing
We will wisp about the baby
With a nonny-nonny-nonny
And a nonny-nonny-noo
With a nonny-nonny-nonny
And a wisp-o-will-o wailing
Wisp-o-wispy whisper, whisper
Willy-Chilly-whispy-whisper
A nonny-nonny
Empty all about the shadow
Nothing about, nothing about
Steady, steady, hand is shaking
Breathless giggles, giggles quaking
Laughing, smirking.
Colder lips, lips upon my cold lips,
Breath taking, breath stealing,
Dull dead air lifeless air
Stirless, black, and silent air:
Sharp as flint, hard as stone,
Shiny and black against the dull, dull, shadow
Eyes winking, eyes twinkling,
Starry, splintery, glintery,
Nonny, nonny, whisteley
Prickly, prickly, bristeley
A sudden Crack
A snap, a snap, a mighty snap!
A snap a snap, it made me clap!
Twig, twig, dance a jig!
Dance a jig, with mister pig!
Worse o worse to think of things,
Things with featherless, leathery wings,
Wings that beat upon that air,
Shrunken, twisted, clawed or fisted.
Nonny-nonny, will-o-whispery
Empty, O God it's so empty!
Nothing at all about it,
Nothing there, there's nothing there,
Empty-hempty-shmempty
So giggly, so wiggly-jiggly
All about, so empity-jempity
Giggaly, wiggaly, let's all be giggaly
What is that sound
In the distance
That dull thudding?
Monday, July 13, 2009
if and when
Young man says:
I want folks to treat me with respect,
I want folks to know what I got inside,
know that what I got can't be bought,
and I ain't sellin'
Young man says:
People are going to look at me and they gonna say:
Look where he's been!
Look what he's done!
Look who that fella knows!
Young man says:
Ain't no place gonna kick me out,
My skin be black as coal,
and people still gonna let me in,
If somethin' ain't right,
I'm gonna tell 'em,
and they're gonna listen.
Young man says:
What's nasty is nasty,
Ain't no use lyin' to people to make them feel good.
I know what's right and I know what ain't,
People are gonna listen.
Young man says:
The world is on fire,
It's burnin' down and goin' to hell,
And if I go with it, I don't care,
because I did what I wanted.
Young man says:
If and when I die,
I'm gonna die knowin'
I didn't take nothin'
That I didn't want.
Old man says:
Let me breathe...
... one more time ...
... without no more pain ...
... breathe ...
... one more time ...
I want folks to treat me with respect,
I want folks to know what I got inside,
know that what I got can't be bought,
and I ain't sellin'
Young man says:
People are going to look at me and they gonna say:
Look where he's been!
Look what he's done!
Look who that fella knows!
Young man says:
Ain't no place gonna kick me out,
My skin be black as coal,
and people still gonna let me in,
If somethin' ain't right,
I'm gonna tell 'em,
and they're gonna listen.
Young man says:
What's nasty is nasty,
Ain't no use lyin' to people to make them feel good.
I know what's right and I know what ain't,
People are gonna listen.
Young man says:
The world is on fire,
It's burnin' down and goin' to hell,
And if I go with it, I don't care,
because I did what I wanted.
Young man says:
If and when I die,
I'm gonna die knowin'
I didn't take nothin'
That I didn't want.
Old man says:
Let me breathe...
... one more time ...
... without no more pain ...
... breathe ...
... one more time ...
Thursday, March 27, 2008
A high field
There is the field at the top of the mountain,
Where knee high grass is woven in patterns by the wind,
and Moved aside but not broken by the passage,
of Wild animals, children, and angels.
It is not a place of prideful self-congratulation,
nor a place for healthy disraction,
It is not a gateway to another kingdom,
nor a secret garden to keep in silence.
The sky there is hardly less distant,
And no new monument needs to be made,
To boast of man's indomitable spirit,
As evidenced by the remoteness of that place.
Yet, if I were an Irishman I would call it enchanted.
They did not look far for the fairy realms,
The dancing and singing of little people,
May come from the other side of a hedgerow.
And between the folds of the ridges below,
The dark, heavy trees fade away among the clouds,
What we have left is for the moment forgotten,
And all that we are is all that we brought.
It is a high field,
A place to be grateful.
Where knee high grass is woven in patterns by the wind,
and Moved aside but not broken by the passage,
of Wild animals, children, and angels.
It is not a place of prideful self-congratulation,
nor a place for healthy disraction,
It is not a gateway to another kingdom,
nor a secret garden to keep in silence.
The sky there is hardly less distant,
And no new monument needs to be made,
To boast of man's indomitable spirit,
As evidenced by the remoteness of that place.
Yet, if I were an Irishman I would call it enchanted.
They did not look far for the fairy realms,
The dancing and singing of little people,
May come from the other side of a hedgerow.
And between the folds of the ridges below,
The dark, heavy trees fade away among the clouds,
What we have left is for the moment forgotten,
And all that we are is all that we brought.
It is a high field,
A place to be grateful.
PM 17: Sleep
Ierod called to Check, and the two together, lifted my head and trunk and placed me into a sitting position.
"Feeling great?" Check said, gruffly. I was silent. "You got great scores. Great things ahead for you. Its quantifiable!"
I turned to face Ierod. He was smiling. Then I looked at Pamille. She seemed less strange to me. She seemed, not grotesque and freakish, but normal and almost natural. Her expression, before an expressionless mask, now clearly bore the signs of a nervous guilt. The weight that had been such a burden, though sensible, was not unbearable any longer. My stomach, which had been twisted in knots, now seemed steady.
"I'm thirsty."
"Tired too, no doubt." Ierod added. " Training isn't rest." I was tired. "And, it's not really over anyway. It will take a few shifts and sleep will help out."
I was tired, but I was also determined not to show any weakness anymore. These people who had seized control of my life, must be resisted if I was to preserve it.
When Ierod, stepped over to Check and pulled him aside as if to say something in private. I swung my legs over the side of the table. I dropped down and walked over to them as assertively as I could. Confidence was welling up within me from some unknown source.
"Can we go back to the canteen?"
Ieroed and Check looked at me in some surprise.
"Sure, hold on. Pamille needs to discharge you. Would you please?"
"Already done." She said.
Ierod's eyes lit up. "Fantastic! Come on. Let's go!" He gestured for Check to follow him, but the troll shook his head.
"I have to put together a team. Pamille and I need to look at the current allocations and whose overloaded. Shortage of people. Everyone is lazy. No one wants to work anymore. Especially those n-gen goons. Rotten, squeamish, miserable lot."
"We'll continue our discussion later. Come with me... Peter right?" I nodded. "You probably remember the way. " I followed him out the door steadily, this time paying more attention.
"How long was it?"
"The training?"
"Yes."
"You mean how much time did it take?"
"Yes."
"I don't know. Maybe a little over a half shift. I don't follow timers. I just run around and when I get tired I find some hole to lie down in and sleep until I wake up and start running around again. You're probably a little confused by all this. But you've had plenty of sleep, plenty of rest. You'll find you don't need so much. Well except to let those chips finish doing whatever they do up there.
"You'll find that the problem really is staying clean and hydrated. Everything is always so dry, and the n-gen don't like the way you'll smell when you get dirty. Nin-folk don't care really. They hate us whatever we smell like. All except the 'intellectual' disenfranchised type like Pamille. But even she doesn't really like us.
"Your suit and the food will take care of a good part of the smell. If you feel the need to defecate or urinate, find a hole like one of those," he pointed to a narrow door, hardly larger than a locker. It was marked by a red circle. "It shouldn't happen too often. But perhaps this is all coming to you. I don't what they teach you in training now. It used to be that the Nin-folk left most of the training to other humans, but now, they like to control it. They aren't squeamish so they probably implant all sorts of things, all sorts of hidden motivations." He said the last two words with thick irony.
"Where am I?"
"In what sense."
"What am I doing here?"
"Don't get philosophical. By the way, I don't like the name 'Peter,' It's too... abrupt. Two syllables, but too hard. I don't like the sound of long e's myself. They pierce my eardrums, like a shriek. I like quiet things more. So, I'm going to call you something else. Your surname was something Irish or Scottish, right? McLane?"
"MacLeinn"
"Not a lot of Irish or Scotch up here surprisingly enough. Or if there are they all long since forgot about it. They don't usually like native English speakers you see." We passed through the doors of the canteen. "I hate this place." He said. "But get yourself something to drink. Go ahead and get something to eat too while your at it." I did as he told and he went and sat down at a bench. The canteen was almost entirely empty. I provisioned myself and returned. "But you'll be different I bet." He said enigmatically, "You won't be like these other things."
"What does that mean."
"I don't like things too clean." He said. "Not meaning I like things dirty, but I think you have to throw the dice every now and then. They like rules, that's what being a Nin-folk is all about. Making lots and lots of rules. They want everything to fit in its own particular hole and stay in the hole. That's why they don't like native English speakers. And that's why Bud and I recruit them. You have messy thoughts, I can tell. You have dark, dirty, nasty, rotten, thoughts." The seriousness of his tone frightened me. "Which is why we are going to get along. You and me and Check and Bud. We are going to shake things up and make it a little less predictable."
"What am I supposed to be doing?"
"Oh.. you'll figure it out. You're a smart kid Macko, and it will come to you soon enough."
"Feeling great?" Check said, gruffly. I was silent. "You got great scores. Great things ahead for you. Its quantifiable!"
I turned to face Ierod. He was smiling. Then I looked at Pamille. She seemed less strange to me. She seemed, not grotesque and freakish, but normal and almost natural. Her expression, before an expressionless mask, now clearly bore the signs of a nervous guilt. The weight that had been such a burden, though sensible, was not unbearable any longer. My stomach, which had been twisted in knots, now seemed steady.
"I'm thirsty."
"Tired too, no doubt." Ierod added. " Training isn't rest." I was tired. "And, it's not really over anyway. It will take a few shifts and sleep will help out."
I was tired, but I was also determined not to show any weakness anymore. These people who had seized control of my life, must be resisted if I was to preserve it.
When Ierod, stepped over to Check and pulled him aside as if to say something in private. I swung my legs over the side of the table. I dropped down and walked over to them as assertively as I could. Confidence was welling up within me from some unknown source.
"Can we go back to the canteen?"
Ieroed and Check looked at me in some surprise.
"Sure, hold on. Pamille needs to discharge you. Would you please?"
"Already done." She said.
Ierod's eyes lit up. "Fantastic! Come on. Let's go!" He gestured for Check to follow him, but the troll shook his head.
"I have to put together a team. Pamille and I need to look at the current allocations and whose overloaded. Shortage of people. Everyone is lazy. No one wants to work anymore. Especially those n-gen goons. Rotten, squeamish, miserable lot."
"We'll continue our discussion later. Come with me... Peter right?" I nodded. "You probably remember the way. " I followed him out the door steadily, this time paying more attention.
"How long was it?"
"The training?"
"Yes."
"You mean how much time did it take?"
"Yes."
"I don't know. Maybe a little over a half shift. I don't follow timers. I just run around and when I get tired I find some hole to lie down in and sleep until I wake up and start running around again. You're probably a little confused by all this. But you've had plenty of sleep, plenty of rest. You'll find you don't need so much. Well except to let those chips finish doing whatever they do up there.
"You'll find that the problem really is staying clean and hydrated. Everything is always so dry, and the n-gen don't like the way you'll smell when you get dirty. Nin-folk don't care really. They hate us whatever we smell like. All except the 'intellectual' disenfranchised type like Pamille. But even she doesn't really like us.
"Your suit and the food will take care of a good part of the smell. If you feel the need to defecate or urinate, find a hole like one of those," he pointed to a narrow door, hardly larger than a locker. It was marked by a red circle. "It shouldn't happen too often. But perhaps this is all coming to you. I don't what they teach you in training now. It used to be that the Nin-folk left most of the training to other humans, but now, they like to control it. They aren't squeamish so they probably implant all sorts of things, all sorts of hidden motivations." He said the last two words with thick irony.
"Where am I?"
"In what sense."
"What am I doing here?"
"Don't get philosophical. By the way, I don't like the name 'Peter,' It's too... abrupt. Two syllables, but too hard. I don't like the sound of long e's myself. They pierce my eardrums, like a shriek. I like quiet things more. So, I'm going to call you something else. Your surname was something Irish or Scottish, right? McLane?"
"MacLeinn"
"Not a lot of Irish or Scotch up here surprisingly enough. Or if there are they all long since forgot about it. They don't usually like native English speakers you see." We passed through the doors of the canteen. "I hate this place." He said. "But get yourself something to drink. Go ahead and get something to eat too while your at it." I did as he told and he went and sat down at a bench. The canteen was almost entirely empty. I provisioned myself and returned. "But you'll be different I bet." He said enigmatically, "You won't be like these other things."
"What does that mean."
"I don't like things too clean." He said. "Not meaning I like things dirty, but I think you have to throw the dice every now and then. They like rules, that's what being a Nin-folk is all about. Making lots and lots of rules. They want everything to fit in its own particular hole and stay in the hole. That's why they don't like native English speakers. And that's why Bud and I recruit them. You have messy thoughts, I can tell. You have dark, dirty, nasty, rotten, thoughts." The seriousness of his tone frightened me. "Which is why we are going to get along. You and me and Check and Bud. We are going to shake things up and make it a little less predictable."
"What am I supposed to be doing?"
"Oh.. you'll figure it out. You're a smart kid Macko, and it will come to you soon enough."
PM 16: Aside
I feel the temptation again, to step away from the story and simply explain things from the vantage of experience. But this would not be fair. Not to me. I feel that you should suffer, with me or rather, I think you should suffer like me. Perhaps that's not what I mean either.
Honestly, it is remote now, and I strive to relive it. That's why I am writing. For who is reading? Who is caring? Who does my story concern? Only me.
But if there were a you... an invisible reader. How different things could be.
You could feel my uncertainty and disorientation. You would say, "Yes, I can see how it was painful. That was more painful than anything I ever had to deal with." Or. "How did you endure it? I don't think I could." Then we could agree that I suffered. And we could agree that it was meaningless. "The tragedy is that it was all for nothing."
How many groans of mankind are left unstudied? The vast majority of them to be sure. No one pauses or reflects on the inherent absurdity of the vast majority of awkward confrontations or embarrassments. No one thinks about the freakish absurdity of an accidental crossing of the Styx. The gargling cry in the night from a man dying of some nameless disease in some nameless place.
I survived my own near encounter. I saw the boatman, and nearly paid the coin. I stepped back, but there is a dark future ahead. I will step on that boat and no one will mark my point of departure from this world with a gravestone. If I could write my own epitaph, it would say "and no man afterward remembered that poor man."
So, tell me. Why should I skip forward a single moment or omit a single pang of being from my narrative? I should describe describe the growth of the hairs on my neck.
But I will be merciful. I will say no more of my despair, but this: something within me snapped in that moment on the table, and regardless of what lies beyond, only death can heal me.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
PM15: Training
Looking back at that strange walk back down the corridor to the reclamation room, I now find my inaction difficult to fathom. I was certainly weak, tired, and confused. But that is not why I did not try and fight them as they led me towards an unknown but certain danger. I did not try and fight them because I was, at last, moving again. Something was happening. Does a condemned man without hope find some relief when the guards come and get him and start the slow progression towards the gallows? Or did he learn to live with the uncertainty and build up a false hope that death would never come?
I had only been left in suspense a few minutes, perhaps an hour. But it had been enough in this disorienting realm to put my mind in a frenetic state. The slow walk, supported by Ierod and Check had restored order and acted upon me like an opiate. But that false calm was not to last long. We returned to the morgue and they carefully laid me back upon the gurney. As soon as my back touched the cold metal, an almost animal like desire for self-preeservation returned and I strove to sit up.
"Hold on there fellow. This is nothing!" Ierod said as he strapped one of my arms down. "All we are going to do is implant a few chips into your brain. That's all."
I cursed and shreiked and managed to rip my arm away from Check. But with Ierod and teh burden of heightened gravity I was fairly easily subdued. Pamille injected me with what I imagine was a sedative and in a few moments, the urge to fight left me again. The tinny taste of blood filled my mouth and the back of my head ached.
"You better hold still or you'll have some nasty brusies and the whole thing will take longer for the wires to set up. Believe me, you want the wires as short as possible to help your scores. Anyway, it's not like it hurts much."
"I think," Pamille said, "you call this 'minimally invasive.' Essentially that means we do as little damage as possible." I remember that there were only four fingers on her hands. The skin of her fingertips was soft and warm and her touch gentle as she turned my head so that my right ear was against the table. There was a sharp pain behind my left ear. "That's one." And then another in the soft fleshy part of my neck. "And two. This next one will hurt." She pulled back my eyelid at the corner and I felt something slide behind my eye, an enormous pain caused me to gasp, but it ended so quickly I hardly had time to eact. "And three. Now, four. This one is uncomfortable but not so bad." She inserted something up my right nostril. Again a pain and I began to sneeze uncontrollably. "Almost over." She said as she placed one hand over my head with impressive force and then with the other hand, opened my mouth and inserted one of her fingers. I felt a pain in soft pallete above my tongue. "There, that's five. Give it a few minutes to set up and then we can test it and see how well it does."
I lay there on the table as still as if I were dead like the bodies all around me.
"That wasn't so bad was it?" Ierod stated with a barely credible enthusiasm and only a trace of genuine sympathy. "You'll be better than ever in a few minutes."
"What happened?" I asked.
"Training." Check answered. "Five little chips in your head now. They wire themselves in and start checking things out. You'll get that sensation in a few moments."
And indeed, I suddenly was overwhelmed by a series of flickers and bright lights, sounds, sensations, tastes, and odors. They shot all over my body so that I seemed to feel them all at once and every place. If the conversation was continuing about me I lost track of it. The flooding of my perceptions was not exactly pleasent, in fact in some ways it was excruciatingly painful. But what made matters worse was the maelstrom that followed it as I was treated in rapid successions to a rainbow of emotions from despair to euphoria, wrath to lust, frustration to detachment.
When I came back to myself, I found myself unbound. Check was gone but Pamille and Ierod were nearby conversing...
"97." Ierod said. "I don't care what the other scores say, how can you argue with a 97 reflex. And a 94 retention. Combined that's unprecedented. No one scores that high. This is better than anything you could get with a C1OP."
"Yes, but the covariance is a 58. Passing is 60."
"Oh you can fake that. Who is to know."
"It doesn't matter who is to know. There's a reason why passing is a 60, and ev3n at 60 we would limit his service to only a few months."
"Would you send him to MRA?"
"Of course not. It's way too dangerous for that."
"Then what are you suggesting?"
"Dump it."
Ierod turned quickly to look at me. I was completely still though my eyes were staring at him. "How much longer?" He asked anxiously.
"At least ten minutes. It has to regain its balance. It would be completely disoriented."
"It freaks me out." He turned back to Pamille. "But 97, 94, 88, 91 thos scores are too good. He could be in charge of a division in two or three months. We need someone like that."
"58 Ierod."
"Who looks at covariance. Nobody even knows what covariance is except you and the chip designers. He probably scored low there because he scored high. Too much information always leaves a little confusion. If you go slow, it works it's way out on the field."
"58."
"Is almost 60. I need someone."
"Even if it did pass those scores are too good for what you want."
"No. It's perfect. I give him his assignment. He has time to adjust. He comes back in three months. You test him again. If he's still 58 then we dump him..."
"No."
"... look this is what you were hoping for. Your chips are better than standard issue. And when's the next time you are going to get to try them out? Three months. Check didn't see the scores. Just change them. Take four off the top three. Add 12 to covariance and he's in the black all around. The total is the same."
I heard Check walk in. "So. What's the score?"
"428." Replied Ierod cheerfully.
"Not bad. Not tremendously good, but not bad. What was his high?"
Ierod looked at Pamille. "It scored low in covariance." She said
"Oh?"
She paused. "Yes. A 70."
"But a 93 in reflex."
"93? Really? You must have plunked them down with nanometer leads. Well, what the hell is covariance anyway."
I had only been left in suspense a few minutes, perhaps an hour. But it had been enough in this disorienting realm to put my mind in a frenetic state. The slow walk, supported by Ierod and Check had restored order and acted upon me like an opiate. But that false calm was not to last long. We returned to the morgue and they carefully laid me back upon the gurney. As soon as my back touched the cold metal, an almost animal like desire for self-preeservation returned and I strove to sit up.
"Hold on there fellow. This is nothing!" Ierod said as he strapped one of my arms down. "All we are going to do is implant a few chips into your brain. That's all."
I cursed and shreiked and managed to rip my arm away from Check. But with Ierod and teh burden of heightened gravity I was fairly easily subdued. Pamille injected me with what I imagine was a sedative and in a few moments, the urge to fight left me again. The tinny taste of blood filled my mouth and the back of my head ached.
"You better hold still or you'll have some nasty brusies and the whole thing will take longer for the wires to set up. Believe me, you want the wires as short as possible to help your scores. Anyway, it's not like it hurts much."
"I think," Pamille said, "you call this 'minimally invasive.' Essentially that means we do as little damage as possible." I remember that there were only four fingers on her hands. The skin of her fingertips was soft and warm and her touch gentle as she turned my head so that my right ear was against the table. There was a sharp pain behind my left ear. "That's one." And then another in the soft fleshy part of my neck. "And two. This next one will hurt." She pulled back my eyelid at the corner and I felt something slide behind my eye, an enormous pain caused me to gasp, but it ended so quickly I hardly had time to eact. "And three. Now, four. This one is uncomfortable but not so bad." She inserted something up my right nostril. Again a pain and I began to sneeze uncontrollably. "Almost over." She said as she placed one hand over my head with impressive force and then with the other hand, opened my mouth and inserted one of her fingers. I felt a pain in soft pallete above my tongue. "There, that's five. Give it a few minutes to set up and then we can test it and see how well it does."
I lay there on the table as still as if I were dead like the bodies all around me.
"That wasn't so bad was it?" Ierod stated with a barely credible enthusiasm and only a trace of genuine sympathy. "You'll be better than ever in a few minutes."
"What happened?" I asked.
"Training." Check answered. "Five little chips in your head now. They wire themselves in and start checking things out. You'll get that sensation in a few moments."
And indeed, I suddenly was overwhelmed by a series of flickers and bright lights, sounds, sensations, tastes, and odors. They shot all over my body so that I seemed to feel them all at once and every place. If the conversation was continuing about me I lost track of it. The flooding of my perceptions was not exactly pleasent, in fact in some ways it was excruciatingly painful. But what made matters worse was the maelstrom that followed it as I was treated in rapid successions to a rainbow of emotions from despair to euphoria, wrath to lust, frustration to detachment.
When I came back to myself, I found myself unbound. Check was gone but Pamille and Ierod were nearby conversing...
"97." Ierod said. "I don't care what the other scores say, how can you argue with a 97 reflex. And a 94 retention. Combined that's unprecedented. No one scores that high. This is better than anything you could get with a C1OP."
"Yes, but the covariance is a 58. Passing is 60."
"Oh you can fake that. Who is to know."
"It doesn't matter who is to know. There's a reason why passing is a 60, and ev3n at 60 we would limit his service to only a few months."
"Would you send him to MRA?"
"Of course not. It's way too dangerous for that."
"Then what are you suggesting?"
"Dump it."
Ierod turned quickly to look at me. I was completely still though my eyes were staring at him. "How much longer?" He asked anxiously.
"At least ten minutes. It has to regain its balance. It would be completely disoriented."
"It freaks me out." He turned back to Pamille. "But 97, 94, 88, 91 thos scores are too good. He could be in charge of a division in two or three months. We need someone like that."
"58 Ierod."
"Who looks at covariance. Nobody even knows what covariance is except you and the chip designers. He probably scored low there because he scored high. Too much information always leaves a little confusion. If you go slow, it works it's way out on the field."
"58."
"Is almost 60. I need someone."
"Even if it did pass those scores are too good for what you want."
"No. It's perfect. I give him his assignment. He has time to adjust. He comes back in three months. You test him again. If he's still 58 then we dump him..."
"No."
"... look this is what you were hoping for. Your chips are better than standard issue. And when's the next time you are going to get to try them out? Three months. Check didn't see the scores. Just change them. Take four off the top three. Add 12 to covariance and he's in the black all around. The total is the same."
I heard Check walk in. "So. What's the score?"
"428." Replied Ierod cheerfully.
"Not bad. Not tremendously good, but not bad. What was his high?"
Ierod looked at Pamille. "It scored low in covariance." She said
"Oh?"
She paused. "Yes. A 70."
"But a 93 in reflex."
"93? Really? You must have plunked them down with nanometer leads. Well, what the hell is covariance anyway."
PM 14: (Continued)
Editor's Note: I apologize for the use of the various acronyms if they make the conversation too confusing. C1OP = Class one operative which Peter was originally hired in as. MRA = Material Resource Acquisition, a minor position in the EARA which does not require much in the way of special skills. EARA, if you recall, is the Eternal Agressive Revolutionary Army. PE is Population Encouragement. Transit is, of course, like a period of suspended animation or induced coma. It's really used to keep people who are going to be in tight containers for long periods sane, but it is unhealthy.
The actual conversations were much worse for Peter and filled with more jargon-filled language and references. I have simplified them substantially.
"I don't think so," Ierod said, "confused more likely. Has he been trained?"
"No," Pamille replied. "I am going to administer the basic training program for MRA."
"What a waste. Look, why don't you go ahead and give him a C1OP? See how he does?"
"We don't have many left. You talk about wasting resources. It was in transit two weeks too long. Who knows what that did to its..."
“One of Gereltz people was in transit for almost two months and lived.” Interrupted the Ogre. “Remember, he had stuffed himself in to hide from that PULVA raid and shipped himself back here. But no valid claim form came with him and if we hadn’t needed the tube we would never have even looked inside.”
“That’s very amusing, Check, but if I recall that fellow’s brain was a tad on the mushy side.” said Ierod.
I regret now my first opinion of Check, but he was in fact ugly and combative. Yet I came to know that he was one of the “good guys” in the EARA. Like Ierod.
“Yes, not that it matters but it is now just re-spooling transmission records off unclaimed shuttles.”
The obscure talk was again causing me to hyperventilate. “There’s nothing wrong with me!” I screamed out, and followed the protestation with a stream of expletives. The three of them stared at me for a moment.
“Class 1? I don’t think that would be a wise thing to attempt.” Pamille said after I was done.
“Then why not try one of your experimental programs?” Check suggested. “If his mind is mush what difference will it make?”
“I don’t want my reputation further lowered around here. When it goes bad, what will people blame? Me or it?”
“I won’t tell anyone. What about you Check?”
“It seems like a perfect opportunity to try something new.”
“You could always just say he died suddenly.” She was hesitating. “Come on Check, let’s get him to his feet. Central training?” Ierod grabbed one arm while Check grabbed the other.
“No, Diot will probably be in there. Let’s take it back to reclamation. We can do it there.”
The actual conversations were much worse for Peter and filled with more jargon-filled language and references. I have simplified them substantially.
"I don't think so," Ierod said, "confused more likely. Has he been trained?"
"No," Pamille replied. "I am going to administer the basic training program for MRA."
"What a waste. Look, why don't you go ahead and give him a C1OP? See how he does?"
"We don't have many left. You talk about wasting resources. It was in transit two weeks too long. Who knows what that did to its..."
“One of Gereltz people was in transit for almost two months and lived.” Interrupted the Ogre. “Remember, he had stuffed himself in to hide from that PULVA raid and shipped himself back here. But no valid claim form came with him and if we hadn’t needed the tube we would never have even looked inside.”
“That’s very amusing, Check, but if I recall that fellow’s brain was a tad on the mushy side.” said Ierod.
I regret now my first opinion of Check, but he was in fact ugly and combative. Yet I came to know that he was one of the “good guys” in the EARA. Like Ierod.
“Yes, not that it matters but it is now just re-spooling transmission records off unclaimed shuttles.”
The obscure talk was again causing me to hyperventilate. “There’s nothing wrong with me!” I screamed out, and followed the protestation with a stream of expletives. The three of them stared at me for a moment.
“Class 1? I don’t think that would be a wise thing to attempt.” Pamille said after I was done.
“Then why not try one of your experimental programs?” Check suggested. “If his mind is mush what difference will it make?”
“I don’t want my reputation further lowered around here. When it goes bad, what will people blame? Me or it?”
“I won’t tell anyone. What about you Check?”
“It seems like a perfect opportunity to try something new.”
“You could always just say he died suddenly.” She was hesitating. “Come on Check, let’s get him to his feet. Central training?” Ierod grabbed one arm while Check grabbed the other.
“No, Diot will probably be in there. Let’s take it back to reclamation. We can do it there.”
Friday, February 15, 2008
PM 14: Gasp
I almost dozed off until yet another jolt startled me. And with th jolt came another intense emotion, an instictive and urgent desire to run. It was so powerful that, if my weight had not been so great I would have jumped out of my seat. Instead, I lurched upward, tripped over the bench and landed on my back with a loud and painful thud. I cried out, and went still, my breath coming in gasps.
I sweat remembering it.
I stared at the ill-lit ceiling above me, clenched my fists and groaned.
"One of yours?" A voice said.
"No. Don't know him. Probably a space transporter whose been too long on the aem." The last word came was pronounced with an emphasis on the first letter like ay-em.
I propped myself up and saw the two contestants above me. The skeleton-man crouching, elbows on his knees, looked at me as if I were a particularly disgusting bug he had just crushed with his boot. The other, spent his gaze on the other occupants who had backed away to the walls.
"Look at them. They're so pathetic. Miserable. Less than worms really. And I'm supposed to do something with them?"
"Who are you?" Skeleton-man asked.
"Oh, just get an HRO. He needs a lethal dose of something or other."
"Here, let me help you up. Where are you stationed?" The skeleton, with surprising strength and speed grabbed me by the wrists and yanked me into a sitting position.
"Why do you waste your time?" The ugly one queried nastily.
"I'm short you idiot. What have we been talking about. " He turned back to me. His look was not kind, but it was curious. "Are you a transfer or are you a new recruit?"
"I'm Peter. MacLeinn. Where is Bud?"
He put his hand to his mouth, possibly to conceal a smile. "Procurement. You're a nojen. Hey, Check, go get Pamille."
"No need, because she's sloughing her way through the door now." And in fact, over the skeleton's shoulder I could see her form approaching in its half sliding, half stubling manner.
"This one will be nothing but trouble." She said.
"Where did you get him? We aren't due for another two weeks?"
"It was simply late in getting here. It should be dead."
"So his position has been filled. Bud let go of him."
"Yes, but if you want it, it's too late. He has been claimed by Material Resource Acquisitions to..."
"Screw them. What do they need a nojen for? Any beast or lilly can stuff a bar of Beryllium down its pants." The ugly man started to laugh at this image. The skeleton turned to me, "My name is Ierod Iohann. I work in Population Encouragement. How would you like to work for me?"
The Ogre checked his snorting and blurted out contemptuously "What, you're asking him? Just tell him. Oh I suppose everything is flat now just like you like it. Let's all have a big meeting and we can take turns picking."
Pamille's voice picked up an edge. "It isn't yours and it hasn't been trained. You don't know what it is good for."
"Neither does MRA."
"It's obviously stupid."
"So? You can tell. He's a perfect neutral. That's what I need a neutral. Someone nobody thinks anything about or looks twice at but isn't a lilly."
"Where's Bud?" I asked.
"See. Stupid."
I sweat remembering it.
I stared at the ill-lit ceiling above me, clenched my fists and groaned.
"One of yours?" A voice said.
"No. Don't know him. Probably a space transporter whose been too long on the aem." The last word came was pronounced with an emphasis on the first letter like ay-em.
I propped myself up and saw the two contestants above me. The skeleton-man crouching, elbows on his knees, looked at me as if I were a particularly disgusting bug he had just crushed with his boot. The other, spent his gaze on the other occupants who had backed away to the walls.
"Look at them. They're so pathetic. Miserable. Less than worms really. And I'm supposed to do something with them?"
"Who are you?" Skeleton-man asked.
"Oh, just get an HRO. He needs a lethal dose of something or other."
"Here, let me help you up. Where are you stationed?" The skeleton, with surprising strength and speed grabbed me by the wrists and yanked me into a sitting position.
"Why do you waste your time?" The ugly one queried nastily.
"I'm short you idiot. What have we been talking about. " He turned back to me. His look was not kind, but it was curious. "Are you a transfer or are you a new recruit?"
"I'm Peter. MacLeinn. Where is Bud?"
He put his hand to his mouth, possibly to conceal a smile. "Procurement. You're a nojen. Hey, Check, go get Pamille."
"No need, because she's sloughing her way through the door now." And in fact, over the skeleton's shoulder I could see her form approaching in its half sliding, half stubling manner.
"This one will be nothing but trouble." She said.
"Where did you get him? We aren't due for another two weeks?"
"It was simply late in getting here. It should be dead."
"So his position has been filled. Bud let go of him."
"Yes, but if you want it, it's too late. He has been claimed by Material Resource Acquisitions to..."
"Screw them. What do they need a nojen for? Any beast or lilly can stuff a bar of Beryllium down its pants." The ugly man started to laugh at this image. The skeleton turned to me, "My name is Ierod Iohann. I work in Population Encouragement. How would you like to work for me?"
The Ogre checked his snorting and blurted out contemptuously "What, you're asking him? Just tell him. Oh I suppose everything is flat now just like you like it. Let's all have a big meeting and we can take turns picking."
Pamille's voice picked up an edge. "It isn't yours and it hasn't been trained. You don't know what it is good for."
"Neither does MRA."
"It's obviously stupid."
"So? You can tell. He's a perfect neutral. That's what I need a neutral. Someone nobody thinks anything about or looks twice at but isn't a lilly."
"Where's Bud?" I asked.
"See. Stupid."
Monday, February 04, 2008
Skeeter to himself
"It's a long way between drinks," I said. "A long time with the cup held high."
There's nothing but a thin coating in there.
Like paint on the inside of a can.
I'm waiting for that last drop to fall.
But it ain't coming.
And I'm all dried up.
Any minute now,
I'm gonna crack,
And the gasps at the bottom of my lungs,
Are gonna come right up to the top.
"It's a long time between drinks," I said.
I've forgotten what it was like to be drunk.
Drunk and drunk and drunk and drunk.
And whadoicare? drunk.
Because what I was drinking
It wasn't no sin
And I wasn't drinking to forget anyway.
I was drinking to remember.
But I can't remember no more.
I'm gonna crack and I wish I would,
Like a sick man who wants to throw up,
But his body is still too well to obey,
So he wants to get a whole lot sicker.
I don't know whether I should break or not.
If I break would there be sumthin there to drink?
So I go on with the cup to my lips,
That nearly empty cup.
It's been a long time since I had something.
There's nothing but a thin coating in there.
Like paint on the inside of a can.
I'm waiting for that last drop to fall.
But it ain't coming.
And I'm all dried up.
Any minute now,
I'm gonna crack,
And the gasps at the bottom of my lungs,
Are gonna come right up to the top.
"It's a long time between drinks," I said.
I've forgotten what it was like to be drunk.
Drunk and drunk and drunk and drunk.
And whadoicare? drunk.
Because what I was drinking
It wasn't no sin
And I wasn't drinking to forget anyway.
I was drinking to remember.
But I can't remember no more.
I'm gonna crack and I wish I would,
Like a sick man who wants to throw up,
But his body is still too well to obey,
So he wants to get a whole lot sicker.
I don't know whether I should break or not.
If I break would there be sumthin there to drink?
So I go on with the cup to my lips,
That nearly empty cup.
It's been a long time since I had something.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Thoughts about Language...
... or why there are no good Soviet poets.
Ever since college I have believed that the only two things the world does well anymore are lust and despair. All "art" as such which is any good seems to be based on either or both of those strong emotions. The many nostalgic poems, like the ones I try to write, are a part of that despair.
But look at Gerard Manley Hopkins
And W. B. Yeats
Here an englishman, an irishman, and a scottsman all wrote soft pastoral poetry. Was it because they knew and understood country scenery better? Surely not.
Why did people give up? Was it too easy or too hard? I believe actually it is because the language itself has become less poetical. I believe it is because of the manipulation of the language by the elite, and by the media Furthermore it says something about the way we approach things. Instead of aiming for the universal, we aim for the "lowest common denominator" or for a level of abstraction only attainable by the professional. Thus art either becomes a speciality of the elite or merely fast food for the unwasahed masses.
Ever since college I have believed that the only two things the world does well anymore are lust and despair. All "art" as such which is any good seems to be based on either or both of those strong emotions. The many nostalgic poems, like the ones I try to write, are a part of that despair.
But look at Gerard Manley Hopkins
GLORY be to God for dappled things—And Robert Burns
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.
Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find,The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine,Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,Tyrannic man's dominion;
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,The flutt'ring, gory pinion!
And W. B. Yeats
Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
Here an englishman, an irishman, and a scottsman all wrote soft pastoral poetry. Was it because they knew and understood country scenery better? Surely not.
Why did people give up? Was it too easy or too hard? I believe actually it is because the language itself has become less poetical. I believe it is because of the manipulation of the language by the elite, and by the media Furthermore it says something about the way we approach things. Instead of aiming for the universal, we aim for the "lowest common denominator" or for a level of abstraction only attainable by the professional. Thus art either becomes a speciality of the elite or merely fast food for the unwasahed masses.
Friday, October 12, 2007
The Dry Well
Someplace under a dead red bud tree, there is an old well and a rope.
When I was a kid, I'd pull back one of the wood planks and look into the blackness.
For a quarter (sometimes a dollar) from my brother I'd stand on the blanks, bend my knees, push off. The old boards would bend and spring me up. They'd fall back down clattering on the stones. I'd land in the dry dust.
Belly in the dirt, I'd look down into that darkness.
Around noon, if you were lucky you could see fifteen feet and maybe more. My friend said twice a year you could see all the way to the bottom and catch a view of yourself down there. But I never did once, not in fifteen years before we moved away. All I saw was the dirt walls. All I heard was an occasional drip of water, or a plunk from a rock or from some spit. Not even that from a handful of dirt.
If my momma caught me over there by the well she'd have my daddy whip me, but there's a thing for dangerous places we boys had. I wanted to go down to the bottom. I got the rope ready to go. One end was tied around the old tree and another around my waist. I was going down, but I got scared. Would I be able to pull myself back up? I was scrawny and not very strong. Damn that scrawny kid.
I lied, that well ain't there anymore except in my mind. Someone filled it in and someone else put a lot of houses where that well was, and someone cut down that tree. The people who live there now don't know anything about that well. They don't know anything at all. Nothing at all.
When I was a kid, I'd pull back one of the wood planks and look into the blackness.
For a quarter (sometimes a dollar) from my brother I'd stand on the blanks, bend my knees, push off. The old boards would bend and spring me up. They'd fall back down clattering on the stones. I'd land in the dry dust.
Belly in the dirt, I'd look down into that darkness.
Around noon, if you were lucky you could see fifteen feet and maybe more. My friend said twice a year you could see all the way to the bottom and catch a view of yourself down there. But I never did once, not in fifteen years before we moved away. All I saw was the dirt walls. All I heard was an occasional drip of water, or a plunk from a rock or from some spit. Not even that from a handful of dirt.
If my momma caught me over there by the well she'd have my daddy whip me, but there's a thing for dangerous places we boys had. I wanted to go down to the bottom. I got the rope ready to go. One end was tied around the old tree and another around my waist. I was going down, but I got scared. Would I be able to pull myself back up? I was scrawny and not very strong. Damn that scrawny kid.
I lied, that well ain't there anymore except in my mind. Someone filled it in and someone else put a lot of houses where that well was, and someone cut down that tree. The people who live there now don't know anything about that well. They don't know anything at all. Nothing at all.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
A Poem for a Poet
Two faced god of night and day,
Hot breath, foul corpse, mocking fear,
Corruption, skull, grinning from ear to ear.
Barren desert land beyond a boatless quay.
You I know, I know so well, I know,
I know, I name a thousand ways,
And each name its own annointed tome,
A great new novel or a novel poem,
But each is all the same
The same great devil within each thought,
The same wraiths in each inkblot,
The same fingers split between the rocks,
The same last gasp beneath the waves
As I am dragged into that liquid grave.
This I know, I know I know, I know.
It's all I hear, it's all I see,
The steady beat of tuneless drums,
The drums that call, I come, I come!
Fly far away from me.
Hot breath, foul corpse, mocking fear,
Corruption, skull, grinning from ear to ear.
Barren desert land beyond a boatless quay.
You I know, I know so well, I know,
I know, I name a thousand ways,
And each name its own annointed tome,
A great new novel or a novel poem,
But each is all the same
The same great devil within each thought,
The same wraiths in each inkblot,
The same fingers split between the rocks,
The same last gasp beneath the waves
As I am dragged into that liquid grave.
This I know, I know I know, I know.
It's all I hear, it's all I see,
The steady beat of tuneless drums,
The drums that call, I come, I come!
Fly far away from me.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
PM 13: In the Canteen
The disgorging of my stomach contents had left me feeling light headed and suddenly empty and ravenous. I was weak and wanted to lie down, but I seemed to have no choice but to follow Diot into the room.
It was a large room well-lit unlike the morgue with several long tables. And it was almost completely empty save for a few lean looking men and women sitting alone or in small groups. Two men were having an argument at one of the tables, otherwise the room was quiet. “This is the Canteen. Pamille should be showing you around. Not me. You won’t need to know anything about it really because you won’t be stationed here but I’ll show you where you can get some food. Then I’ll leave you.”
She led me to a long serving counter which we walked along as rapidly as was possible under the burden of our own weights. At the end of the counter she pulled out a small plastic tub from a cabinet and handed it to me. “Here. You open the lid up at the corner and drink it. That’s exactly one long shift worth there and you won’t be hungry. In fact you won’t want anymore for a while. I’d suggest you drink it slowly over there at the tables.”
“Where do I get something to drink?”
“You need to drink after each job. You’ll be provided drinks by your supervisor. I’m only giving you this because you haven’t eaten anything.” She gestured toward a place and as I turned to sit down she left the canteen. I sat down and began to eat. Hungry as I was I couldn’t control myself. It was grainy and sweet like the pulp of some fruit, thick but not at all sticky and it flowed easily. It was almost without color. I drained the container and regretted it immediately as it left a sharp pain in my stomach. There was another sudden wrenching of the room and I felt myself almost turn weightless. Again I was overcome with nausea but I managed to hold the food down. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach.
And then I sat there wondering alternately what caused that horrible lurch, whether Diot or Pamille would return to claim me, whether I was dreaming or dead and in hell and when and where I could lie down and sleep. The people in the room would get up and leave, others took their places, going up to the counter sitting at a lonely place at a table and slowly consuming the contents of the containers. When they talked, they talked quietly, in short staccato sentences primarily consisting in yes’s and no’s and about things I couldn’t begin to understand. They mostly were dressed in gray uniforms like mine most often, occasionally powder blue or peach but they were all thin and miserable looking. I must have been the most miserable of all.
The only real point of interest in the room was the two men arguing. They were dressed in black as Bud had been dressed and equally animated in contrast to all the others. The taller of the two was bald and skinnier than any of the others. His features were skull like especially as his lips were always curled back showing his teeth to the pale pink gums. As a consequence he looked like he was frozen between agony and hysterical laughing. He would lick his teeth with his tongue in a way that struck me as a kin to blinking. The other man who did more of the talking was smaller and more bent. Not fat but definitely more fleshy. He had thick lips which appeared to brutish to form words and eyebrows as bushy as caterpillars and a face with coarse skin and deep wrinkles. He was in a word ugly.
As others came and went these two remained in their animated conversation. I tried to concentrate and listen but try as I might my mind simply could not cling to their words and instead I kept returning to my own predicament. I do remember one small snippet however: “It’s no good!” the skull faced man said “You can’t turn them into anything more than passive participants unless you pump them full of chemicals. And then they’re psychotic and unmanageable. Yes, we can reason with them but they are completely pragmatic. All they want is recognition and power and they get it more readily from PULVA than from us.”
“Yes you see they do want something”, the brute said, “they think they deserve it. They think the way to get it is to follow the rules. But we can give it to them…”
“They don’t like to break rules. They don’t like to cut line. They get angry when you try to make them. Even now when amnesty comes along we’d lose half of them if we didn’t shoot them ourselves.”
It was a large room well-lit unlike the morgue with several long tables. And it was almost completely empty save for a few lean looking men and women sitting alone or in small groups. Two men were having an argument at one of the tables, otherwise the room was quiet. “This is the Canteen. Pamille should be showing you around. Not me. You won’t need to know anything about it really because you won’t be stationed here but I’ll show you where you can get some food. Then I’ll leave you.”
She led me to a long serving counter which we walked along as rapidly as was possible under the burden of our own weights. At the end of the counter she pulled out a small plastic tub from a cabinet and handed it to me. “Here. You open the lid up at the corner and drink it. That’s exactly one long shift worth there and you won’t be hungry. In fact you won’t want anymore for a while. I’d suggest you drink it slowly over there at the tables.”
“Where do I get something to drink?”
“You need to drink after each job. You’ll be provided drinks by your supervisor. I’m only giving you this because you haven’t eaten anything.” She gestured toward a place and as I turned to sit down she left the canteen. I sat down and began to eat. Hungry as I was I couldn’t control myself. It was grainy and sweet like the pulp of some fruit, thick but not at all sticky and it flowed easily. It was almost without color. I drained the container and regretted it immediately as it left a sharp pain in my stomach. There was another sudden wrenching of the room and I felt myself almost turn weightless. Again I was overcome with nausea but I managed to hold the food down. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach.
And then I sat there wondering alternately what caused that horrible lurch, whether Diot or Pamille would return to claim me, whether I was dreaming or dead and in hell and when and where I could lie down and sleep. The people in the room would get up and leave, others took their places, going up to the counter sitting at a lonely place at a table and slowly consuming the contents of the containers. When they talked, they talked quietly, in short staccato sentences primarily consisting in yes’s and no’s and about things I couldn’t begin to understand. They mostly were dressed in gray uniforms like mine most often, occasionally powder blue or peach but they were all thin and miserable looking. I must have been the most miserable of all.
The only real point of interest in the room was the two men arguing. They were dressed in black as Bud had been dressed and equally animated in contrast to all the others. The taller of the two was bald and skinnier than any of the others. His features were skull like especially as his lips were always curled back showing his teeth to the pale pink gums. As a consequence he looked like he was frozen between agony and hysterical laughing. He would lick his teeth with his tongue in a way that struck me as a kin to blinking. The other man who did more of the talking was smaller and more bent. Not fat but definitely more fleshy. He had thick lips which appeared to brutish to form words and eyebrows as bushy as caterpillars and a face with coarse skin and deep wrinkles. He was in a word ugly.
As others came and went these two remained in their animated conversation. I tried to concentrate and listen but try as I might my mind simply could not cling to their words and instead I kept returning to my own predicament. I do remember one small snippet however: “It’s no good!” the skull faced man said “You can’t turn them into anything more than passive participants unless you pump them full of chemicals. And then they’re psychotic and unmanageable. Yes, we can reason with them but they are completely pragmatic. All they want is recognition and power and they get it more readily from PULVA than from us.”
“Yes you see they do want something”, the brute said, “they think they deserve it. They think the way to get it is to follow the rules. But we can give it to them…”
“They don’t like to break rules. They don’t like to cut line. They get angry when you try to make them. Even now when amnesty comes along we’d lose half of them if we didn’t shoot them ourselves.”
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
PM12: An incident in the hall
The uniform was similar to those of Diot and Bud. The only novelty was in the color - which was gray with a white satin stripe - and in the undergarments which were rather tight fitting. The sleeves of the under shirt went down to my elbows, the under pants down stretched from waist to my knees. The shoes were integrated with the pants as was an under-belt. The loose long sleeve shirt had a hidden flap which snapped down onto the pants and over the under-belt. I put all this on with some difficulty but I found that the more I moved the steadier I became. And though the pull of gravity seemed to always be driving me downwards I was compensating quickly. All my movements, I noticed however, seemed to have slowed down.
There was a small backpack like the one I saw Bud using, which I hesitated to put on because of its feminine appearance. It was surely intended to be part of the uniform. I picked it up to give it a closer inspection. As I stood there looking at it, a door at the end opened noisily. I would not have even noticed but for the shuffling movements of Diot.
“Presentable.” She said.
I swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“It goes on your back if you are trying to figure it out. You’re geared up as a flight technician. That might not be what you turn out to be but there’s always a shortage of them and they are easily trained and so can be rather stupid.”
I took the insult as indifferently as she gave it and awkwardly put the pack on.
“Well, now let me take you to the canteen.”
I left the walker behind and followed her out the silent door and into a large and empty hallway. I was shuffling in the same manner she did. “Walk this way.” I mumbled to myself. She emitted an inquisitive hum. “Nothing.”
“From the little I’ve seen of you, I begin to think you might be a smart-ass.” I was quiet. “The whole earth is full of your type… or at least your type is the only one that are stupid enough to get recruited. Why do you think that is?” The hallway was rough hewn stone like the room I was just in but broken by the occasional door.
“Where was I just then?”
“You mean where you got dressed or where you woke up?”
“Where I woke up?”
“That’s a reclamation room.”
“Is that like a morgue?”
“I’m not sure what a morgue is. We don’t use that word. But I suppose you are thinking of the other bodies. Yes there dead and its my job to reclaim what can be reclaimed before disposal.”
“It was rather large and empty.”
“Yes, it doesn’t get as much use now. We’re all hoping we’ll be busier. I hate it.” She paused. Maybe she had surprised herself by her frankness. “I mean I hate the fact we’re not busy. But I hate the job too. I hate touching things. I hate pulling the chips. Not as much as most people. I have a high tolerance apparently though I am not like you. I am engine.” I thought the word was engine but she pronounced it stressing both syllables. “But I hate the boredom worse and I hate the fact we’re not winning. That’s how it is here. I hate it both. But good news for you. You won’t get a job like mine any time soon that’s for sure.” Her accent was strange to me. It was not foreign but seemed slightly twisted. The way she said reclaim was like the truncation of the longer word reclamation with a short “a.”
The floor suddenly lurched, and I had the dreadful sensation that I was spinning. The unexpected disruption led to the unsettling of my stomach and I keeled over and vomited. Diot’s reaction was sudden and fierce. Her eyes opened wide and she almost leaped to the other side of the hallway and began to scream at me.
“Oh just great! What a revolting mess! What is the matter with you, can’t you walk 100 yards without doing something completely disgusting? I’m not going to clean that up. I am not going to clean that up. It wasn’t in my room. Someone else can clean that up.”
I caught my breath and began to apologize but she didn’t seem to notice me. Then from the other end of the hallway emerged the lumpy form of Pamille. “Diot.” Came the pleasant voice. “Calm down. You don’t have to clean anything up in the tunnel. There are other people to clean.” Diot almost immediately quieted down, but the baleful expression on her face remained.
“It’s not my job. The bodies, that’s okay. And the blood, that’s okay too. But not that.”
“You still need to take him to the canteen.” Diot composed herself and started to walk back down. Pamille, gestured with a leathery arm for me to follow and, enlarged and elongated her eyes with an abrupt nod of her head as if to give me a look saying “What did you expect considering what you just did?”
The Ninian remained at the site of trauma. I caught up with Diot who was shufflimg at double speed. She shrunk away as I approached. “Haven’t you ever been sick before?” I asked in a desperate sounding voice. The vomit had been orange and frothy and some remained on my chin. I tried to wipe off the remnants on my sleeve, but the material was synthetic and water repellant.
She refused to look at me “No! And I don’t plan to be. That’s something you do.” With those words she turned towards one of the doors which slid open with barely a whisper at her approach.
There was a small backpack like the one I saw Bud using, which I hesitated to put on because of its feminine appearance. It was surely intended to be part of the uniform. I picked it up to give it a closer inspection. As I stood there looking at it, a door at the end opened noisily. I would not have even noticed but for the shuffling movements of Diot.
“Presentable.” She said.
I swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“It goes on your back if you are trying to figure it out. You’re geared up as a flight technician. That might not be what you turn out to be but there’s always a shortage of them and they are easily trained and so can be rather stupid.”
I took the insult as indifferently as she gave it and awkwardly put the pack on.
“Well, now let me take you to the canteen.”
I left the walker behind and followed her out the silent door and into a large and empty hallway. I was shuffling in the same manner she did. “Walk this way.” I mumbled to myself. She emitted an inquisitive hum. “Nothing.”
“From the little I’ve seen of you, I begin to think you might be a smart-ass.” I was quiet. “The whole earth is full of your type… or at least your type is the only one that are stupid enough to get recruited. Why do you think that is?” The hallway was rough hewn stone like the room I was just in but broken by the occasional door.
“Where was I just then?”
“You mean where you got dressed or where you woke up?”
“Where I woke up?”
“That’s a reclamation room.”
“Is that like a morgue?”
“I’m not sure what a morgue is. We don’t use that word. But I suppose you are thinking of the other bodies. Yes there dead and its my job to reclaim what can be reclaimed before disposal.”
“It was rather large and empty.”
“Yes, it doesn’t get as much use now. We’re all hoping we’ll be busier. I hate it.” She paused. Maybe she had surprised herself by her frankness. “I mean I hate the fact we’re not busy. But I hate the job too. I hate touching things. I hate pulling the chips. Not as much as most people. I have a high tolerance apparently though I am not like you. I am engine.” I thought the word was engine but she pronounced it stressing both syllables. “But I hate the boredom worse and I hate the fact we’re not winning. That’s how it is here. I hate it both. But good news for you. You won’t get a job like mine any time soon that’s for sure.” Her accent was strange to me. It was not foreign but seemed slightly twisted. The way she said reclaim was like the truncation of the longer word reclamation with a short “a.”
The floor suddenly lurched, and I had the dreadful sensation that I was spinning. The unexpected disruption led to the unsettling of my stomach and I keeled over and vomited. Diot’s reaction was sudden and fierce. Her eyes opened wide and she almost leaped to the other side of the hallway and began to scream at me.
“Oh just great! What a revolting mess! What is the matter with you, can’t you walk 100 yards without doing something completely disgusting? I’m not going to clean that up. I am not going to clean that up. It wasn’t in my room. Someone else can clean that up.”
I caught my breath and began to apologize but she didn’t seem to notice me. Then from the other end of the hallway emerged the lumpy form of Pamille. “Diot.” Came the pleasant voice. “Calm down. You don’t have to clean anything up in the tunnel. There are other people to clean.” Diot almost immediately quieted down, but the baleful expression on her face remained.
“It’s not my job. The bodies, that’s okay. And the blood, that’s okay too. But not that.”
“You still need to take him to the canteen.” Diot composed herself and started to walk back down. Pamille, gestured with a leathery arm for me to follow and, enlarged and elongated her eyes with an abrupt nod of her head as if to give me a look saying “What did you expect considering what you just did?”
The Ninian remained at the site of trauma. I caught up with Diot who was shufflimg at double speed. She shrunk away as I approached. “Haven’t you ever been sick before?” I asked in a desperate sounding voice. The vomit had been orange and frothy and some remained on my chin. I tried to wipe off the remnants on my sleeve, but the material was synthetic and water repellant.
She refused to look at me “No! And I don’t plan to be. That’s something you do.” With those words she turned towards one of the doors which slid open with barely a whisper at her approach.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
The unforgivable sin
This world may have been painted by an amateur god.
The sky is a deep blue but a dull ceiling. It is small and lifeless, unbroken by a bird or a cloud or even a puff of smoke. Beneath it, what life there exists is confined to this narrow yard of colorless rock and surrounded by cement walls. The rough faces like curdoroy, are pierced here and there by open black windows. There is also that single, wide, doorless hole that is the sole exit from the yard... or entry to the yard depending on your mood.
The animal inhabitants, myself included, are of no interest. Not worth the bullet as the judges told us. They were right. We are so contemptible that we prefer total silence to conversation. You might think I wonder what the others think, what crimes they had committed and so forth. But the truth is I don't care in the least. That would be like admitting they matter somehow. They matter less than me if that is possible. Their silence says tehy think the same way about me. They are here, like the cement walls and the gaping maw and the yard and the painted blue sky.
From day one it has been the same. I walk counter-clockwise. Everyone does. Some faster and some slower but it doesn't matter a bit. Standing or walking its the same. I could have passed the black hole a hundred times or a million or a hundred trillion and it matters no more than if I had passed it at all. I haven't even got the will to reach out my left hand and touch the walls. I just walk. And do you want to know the worst of it all? I can't even muster a sneer. Not even a sarcastic snort. Absolutely nothing.
Nothing matters but this. I am a cynic and nothing. not. one. thing. will touch me.
The sky is a deep blue but a dull ceiling. It is small and lifeless, unbroken by a bird or a cloud or even a puff of smoke. Beneath it, what life there exists is confined to this narrow yard of colorless rock and surrounded by cement walls. The rough faces like curdoroy, are pierced here and there by open black windows. There is also that single, wide, doorless hole that is the sole exit from the yard... or entry to the yard depending on your mood.
The animal inhabitants, myself included, are of no interest. Not worth the bullet as the judges told us. They were right. We are so contemptible that we prefer total silence to conversation. You might think I wonder what the others think, what crimes they had committed and so forth. But the truth is I don't care in the least. That would be like admitting they matter somehow. They matter less than me if that is possible. Their silence says tehy think the same way about me. They are here, like the cement walls and the gaping maw and the yard and the painted blue sky.
From day one it has been the same. I walk counter-clockwise. Everyone does. Some faster and some slower but it doesn't matter a bit. Standing or walking its the same. I could have passed the black hole a hundred times or a million or a hundred trillion and it matters no more than if I had passed it at all. I haven't even got the will to reach out my left hand and touch the walls. I just walk. And do you want to know the worst of it all? I can't even muster a sneer. Not even a sarcastic snort. Absolutely nothing.
Nothing matters but this. I am a cynic and nothing. not. one. thing. will touch me.
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