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

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.

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.

Cool Breeze

A cool wind blew through town today.

It was odd for the breeze to be cool this time of year.

Oh granted, I suppose, it could still be considered early Spring (if not late, early), but still, peculiar.

Whiley wondered, what would be the outcome of it all?

With the townsfolk in such uproar, maybe this cool snap would cool the hot heads as well.

They are pretty perked up over this one. Goes deep too...down in the roots.

They're worked up over who they are...over where they come from, and more, where the outsiders are from. There can be no doubt, the town was changin', and not necessarily for the better.

Lot's of outsiders blowin' in, like the cool breeze.

The breeze is temporary, but these outsiders, seems like they're gonna stay.

Whiley wasn't sure he wanted to go back to town. Mamma brought him some chicory coffee, and they sat on the front porch swing, watching the humming birds on the tiger lily's and commentin' on the blue birds and purple martins.

Looked like a good year for them. Nothing ever changes with them.

Happy birds, they were.

A Chat with Ribeaux

Ribeaux: Hello. Can you hear me? Is anyone here? Anyone at all?
Kraekun: Yes, Ribeaux, I am here. It is I, Kraekun!
Ribeaux: Hello, Kraekun.
Kraekun: Hello.
Ribeaux: Tell me, have you the time?
Kraekun: The time for what? For me, there is always time.
Ribeaux: For a chat, or a verse, or a well-turned phrase.
Kraekun: Ah...I may need the time, for all that.
Ribeaux: Well, you see, my time, it seems so...limited. I hurry here and scurry there, always after some new pursuit...always, always, always it seems, perpetually "on time", and yet, always in a hurry and never for the things I want.
Kraekun: Well, what is it that you seek? Money, fame? Perhaps a new set of threads?
Ribeaux: No, not in the least. I want for nothing. However, wouldn't it be nice to simply take a very long shower...I mean, truly long. Stay in there for days. Wouldn't that be nice?
Kraekun: Well, I would think one would become rather "crinkled" in that, wouldn't you?
Ribeaux: Oh, I should think rather shriveled...but, would it not be so very cool if you were not. Wrinkled that is.
Kraekun: Well, I suppose. Tell me, this isolation and protracted cleansing, what effect do you suppose it would have on your countenance? Do you suppose it would flatter your soul?
Ribeaux: Well, if we use the physical as example, I suppose the heated water will ultimately have a drying effect on the body...sort of robbing it of its natural emollients. I wonder if it would do the same to the mind and conscience?
Kraekun: Well, if one had a conscience, then I suppose it just might have *some* effect...I wonder what form a dry soul would take?
Ribeaux: With that much cleansing, I would think it would be most "squeeky" - very clean, I suppose.
Kraekun: Yes, but three days! God forbid. The skin might all slough off...then where would you be? A walking set of musculature. Arnold Schwarzenegger would be proud!
Ribeaux: Oh, I don't know about that.
Kraekun: What ever do you mean?
Ribeaux: Well, in my case, he might be a bit embarrassed.
Kraekun: Oh?
Ribeaux: Well, let's just say that my soul is a bit "healthy".
Kraekun: Ah. Well, there is much to be said for the glutenous soul! Why, think of all the great men who were "portly", deep down. Why I'd venture to say that most men are of a portly sort, when you peel back the flesh and peer into the soul. What man doesn't wish to feast!
Ribeaux: Yes, but feast on what?
Kraekun: Well, in matters of the soul, I would think righteousness.
Ribeaux: Ah, and there is the rub.
Kraekun: Hmmm?
Ribeaux: Well, you see, isn't it really definitional?
Kraekun: Righteousness?
Ribeaux: Well, what is right, really.
Kraekun: I don't follow you?
Ribeaux: Well, given a choice between two circumstances...which is the "right" choice?
Kraekun: Well, that depends on the circumstances, don't you think?
Ribeaux: Not really. I mean, regardless of circumstance, one choice will be right, and therefore righteous, and the other...not.
Kraekun: I suppose...
Ribeaux: No supposition...it is black and white...right is right.
Kraekun: Well, let's break it down with an example.
Ribeaux: Absolutely. You have two guys.
Kraekun: Yes, in a chat room.
Ribeaux: OK. Let's say they are discussing...oh I don't know...sports!
Kraekun: Sounds reasonable.
Ribeaux: Baseball.
Kraekun: You bet!
Ribeaux: Hardy harr. Well, let's just say that one proposes that the ball was safe at home.
Kraekun: And the other, of course, disagrees.
Ribeaux: Precisely. Now one is right, and the other, wrong. Which is it.
Kraekun: The one who sides with the ump.
Ribeaux: No, no, no. It was a judgment call. Too close, and yet too far for most. Some said the umpire needed glasses, while the opposing team was all for his 20-20 vision.
Kraekun: But the ump is sanctified. He is a professional...accustomed to making judgment calls. It is what he does for a living, for God sakes. It's what he does.
Ribeaux: But there can only be one right and one wrong. So who is it.
Kraekun: The umpire. He's living it. He dies by it. He'll be fired if he makes too many wrong calls.
Ribeaux: So, you see, he can make a wrong call.
Kraekun: He's only human.
Ribeaux: And yet, ain't we all?
Kraekun: Well, there is Clapton.
Ribeaux: He's a ruddy guitarist. What does he know about baseball.
Kraekun: I bet he could sing a song about it.
Ribeaux: The fact is, somebody has to be right, and somebody wrong. Blues singers are all wrong.
Kraekun: Oh, now. Why'd you have to go and pick on blues singers. They are soulful, you know.
Ribeaux: So full of what?
Kraekun: They are full of soul.
Ribeaux: So was my Grandma's catfish pie, but I got news for ya...no one ever wanted to eat it twice.
Kraekun: Indigestion?
Ribeaux: Right down to to your very soul.
Kraekun: Well, you'll have that.
Ribeaux: Yeah, her pie was just wrong. Kinda like that nursery rhyme...four and twenty blackbirds...who ever heard of that?
Kraekun: Yeah, blackbird pie can't be very good...I've never had catfish pie, but now I think about it, it doesn't sound too appetizing.
Ribeaux: Damn full of bones. Tasted like the bottom of the lake.
Kraekun: Yikes. You know that ain't good.
Ribeaux: Nope. It was just wrong.
Kraekun: Sounds it.
Ribeaux: Well, listen, I gotta go. Try and ponder on that right and righteous thing, would ya? You might try applying it tomorrow.
Kraekun: Might make me sick. Like your Grandmother's pie. If I were to act righteous, people might think I was up to something.
Ribeaux: Something fishy.
Kraekun: Yeah. I'll try and live it and not "act" it. Goodnight Ribeaux.
Ribeaux: Sounds like a plan. Good night Kraekun.

A short, short

A short, short

He was born on the fifth of December. He died on the twelfth of November, Eighty years later.

In his life, he experienced love, joy, trouble, pain, sadness and happiness.

He traveled, some. He stuck around, some.

He lived, he laughed, he saw and he danced.

He lived a life that was truly worth living, and he died a death that was truly worth remembering.

He was passing a liquor store that day, when a man exited, gun to the chin of a comely, young lass shouting profanities (in front of the children, no less).

With a gun in his vest, he reached inside and felt the curvature of the trigger, like he’d done so many times before.

He pulled it while it was still in his vest pocket. He shot the man cold, but as he was dying, and before he hit the ground, he fired a shot into his breast.

He died on the twelfth of November, in the hospital where he was born, eighty years ago.

A nurse there told me, his last words were “I had a good life. A good, good life”.

Deep down there is a small, little smile that reminds me to be thankful that I am living that same, good, good life.

Reposted on Sterquilinium by permission of MB Shepherd

-(SEV)

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.

The Vagabond, Entulloch's Soulful Prayer

With no fixed domain to bear, his closest ally was a singlar place in the universe nestled between a massive, grey-white wing and an engorged breastplate with musculature that was of iron, yet with an inviting comfort of down, and an inner, radiating warmth.

The blood of God coursed in that breast, the energy of the universe, the power of all things combined (and then some).

It was his only refuge, nestled there like a babe. It was his only place of comfort.

He feared the great being. He knew (for he had a taste still left in his mouth, even after millenia), he knew of that wrath, that God-forsaken wrath.

It was terrible. God, awe-filled. God, awful.

It was the eye of a raptor, the eye of a shark (yet the shark might show fear - but not the raptor). There was no passion in the wrathful eye; while he knew that love was there, it was love subdued; love, restrained. Necessary, oblique and disdained.

He knew that eye, that facet. He feared it, but more, he feared that in himself that could illicit such an eye as that. He feared his sins, his weakness, his proclivity to illicit such a seeming, heartless stare.

And so, he soared.

"Heavenly Father,
rest me now,
for I know the dangers
of Thy embrace.

It is not of You, Father, that I fear,
but of myself in that warm place.
For what I might do,
Heavenly soul, for what I might do.

To earn that mantle,
to become that one,
for which Saviour pleads,
'forgive him, for he know not'.
This is my tremble, this my fear.

I must learn to rest this quake,
to quash this tremble, Oh Adonai,
and become AS you, the rock,
and soar in Thy way with confidence
that I will not falter, like remnant on The Wind.

Give me necessary strenth,
my liege,
make me so wise,
that I might soar with You,
call you friend, and tremble not!"

It was his constant prayer, as he wandered the Universe of God's will, of God's plan, and of God's design.

It was his way to rush through the cold spaces of icey breath's bluster there within God's domain (for even on cold wind, He doth move). To wander the universe at once seeking that nestled wing and finding it there, in all the recesses of a black and distant space.

Even in that chasmic nothingness, this believer sees that wing, feels that warmth and understands that presence. For even in that nothingness, His wing and His wind that lifts it, prevail.

He is there for those, like Entolluch, who will open the breast-buried eye, rend the fabric of darkness, utter the soul-filling prayer




...and see.

Beebo's Time Out

Together they trekked through through the miles of mire on a trail that snaked through a terrain one could describe only as a jungle-canyon.

It wound through the hills like an intricate weave of an intricate string on an intricate bead; the path it followed would turn switch-back here and knot around in and on itself through endless permutation.

Would there be a destination for the lonely two?

He had not had Beebo long when they took this trek. He'd heard of this place before, how treacherous it could be. The serpent would be out twisting in these hills as well, as the weather had been fairly dry, and God knows they like to seek moisture and shade.

Didn't bother Beebo much. With nose to the ground, he plowed through that trail as if his nose were a blade; the plowshare digging and turning on an ivey path.

Levin was getting a little concerned. The wind was picking up and it made the upper canopy to sway and caused what seemed a whisper from above as tree on tree, limb on limb and leaf on leaf would brush and whoosh as a deified wind animated them like tall giants towering, protecting and tip on tip scratching at each other.

It was like a battle of light touch, but an incessant campaign.

At once a gust would rip through the canopy and space itself would open from above. The sky, so little seen in these woods, would wink at him.

Yeah, Levin was concerned. Concerned that that damned Beebo would continue snorting the ground until that beast that his nostril percieves becomes one with which they would both tangle, like the vine tangles in the tree, once encountered completely entwined in a fight in its domain.

At once, Beebo froze. His tail was so stiffened that hairs on the tip shook like the branches in the wind.

His back was as straight as the cleave in a fractured boulder, yet his resolve as strong as the force that split it.

Levin felt a chill in his spine.

Today...today they would encounter the beast.

Levin's Dog, part one

Scrawngy.

Matted, tufted...twisted-into-knot on twisted-knot; hair that grew like wire, barbed - heavy in places and sparse in others.

His step was like a coiled...or rather, uncoiled roll of barbed wire.

When he was a kid, he'd work on his daddy's farm helpin' to mend the fences (Matthew Levin, Beebo's Master, that is). Thick, heavy leather gloves, as thick as old Beebo's black and tarry hide - they were the only protection.

That wire, when a calf would knock it undone, pulling it from the fragile and rusted staples in weathered old wood, damn would that stuff uncoil fast.

God help ya if ya was workin' it when it unfurled.

Damn. Cut into ya like briar, shore nuff.

Old Beebo was the same. Son-of-a-bitch would jump till his last day, just like there was dynamite in his feet.

Good, old Beebo.

What a dog he was, in his youth.

Hell, he's lost half his teeth, and he's still better'n any Democrat I know. Course, none of them have any anyway. Crawl on their bellies like a worthless lap dog and lick your ass to death. Varmints gotta love that.

Old Beebo were'nt no lap dog...no sir. Probably wasn't no Democrat neither, if'n he could vote.

Damn good old dog, Beebo. Damned good old dog.

Be ashamed to put him down. Damned shame.

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

GLORY be to God for dappled things—
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.

And Robert Burns

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.

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.

Humor

Parched.

It was all about.

The water even...dry and dusty. Not really putrid. If you let it sit in the bottle, sand would fall to the bottom of the cut up plastic shell you use to scoop it up from the earth, and then, from the heat of the sun, it was so warm against the back of your throat you felt as if you'd need to chase it with some of the bottom sand, just to cool it off (your throat, that is).

Yeah, it was hot. And dusty.

The ground was cracked and craggled like an old woman's face, barren from years of depravation, and it too full of dust; gaping wounds in the mantle would remind you of the old gal's screams and laments as she cursed another day with that puckered, toothless grin.

Only the ground didn't smile. It just sat there, agape. Like a dead man's mouth.

Even the flies crawled through the cuts, looking for that drop of center-seeking dew.

Nodda.

"The rains will come again one day, old boy," the old man on the front porch said.

He leaned back on his wooden chair 'gainst the wooden shuts on the wood-framed store and spat his 'backer cross the dusty lot.

He took a swig off his RC.

"They always come back. Earth deems it that way. Even God wouldn't deprive a dying man a drink, no matter his fate after the fact."

Leyton just huffed.

Kicked the ground with his boot just to watch the tiny dust devils leap from the sandstone lot.

Then he huffed again.

"Reckon so, you ol' coot. But I'll tell ya...Ain't n'er seen it dis dry."

"Dry as an old man's dreams. Rain's ey'll come though. 'Ey always do," the old man snickered.

"Reckon I'll get back to the farm, old man. Cow's ey'll need feedin'," countered Leyton, exasperated and labored.

"You do 'at boy. Feed 'em good. See you round tomorrow," old man bit another chomp of his moon pie and spat dry graham cracker dust mixed with Penn's Thins tobacco juice across the decayed wooden porch right as he spoke.

"Feed 'em good boy. See 'at t'ey git plenty water too," he laughed long and hard.

"Yeah old man. Check! See you tomorrow you old coot. Don't choke on 'at moon pie uh yorn," and with that, Leyton began the long walk down the dusty road that laid out before him like all the rest of his born days stretching to that event horizon where for brief instant, those alley lines, left and right will meet before parting again to infinity.

And on his walk to that long, dusty home, it began...to rain!

Life sustaining rain.

And, just like the road...

on it goes.

And then it hit him...

"But of course," he thought "organization!".

And with that, he began to become that ordinal creature that had interminably existed at his core. He shuffled a deck of cards, and in the dishovel, there it was. Plain as the nose on your face. It was order.

Everything he touched was again as it should be.

The deck, once a jumbled mess of suit and color, of rank out of rank and number following incongruent number now had become perfection and grace, and all with one, solitary shuffle.

"Diamonds, Clubs, Hearts & Spades - low to high, ace on high so that the flush so royal would show every time," it was just as he liked it...just as he needed it to be.

The weeks went by and shirts were ordered in his closet. The plaids, they were with plaids...solids with solids...all of them ranked in order of his colors from favorite to least.

Ties, they were ordered by texture and material, again by pattern and then by color.

His days would be numbered just as his suits, from low to high. It would always be a low day when he got down to his leasts, so it was incentive to do his laundry often to keep his moods good.

"Looking good, Darby!"

"Lookin' sharp there, Darb."

Every day the same exclamations, every day the same expectations. The comely lass, with the comely look.

"Looking good!"

"Felling good, thank you very much," came Darby's usual reply.

His humidor was ordered in accordance to the pungency of the smoke, and then again by color (from light to dark).

Brandies and wines were done likewise, and the spirits, by frequency of use (they really required no firm order, as from this consumption sprang dissaray, and he really did not care which of those he chose as he liked them all equally, and that feeling of power he'd get by pricking one card out of place; by twisting a tab collar slightly askew, or tying the tie in a half-windor).

One day ol' Darby would be buried, and it was said that somehow, there would be order there as well. Perhaps each decaying strand of DNA would be ordered in accord with his favorite building blocks, from the adenine to the thymine, guanine to cytosine and back again in endless combinations that together comprised his favorite order of what Darby McCray believed to be that perfect array of that man of perfectly arrayed perfection.

Order.

So imperfect.

Ain't it grand?

Our Precious Faith

For it was of a year not unlike other years in that of this quaint past of this provincial town there was this church of pews and altars and the prayer bench, and the Sunday school class room - all filled to overflowing.

They were filled with people, whose eyes were filled with tears.

There was gnashing of teeth, and rending of clothes.

There were hugs and pats and warm embrace and handshake, galore.

Shouts of praise filled the halls, a halleluyAh symphony of angelic proportion played on every heart, and together they were a chorus, an army of spiritual praise, of love, of adoration for the divine "He".

At once there was sadness. At once...joy.

Elation filled this palace, and together they would bump heaven's ceiling (would heaven be bound).

Their's was a happiness not of this earth...not of this dirty realm...somehow in their joy, even the firmament, earth itself in its peaty dearth, it too seemed cleansed in their praise, and in His presence.

The pain, that presence, the suffering, that joy - altogether in Love they came, and in the name that is, our precious faith!

And about their lives they would go, filling streets and restaurants and sidewalk cafe's...there they would go about their happy, little lives in this happy little town.

Together they were one, and in the one, they were together.

And this, their precious faith would carry them, through yet another week - driving them, keeping them whole, keeping them together. They would share words, and phrase and even praise all through the live-long week until together again they would gather in and of that precious, precious faith.

Together they were, and how not unlike that gathering on distant shore; the symphony at once is one, and yet composed of so many, many...many souls. The souls of the ages for this moment in time are altogether one in the precious faith.

Gegangen Fischen (Gone Fishing)

Lanny had hated hospitals since the time he was a kid.

He really hated institutions of all variety.

He hated school. In school they take you away from the finer things in life. Like fishing; or hunting, or damned-sure just about anything besides being in school.

School was a place they educated you. And a hospital...well hell, it was just a place for the lame, sick and dying.

Living, for Lanny, was being anywhere besides cooped up inside four walls.

When he was about five years old, his family took him to Johnson City to visit his sick uncle at the Veteran's Hospital. He could still, all these years later, close his eyes and see the puke green tile on the walls, smell the sickening sweet smell of the alcohol on the ward, and just picture in his eyes the chicken wire windows and the ominous shadows they cast on that dirty tile floor.

His stomach still twisted in knots at the memory of his Fahter's voice "I wouldn't bring my dog here to die, much less my brother".

Lanny hated these damned institutions. They stunk of the government. Of fat men in straw hats with cuds of tobacco in their fat, filthy cheeks peppered pink with engorged blood vessels and three-day stubble.

"We're from the government, Mrs. Davis, and we are here to help you".

His family had always lived by the code "ain't no kinda help for them, can't help themselves".

No kinda help's right.

And here he found himself again, trapped by four walls and that sickening sweet smell.

It tore him up inside to watch his best friend, tubes down his throat, stickin' out of his spine and and even shoved up his privates.

Institution ain't no kinda place to be, for a free man. No kinda place.

"Tomorrow, I take the kayak down Tellico Plains way, out past Toqua and Razor to the mouth of the fingers. Tomorrow, I catch fish. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll be free."

And with that Lanny took his friend's listless hand and drifted off to dream of a heaven that would never be defined by the walls of a cold and Godless institution where men seem to just die a little more each and every day.

The Price

"It is a heavy price we pay when we do the bidding of the Lord".

"A heavy price, indeed."

"Indubitably, and, in deed".

The deed, 'tis done, and 'tis done, in deed.

"In deed, indeed.".

"Indeed! 'Tis done.".

"And 'done', in deed."

"Indeed! 'Tis done! ".

"Yup. Done, in deed.".

The Many Lives of Dolimer Gusset

Dolimer Gusset had lived a life that was a compendium of mini lives.

Truck driver, stock clerk, loader on the loading docks, bell hop and purloined pen-man (for he stole every drop of ink); yet the life he was leading today was unlike any preceding.

Dolimer had found his curtain call in the arms of a married lady.

Jealous husband, rants and raves, and there lay Dolimer in a bloody pool perhaps to live another day - his sins forgiven perchance in belief, a belief over-all?

For it was now only known to the stars in heaven, as his many lives (and many wives) had now become only one.

And the many lives that had been part and parcel of Dolimer Gusset rise and fall, and rise again with the sequential nature of that hot and boiling - rising, falling sun...and all those lives that come, and go, forever reaching under its seemingly ever-present domain.

One life it is, in strife; yet at its end two roads that follow very different, but equally infinite lines.

And these lines that unlike the many lives that become singular in the One, these two shall never merge as one again. Alas, the one becomes the infinite Nil where and when time itself, and that seemingly ever-present sun that measures become forever irrelevant and evaporate in self-consumption in a vacuous chasm within a dark chamber that to no one life will become even a singular matter ever again.

And a Sheriff's report lies on an empty desk with scant little detail of a man who'd lived so many lives and was now in this life eternal, dead.

And thus is written of the many lives lived and now died in and of a name on a page of a one, Dolimer Gusset.

May he rest in peace.

"Their" Planet

The Del Ghattians had inhabited the cozy, little planet for approximately three millenia (for no-one, no-one living anyway, could remember exactly how long - their communal memory only tracked back about three generations).

Del Ghashia was a happy planet. It was populated with happy people. And they had happy animals.

Everything was happy about Del Ghashia.

They even had a happy God. He was always depicted as smiling (for what kind of creator could create such a happy place if he too weren't first happy?).

Everything in Del Gashia always went along, and went along just "swimmingly".

But a rain cloud was about to form, and their creator knew it (for he was an excellent programmer).

The code was about to hit its bug. The hour was nigh.

Their creator was "perched" in his usual position. When he "saw" his creation, he did not do it with 'normal' eyes, but rather, the creator's mind could picture everything without the need for input.

Think of him as a purely "digital" being...he did not require analog input to "see" the creation (for even the future was a function of memory for him).

The creator was old. Ancient.

He enjoyed all his creations, but especially Del Ghashia. Del Ghashia made him smile.

It was so pure there. The essence of the master's "giggle box".

But the creator's smile was always a wry smile (for he had that repressed memory of that bit of code he threw into the mix for good measure).

Marvel Del Ghattio, who it was said hailed from the clan, perhaps, of the original Del Ghattians - Marvel was a leader among Del Ghattian leadership. He was the Shaman. He was the man for whom the heart's of great, great leaders, at the very sound of his voice, would slow almost to a stop.

They hung on his every word.

For he was from the special people of Del Ghattia (spelling here was endemic to the area of the planet from which one hailed - some called it Goshia, some Ghattia - but all knew it as home).

Marvel had begun to feel his smile fade a little (for they all had perpetual smiles here). Oh, it was hardly perceptable.

Even his goo-goo had not noticed (and she'd been with him since the very start).

In Del Ghattia, you see, they fall in love as infants. The bonding begins as soon as they leave their Mother's ra-ras (the feeding sphere, or spheres (depending on her configuration - "Ra" if she is of the single nature..."Ra-Ra" of the dual...we could go into infinite detail on this subject, for there were a choice few who were configured with multitudenous Ra's and they were known as the "Hoo's", or "Hoo-Law, laws").

Some believed that the perpetual happiness begins with the "bonding" period...that fourteen weeks that the babies spend coming and going from the feeding sphere. Quite spectacular, actually. Difficult to understand why they would ever leave (especially the females)...but eventually they yearn for what is on the other side of the sphere.

It was possible that this was the very nature of Marvel's new-found "wryness" in his perpetual smile.

He knew there was a time to break from the spheres. He knew there was a time for bonding with the goo-goo's. It was the nature of the Del Gha.

They yearned to seek other smiles.

The unfortunate problem was that after all this time, he felt deep down they would soon seek to look upon the face of that dastardly grin...that wryless smile of the other. He who delighted in the things that would make even a Del Goshen forget the Master's smile.

They would soon, he felt, turn from happiness.

And thus the nature of a crooked smile (smiling, "in spite" of himself).

Marvel knew.

(see the continuing saga in "Levella Joppanian")

PM 10: Introduction

I was shocked, my whole body jerked in revulsion. What was this thing that hovered above me?

"I assure you," she said sweetly "you look as revulting to me as I do to you."

I tried to sit up, but the weight of my body was so very great that I could not even lift my head.

"Steady," she continued, "let's not rip a muscle overexerting. Diot or someone will help you up in just a minute."

"Where am I?" I asked again.

"You are with the EARA. You were just unpacked."

"What are you going to do to me?"

"Well, we will do some training, indoctrination, acclimation as I just said. We also will outfit you for your new career depending on how well you take to the training. That's our main job in human procurement. But of course, we are just one group in a much larger organization. Take for example, this single station. We have a large semi-autonomous program management team here. There are about twenty-five full time assistants and associates whose whole occupation is to monitor commuication between various operatives. We also have an information coordinator and a Ninian Press Liason. These are all part of our Protocol and Internal Affairs Departments. We also have several actual operative divisions. Don't ask me to explain all their various tasks. Truthfully their affairs are no real concern of ours. We have a small hospital contingent, a fair sized mechanical technician lab, an armament recuperation officer, and an information coordinator. With all the incomings and outgoings of officers and operatives we also employ..."

I suddenly realized that she was going to keep talking unless I took action immediately. "I don't care, damn it! Just let me up!"
"As I said, we will let you up in a moment. I suggest just relaxing and being patient. You are a great deal overdue. This has put us into an unpleasant situation, and I can't tell you how much typework this is going to cause. We have to relist you and check on current assignments. The position we had you down for has already been filled, hasn't it Diot."

"Yes..."

"Just send me back!"

"No, I don't think so. It would be a tremendous nuisance. The only options right now are to dump you or train you." She stepped away, "Diot, will you see to it that it is put back into the system? I have a few other affairs to take care of." She shuffled out of sight. I turned my head and looked at the far more attractive creature operating a console a few feet away.

Relatively more attractive. She was tall and thin and the head on her long neck drooped like a wilted flower. She had a wild mass of yellow-orange hair that seemed to stick straight up like a candleflame. Her elfen face was a little less than pretty and a little more than plain. Her tight fitting uniform revealed a rather asexual body with very little feminity. I noticed that it was the same kind of unifrom Bud had appeared in with a few small changes. The satin stripe down the leg and sleeve was white with a red square at shoulder and hip.

"What was that thing?"

"Hmmm?"

"What was that thing?" I repeated, my voice becoming more desperately shrill and ragged.

"You mean Pamille?"

"Yes. Whatever. What was she?"

"She is a Ninian, Mr. MacLeinn. Please don't worry about the typework. It's really not that bad. Pamille just doesn't understand how the system works. She always thinks things she doesn't know about are so complicated. There, you're back in the system." She looked over at me giving me a reassuring smile. The anxiety on my face must have been quite obvious. "Try to relax, I'm checking your insulin response and a couple more medical checks and I'll help you up and you can get something to eat and drink."

I looked around the room. There were many more tables like the one I assumed I was on. Most were empty but several had bodies on them. Unmoving bodies. There was spotlight above each of the corpses, just like the one that had blinded me. "Why can't I move?" I asked. "I'm not dead am I?"

An enormous teeth baring smile split her face. Then she emitted a spontaneous barklike laugh and then snorted through her nose. "Oh... the gravity is always a little higher in the basement. No Mr. MacLeinn you're not dead, but for all anyone really cares you might as well be dead." She paused looking at what I took to be a computer console. Her expression became more serious and reflective. "And probably, soon enough you will."