"with words like machetes; they cut to the marrow."

and everything became clear once more. the sky, the sun, the moon, the desert. all became lucid as the day after a hard rain. i sat on the bench near the park, tossing bread scraps to passing geese, and lifted myself above the mountains, beyond the trees and the woods and the passing birds, high above the clouds that sat, single-file, in the azure, as if nothing held them from becoming one with the hovering space above. i kept climbing, beyond the stars, the coal-colored midnight, past the shooting suns and the motionless mountains of the brightest planets. i came upon the peak of olympus mons and stopped cold in the tracks i'd created. black, black, comets too cold. their tails, they whip and dissolve. and the shining divides, they cast side to side, forfeit patterns of beauty and flair.i stood there, steady and collected, wondering how i'd transcended what i'd believed to be all that was. volcanoes erupted and pyramids rose from the red rock ground all at once. stifle that conscience, bearer of ill-will, make the case for silence. egotism will outshine the sun in the fiercest of battles. cynical cynic. master of minds and mirrors. you have not the slightest idea of what you discuss. farcical. idealistic/idolatry/infidel. a terrible speaker and the children know it, and smell it, seeps off of you like warm sap. technicoloristic and unable to hide it/disguise it. and your rhythm is far-off.

"You've got malaria"

"Yep," the doctor continued, "that's definitely malaria. You can tell, of course, by looking at your red blood cells underneath this magnifying thing right here." The doctor motions to a microscope sitting on the table next to the patient. 

"You mean a 'microscope'?" the patient asked, skeptic of the doctor.

"Is that what you call that thing?" he responded curiously. "Huh," he said, accepting the patients statement as fact, "I always just thought it was kind of a, I don't know, novelty item, you know? Like one of those electricity orbs where you put your hands on them and your hair stands up."

"No," the patient began, "it's nothing like that."

"Well, I always thought it was. Any who, oh yeah, about that malaria," the doctor said, placing a sample underneath the microscope. "See right there? Yeah, you got it pretty bad. Like on a scale of 1 to 10 I would say it's about an 8 and a half. Oh man, look at that one right there. That blood cell looks like it's about to explode. Like John Goodman at Kentucky Fried Chicken or something."

The patient became more worried. Not so much at the fact that he just found out that he has malaria, but more-so at the idea that this 'doctor' could even pass whatever test they make doctors pass to become legitimate physicians. 

"Where did you say you went to school?" the patient asked, "I have a son who wants to become a doctor."

"Oh, I didn't," the doctor responded. "Now, about my fee."

Gideon and the Star

I don't know yet what this will become...

A silver flask sits at the edge of a nightstand in a stylish, high-end hotel near the west side of town. Gideon Nebuls tries to relax in a brown chair on his balcony. His room is on the 4th floor. It's late afternoon and the sun has just begun its nighttime routine while the rain continues to fall from the mottled sky. Gideon listens to droplets beat away at the balcony overhang as he watches the people below move about like ants in a farm. 
He tries to relax.
The phone rings from across the room. Gideon, legs full of anxiety, gets up out of his chair to answer it. It rings two more times before he finally picks up the receiver.
"Good evening, Mr. Nebuls," says the concierge at the 1st floor front-desk, "I hope you're enjoying your stay."
"I am, Yes. Thank you." Gideon replies. His voice is low and coarse.
"Very good, sir. I just wanted to check in. There is a Mr. Conners on the line. Shall I put him through?"
Gideon thought for a moment. Mr. Conners? He couldn't recall the name. He was never one to take a call of someone whose name or number he didn't recognize and, yet, at the same time he always hated when people left voice messages. But what did it matter? It was, after all, his last night on Earth.
"Go ahead. Put him through." He told the concierge. 
"Very good, sir. Have a good night." There was a brief pause while the line switched between the front desk and Mr. Conners line.
"Hello?" Gideon asked. His tone had now shifted from tired to curious.
"Mr. Nebuls? Hello. My name is Mr. Conners. You don't know me and we've never met, but I know that in approximately 12 hours from now you will be boarding a ship that you will be a passenger on for the next 4 years. I know that to you, however, it will only seem like mere minutes. Mr. Nebuls I am calling to tell you that terrible things are about to happen. Things that have been building and building behind the scenes, behind what you call your world and within everything you see and feel. Things, Mr. Nebuls, things are going to get very bad. I'm calling to warn you, Mr. Nebuls, that the mission you have signed up for, the mission you've been preparing for the past year, is not going to succeed. You will not reach your destination and your entire crew will die. Do you understand this, Mr. Nebuls?"
Gideon tries to adjust himself to the words he's hearing, 
"Is this a joke?" he responds, uneasily. 
"I can assure you, Mr. Nebuls, that this is no joke. I need you to comprehend what I'm saying. I know this is difficult for you but you need to listen to me. Terrible things will happen whether you're on this planet or not."
"This plane- How do you know this?! I don-" The phone goes to dial tone before he can finish. Gideon looks at the phone, at the receiver, and back again. He hangs up the phone and picks it back up to dial the front desk. The concierge comes across the phone.
"Hi. This is Gideon Nebuls," he began, tense and excited, "I'm in room 1138. Listen, I just received a call from a Mr. Conners. I don't know who this person is but is there any way you can trace that call? You know, find the number he was on?" 
The concierge was taken aback. "Um, I'm sorry, sir?" he asked back.
"Can you find the number that just called me?!" Gideon became more heated.
There was a pause. Only the sound of Gideon's breathing came over the phone. "Mr. Nebuls," the concierge began, "Sir I'm looking at your phone records and the last call you received was two nights ago. There have been no new calls today."

A Revisiting (Part VIII) "111307"

this came about from a dream, actually...

"...i want to be an astronaut. i want to go into space for a year and live on the space station up there with the other astronauts. we would do experiments like seeing if fungus could grow in outer space or if plants could survive or things like that. i don't really know yet. i would sleep right-side up in a bean bag like you see them do in the movies. and after a year was over i would come back down to earth and tell all of my friends about what it was like living in outer space and they would all be amazed by it. and maybe after i got settled back in i could go and give speeches to school children about being an astronaut and how fun it is. maybe i would marry an astronaut woman and maybe we could get married in space! but that would probably be impossible to get married in space. and then when i got even older i could go back into space one more time. not for a year like before but maybe just to see the earth again from above. it could be like my, my duck-duck music. song."
"do you mean 'swan song'?"
"yeah. my 'swan song'. that's what it could be like."
"where did you hear that?"
"i don't know. i think my dad said it once when i was younger. back when he was still around. does it make sense, the way i used it?"
"yes. i suppose it does."

"The silver Swan, who living had no Note,
when Death approached, unlocked her silent throat.
Leaning her breast upon the reedy shore,
thus sang her first and last, and sang no more:
'Farewell, all joys! O Death, come close mine eyes!
'More Geese than Swans now live, more Fools than Wise.'"

-Orlando Gibbon's madrigal "The Silver Swan"

A Revisiting (Part VII) "110807"

glass of wine/tin-can telephone/clouds never really follow me around/a sunset illusion

"So...what are you doing again?" He asked curiously.
"I'm writing a story, asshole. How many times do I have to tell you?" The other replied.
"Shit i'm sorry, it's just, I dunno, you NEVER write stories. Or anything for that matter. In fact the only time i've actually seen you pick up a writing device that wasn't directly related with taking a test or bubbling in what ethnicity you are was when you drew a ballsac on that one guy's face with permanent marker when he fell asleep on "Pirate's of the Caribbean."
"Well excuse me for wanting to be a little creative. Can't a guy just once try to express himself creatively without his asshole friend pouncing on him like he were a cheap hooker. 'Cheap Hooker'. That's a good one." The man puts his clever choice of dialogue to the paper. He started writing earlier today. Its been about three hours since. He's got about three or four pages done. It's true though, what his friend said about him. He never writes. Never.

what day is it? morning. is is morning? god it must be. the clock at his bedside flashes 11:38. fuck. did the power go out? it had to of. oh fuck. fuck. please let it be morning. i can't miss it again. harvey, his dog, whines in the hallway. oh shit the dog! i don't have time for you man! i'm sorry. i have to go. fuck. i'm done now.

two people sit at a bench in the park. it's half past ten in the morning. winter time. the sun just finished shaking off the sleep. it's brisk, chilly, but comfortable. the two talk about this and that. a family of ducks play on the shore of the lake.
"So, God, has it really been that long?" The man asks of the woman, trying to find his memories.
"Yeah, three years. Three and a half if you count the months I spent in Glasgow." She replies in a warm tone.
"Well, I don't, but I suppose it does help put things in perspective."
they share a quiet moment as the ducks begin crossing the pond.
"I should get going," the woman begins, "I really can't be away from the office too long."
"Oh, um, yeah okay. Well...so will I see you around?" He asks.
"Sure. I'm always around."

A Revisiting (Part VI) "103107"

counting backwards from ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one...

the heat permeates through the entire structure like lighting strikes. nonstop, failure after failure attack the systems, the controls succumb to the pressure, the flames pour into the circuitry, empty you bottles of wine, they flow like a river of the gods, pressure and fire throughout the entire level. this is it. this is the beginning of the end. trapped in this death case high above the floating sphere, looking down upon the end of the world and he can't escape it. though he can't imagine what is going on below. might as well have it easy.

"i permit the high council to have this report reviewed and analyzed to the most direct effect, scrutinized to the last period. i believe you will come to realize that my findings on the matter are far more severe than we had first imagined. they, as we had first disputed, had it correct the entire time. throughout the research that went into this study they knew all along the outcome of this debacle. what fools they must think of us now and, as you will see, fools are nothing but what we have come to be. i pray that this information finds you in the deepest regard of your being and that you take any and every step needed to rectify the situation thusly. good day, gentlemen"

five minutes from now two men will walk into the convenience store in the southern part of newark and ask for two bottles of vodka and a pack of cigarettes. one man will be wearing a long coat and sandals. the other a tye dye shirt and gym shorts. ten minutes from now they will exit the convenience store, purchases in hand, and continue to the automobile of one of the men. twenty-three seconds ago a fire began in the caspian sea. it spread like wildfire to the outlying borders. a fisherman and his son were killed in the inferno. eleven minutes into the future a bomb goes off. the moon weeps and the sun sets and no one is heard from again.

have you figured it out yet?

A Revisiting (Part V) "102207"

hunger of a thousand suns

Go. Now. Pack up your bags. Put away your things. Take what you need. Take everything you need. Take only things you need. Take that which you will need. Pack them all away. Remove the posters from the walls of your room. Put away those books on your shelf. Take down the clothes hanging in your closet. Take off the sheets on your bed. Fold them and put them away. Everything that is you: put it away. Your new life begins with the next step you take.

"Faster, God damnit!! I said drive faster! We're never gonna make it in time unless you hit that mother fucking gas!" He floored the car as the bridge continued to shake. The earthquake had come out of no where, and they we stuck in the middle of this bridge. A mile out from solid ground mother earth dangled them above the icy water like a marionette. They were hard pressed for luck and the sun had just begun setting.

A solar flare occurs in the west side of the galaxy while two stars collide in the east. below them a woman gives birth to a newborn prophet and weeps at the sight of her. 200 million light years away i'm getting high on celestial cloud dust and wondering why the lights don't go out at night. near me two kittens toy with a tiny mouse. they tease it with freedom. on this level i can smell the terror on the poor thing. sitting on a piece of asteroid i watch as aliens invade machu picchu. they tear it apart and leave within a matter of minutes although, on this level, it may have been seconds.

"what? what did you say?" one paced back and forth between sunken cities while the other rested his head against the remains of vladimir lenin. "this isn't a game. you know that right?" he speaks over a makeshift radio. its range spans for decades. his receiver is unknown. "tell me again why you're so confident in this. because i keep forgetting." his movements become more hurried. someone really should tell him...

why are you still reading this? it is coming.