This used to be a good country. You could smoke a cigarette in a restaurant, fill your tank with gas, spend the night in a cheap motel with one of those gizmos that made the bed vibrate for twenty-five cents. No one told you to keep your voice down,(more) or required you to tip twenty-percent for parties of six or more.
There were animals walking the streets, little dogs and cats who answered to funny names, oddball names, mythical names, names that came from places their owners saw on vacation. You could build a fire in the fireplace, and wear a fur coat without shame or hesitation.
People met at parties and made love all weekend long. They drank what their friends brought over, and ate hot dogs off paper plates. They showed off their record collections, screwed up recipes, reconciled with their spouses over cups and cups of weak coffee.
Kids told pointless knock-knock jokes that you pretended were hilarious, because there was nothing quite as satisfying as watching a child laugh. But that’s all gone too. This used to be a good country. You should’ve been there. (less)
Knock knock, he giggled and whispered, knock knock shock. He giggled again, bent and skinny, pushing through the undergrowth. And knock knock they did, in the bag he dragged. It caught, here and there, on sticks and stones.
(more) Break your bones, he snickered again, then froze and looked around, ears perked like a dogs, eyes slitted and suspicious. He bent to his task again, the bag thumping along as it hit roots that popped up through the wet dirt. Every now and then he had to give it a tug, extra hard, and the bag would catch up on something then break free and its contents bumped against his bony legs.
When this happened, he double-stepped, so his progress seen from afar looked jerky as he pulled against the heavy load then hopped in a hurry to escape it.
He needn't fear, though I wasn't about to tell him this. The contents of the bag were long dead. So dead that there was nothing left to hurt him. No karma jinx or juju to smear or stick or tattoo his scrawny leg with some curse or power.
I don't leave my power in such unreliable hands. I don't leave my power in any hands but my own. But these are strange days, and my suspicious friend has his uses. (less)
Tantalizing as it may be my fist will not close, my hand will not move in a pendular motion, crashing in on that beautiful green door. I will stand and watch as the light breaks upon that magnificent threshold, a shattering that can only be heard by the mitochondrial(more) elements diffused throughout a system which no longer has reason as its driving force. Passion, terrible passion, it, it is the true movement in my life now. Like Dionysian followers I succumb to the gods rapture and tear life limb from limb, a torrent of bloody pulp crushing the frightened Ego. I will not knock on her door, I will crush it with a shout, when the last light of the sun recedes to hades domain. Can you feel it? The bubbling, the brewing, the rising tide. Beware. Stand clear. Do not disrupt my ectasy. For I know no more mercy. I will eat her lips and suck her juices dry. I will rend her soul with my void. A wolfs cry escapes my throat. I am gone.(less)