Dan Easley - Chad Gusler - Jeremy Frey
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The Sentiments of Machines Shall Be Our Compass

Listen here, y'all have seen me walk this beat a million times - nearly five years I'm walkin round and never causin any trouble and you know I'm just walkin cause I ain't got a car so what the hell else can I do? I'm askin you my men why the trip? I ain't done nothin wrong.

Johnny was in trouble. All the years flew through the door and out on the town streets and nobody even noticed they'd gone. He was the last fat man in a beauty contest run by cannibals and all he knew was he woke up that morning on some damn island. People say shit creek -- he was stranded off the shore of New Chickenshit, and it was raining turds. Whole list of metaphors ran through Johnny's mind, and not one of 'em fit the bill.

He'd known right away when that famous blue flicker reflected off the window of the old High's store, where they still sold RC in a bottle and the old guy with the stringy hair always winked at him. He hated that queen, how she was all wrinkled inwards like somebody had put a suction pump to her ear and sucked out all the blood. Good beer and junk food, though.

The cruiser pulled up beside him and the air went dry and somebody sucked the green right off the plants. Johnny scratched and stopped walking, the backup came and backed up, and the communication really got goin.

Where did you go?

The effort to move those words through her lips was tremendous, and she didn't even know if they were the right ones. Two hours passed in just those four words -- days hung on the querulous inflection. Talking with Johnny had started as a game, a polite competition among friends, but over the years they'd grown too close - each word had ten meanings in their secret language, every possible tonality was milked for all it was worth, every phrase carefully constructed and expertly examined before it ever hit the air. Every skill of verbal expression had been honed and polished, and yet nothing was ever said. What began as clever methods of rhetoric and discourse had turned into airtight safety blankets: defense mechanisms robust and flawless.

But those four words.

She'd known it had to stop -- for years he'd known her and she'd known he and what the hell did they really know about each other, anyway? Opinions and worries, tragicomic histories, bad trips and fun vacations, vocational frustrations, familiar problems. “They'd talked each other through some hard times, that's for sure.” So many good times wasted, in needless verbiage, they bored each other to tears over tea and stale biscuits.

It had been building.

For months now Marie had felt the wall building, felt the lines holding them together growing taut, now threatening to snap and whip back at anyone on shore. Perhaps it was wrong from the start, she'd muse. He, the self-proposed philosopher king, and I, the nurturing analyst. How can he feel secure in his emptiness, his fatalism, his fear hidden by ego hidden by self-deprecative jokes?

He, god only knows

What he was thinking - he probably wasn't. He'd started giving up on it, at least as a full-time thing. Just didn't seem to get him anywhere, but a little further into grief, and debt, if he really started acting on his ideas. He'd just gotten tired of his own crazy schemes - plans never quite met, work never quite finished, completion, resolution, accomplishment - he was too true an artist to let these interfere with the work.

So it was all unfinished art, and he couldn't let that get out. Wait, he said. When the moment comes and that third eye pops out and starts looking around, ya better watch where I'm going cause it's just gonna explode... I'm just figurin' out the medium, y'know? How the hell do I get my soul out and on display? Even if no one else is interested, I wouldn't mind havin' an objective peek.

Soul is hard to see. I have given up sleep for the time being, so as to attain the calm clarity only foolish mind can bring. When all is stretched just a bit over, it seems even the lids of my eyes are thinner and easier to scan out beyond. Compared to the fuzzy inner world, all outside seems precisely cut and ordered.

They strolled on with nervous eyelids glance betraying mind with open candor. Cast in the uniform of slim black jeans and dress shirt at once stylish and aggressive, they wrestled, rolling dangerously near the street, making a scene in all youth's glory. I played the old eye games with the pretty one across the court, watching what attracted his interest and manifesting my empathy.

The modern world is so goddamn hopeless. No great Babylon built in the night, no dreams of brighter skies, lovely maidens staring at you from distant ports. Just straight-up night and boredom and fixation of desire, accomplishment of personal need. Nothing’s lost because nothing was ever truly gained - all just junk accumulated off the streets of lost time.

I took my censer down the street to the library on the left. Up the stairs and all reality switched into hyperdrive. The grand archive of the old mage spread out before me. I took the rusty manuscript and submerged myself, breathing the space between its words like the tick relieves the faun.

Dripping down the chimney I felt the ground approach. I took my razor down to Omaha. I split the hairs of camelskin, I took my fear to the cave. When Lilith came to shave my beard I asked her for the time. She took my throat away from me, she left me with a glove. The hand demands attention.

I took my pain to church with me and no one turned to see. I walked my grief in tow. The children of the carpenter looked through sunburned eyes. The wisdom of the magi turned to go.

All must reveal itself in time. Revelation is the crux of existence. Humanity is the dawn of love. The passing of life in the wake of new gods. The trident and the oar are planted in the sand - a tree is born to aid in sight of soul.

She's lying on the couch, half awake. On Wednesday her new house opens up, but till then she's resigned herself to staying with this guy from work. They've been screwing around for a little while, nothing too heavy, just lying around kissing, and he's in the bedroom now, asleep. She can't sleep. Something's wrong, and she's trying to figure it out. Somebody just hit her from behind and she can't see in this light.

Is this a bedroom or an alleyway? She ponders in the cool midnight. She takes sips of the air, like a snake gauging the scent of her latest environment, scanning for predators, lazily seeking out food. The city was cool now, occasionally the strays mewed and hissed, the blue lights and digital moan of the new cruisers wove their way towards the bad man; the junky or the trick crossed the road.

How many new mornings, filled with old tears, napkins stained by coffee and lipstick, paper plates crowding the wastecan, worn-out lovers picking up the pieces in the chilled ether of autumn breakfasting.

"Don't breathe again." His brow simmered forth, narrow mouth piercing anger. Gunmetal walls shadowed the silhouette; torso extended limb, pangs of fear and painful incision. Triumph raged across the acrid face, life rehearsed by dream, the conclusion of desire. He felt the languid pull of tiny spirits, the slow ache of the prescient body, the dreary motivation towards chaotic stars.

Twice more he lunged. Shattered steel rang out from the bellows. Crimean killers swept down at dusk. The turbulent waters parted before the journeyman. The apprentice bellowed from the deep. Crazily the salamander cried: "The fear of restitution is burning in my gullet."

Kate approached the panel, her thoughts followed after. Twenty years preparation and now the test. She'd been guided through every possible scenario by the best in the business, but now it came down to her. Had she picked up what she'd needed? Were there holes in the floor - this was the crucial question, the determinant variable.

A flash of light, a glare off the screen took her back to sunlit childhood, peaceful times at the farm school, jumping hoops towards wading pools. She couldn't remember the events that had led her there, but she knew the story too well. At some point in the incubation phase, the g-men slipped in and gave her the bug. This showed up on tests, and away to the center for disease control the swathed babe was sent. Quarantined from her blood parents, the federal mindmechs and the agents from social servicing swarmed down upon their lovely new child.

They had told her otherwise, of course. Too many lies to keep attention. For years they'd distracted her attention. But she'd grown beyond their control, and she'd turned herself inwards, and she'd seen the flaws in their masks.

It had been a necessary risk. Most of the time the kids just swallowed it. Amazing what can be accomplished if done from birth. As for the parents, they were duped, persuaded, or quieted. Easily enough dealt with. Usually all it took was the tax break. Amazing what can be accomplished if done from birth.

It was the germans who had pioneered the construction of food additives which could react to specific genes. Licensed by the consortium over forty years ago, it had proved excellent in the covert demographic work done by social servicing. The real break came with the mindmechs, mercenary psychologists educated on the biophysical model and trained in the corporate marketing arena. The mindmechs, with their germanic ideals and nipponese microelectronics, could institute any change they wanted into a psyche. Heady stuff indeed.

Johnny had grown tired of this comic book, and was grasping for a way out like a trout flipflaps towards the moss and the water of life. When the second cruiser pulled up he delivered a tasty uppercut to the officer on his right and dove through the bushes. Rolling onto his feet he broke for the shadows, zigzagging through the alleyways, then halting suddenly, head back, eyes closed, listening for the men, the dogs, the guns and armored cars he'd heard a moment before. They weren't there. He pulled himself back into a run, and in the faint corner of his mind he heard them coming after him. He ran harder. Each time he stopped, they stopped. But neither ever tarried.

Finally he came to the corner. First to second american phone, to talk to Vic. Vic knew what to do in this situation, what to arrange. He answered on the first ring, and Johnny said the word. They'd come to it as kids, and for years it had been the unmentioned pledge. Now Johnny used it. He did so with the knowing desperation that he was putting his friend in danger.

Second stop, the trailways station. Still the best transportation in the fuckin' world, he thought. No one gives a damn who you are or why. That's true hospitality.

Eighty-eight sawbucks and he was under cover again, backed up into his parka next door to the bathroom on a bus out of Basin City. Final destination listed: Slot 79.

When Marie was younger she had no friends. She lived in the country with her parents, who had a greenhouse. Every Sunday she'd go to church school and learn about the prophets. She doted upon her teacher for the wisdom granted. Her peers jeered and ranted their jealous slurs.

When she finally crawled out of the slurry it was too late. No firm affidavit to her faith had withstood the tests of theory and law. All was constrained in mechanics and causality, archaic revelation butted against modern synthesis. Life was an infinite set of unresolvable dichotomies curable only through integration into mass promoted systems.

This is what Marie had come to: a pawn in the war for american mind.

She'd never understood his long ranting about subjects only he was interested in. He'd speak about tailoring one's output to the audience, so as to increase the power of one's speech, and then go into long tirades on things she, his audience, could have cared less about.

He'd never understood her priorities.

The bus halted to a stop for the final time four days out of Basin City. Johnny had sat slumped in the back the whole time, alternating between a jug of water a fellow passenger had given to him and a hipflask of gentleman jack he always kept on hand. Now he rose slowly, imperceptibly, as foggy to his surroundings as they were to him. He lurched off the step and looked up. Slot 79. He hated this goddamn place.

The peacock strode across the village green. Young Jack walked behind it, making cooing noises and throwing bread at its tail. It paid no heed to the lad. It was following the sound it had heard two nights ago, and again last night, and now tonight. The pale yellow light from the moon reflected off its tail, sending opal blue and fire orange petals across the greyscale grass.

Jack followed the bird everywhere. He was amazed by its presence - not that it was there, but how it was there. It roamed wherever it wanted, paid deference by all whose path it crossed. Horses dare not tread upon it, the poacher turned at its sight. In this world, the peacock ruled over his land - his spirit was highest.

Next came the mongoose and the cobra. The mongoose-people had been fighting against the cobra tribe for as long as the people could remember, and it was recorded that no resolution would ever be found. This suited Jack just fine - he liked the smell of war.

Johnny approached the flophouse with weighted eyes. Every building on the block was conspiring against him - the street lights were sending hidden messages in morse code to the bum on the corner. Far away the moan of the new cruisers continued. Yesterday's paper reported an increase in the budget for armored personnel carriers. Johnny turned from the rags on the street and stepped through the door.

What's it to ya?

Seven years and that had been the manager's greeting, every time. A rough, emotionless voice, lost in the functional routine of a disassociated world. Salutations to the trying souls, the lost avatars of broken religions. Slide me a fiver, mac, and don't mind the corpse in the hall - he'll leave just as soon as he pays the bar tab.

This is what Johnny had grown into since the big kids moved in. Governmental politics had gone south, and the military academics took over. Mechanistically efficient and arbitrarily just, they upheld society as innocuously maladjusted teachers and frightened bullies on the playground. Massly labeled the consortium, subterraneously referred to as the big kids.

It all started with a few conversations between the lords of commerce and the psychoreligmo groupies of the southern power. What elements are core to the new left's essence? What loadbearing pillars of the dementedly confused "anti-establishment" can be governmentally removed? Cheap thrills!

The cats from the upper hall crept down the stair case, curtly stepping over cigarette butts and old pieces of generic tissue, empty pillcaps and dud matchsticks. The tabby, emaciated under a fat layer of fur, set up position on the counter next to the manager's lowbrow newsrag, the daily omniscient. Blackie pawed across the scarred linoleum and brushed up against Johnny's leg.

Hey ya little asshole, how are ya? Got anything to eat?

The manager presumed Johnny was talking to the cat. Strange kid, Johnny. When he first came here he'd been some naïve little political fuck - some kinda idealist college kid or something. The manager had read all that shit back in his day, but he’d never seen how it applied to real practical living – I mean, it was good to consider, but ya still had to eat and shit and sleep and work some inane job just to keep going, and that usually took up all his time. But Johnny, Johnny looked like he woulda been somebody. Once he figured out that people liked owning things and owned up to his own flaws, he coulda hit something big. But what'd he do? Got himself kicked outta the whole shebang.

Change of life for a thousand bucks. Who paid the bill ate the worm and lost the run. No blinded horses here. And when they cry a thousand tears don't buy their popcorn. It's only an emotional plight.

Nothing gives way round here. I heard the wailing of the unknown women in wait of purging. The forgotten trials of yesterday's monsters sprang back into the modern world. Skyscrapers housed demons of trade, depriving five billion of human life. The wastrels and thieves were fried into submission and sent off to the trade ships of macronesia. All drug merchants and unlicensed psychologists implanted with biophysical impulse inhibitors and packed away to work the mines. Political critics, shot before trial.

In the lair of the skeleton king Ab'deeb remained emotionless, travelling empathically through the infested cavern of gore. The bats were hideous and spoke in latin. Grampa Moses whispered to his protégé, Be full of all you see and hear, and mindful what you feel. Take two aspirin and call me in the morning.

Johnny got his key and walked up to his room. He was glad to get away from the cats - they always borrowed his thoughts and returned them all scrambled up.

Marie turned the autoredial off, and decided he'd gone for good. He'd disappeared often enough before, but there'd been no sign this time - no certain uneasiness before the flight of the animal, the phoenix searching for the next pyre. She sat down on her bed and grieved a little.

Kate reached towards the touchscreen and felt something within her mind click into place, or out of place, or alongside. She saw the horizon turn vertical and fill her view, and all she knew was a grounded bird once flew along the coastline.

Vic was scared. The number was still busy. He didn't know this Marie bitch but she was supposed ta help Johnny out and that's all he cared about. Asshole had gotten himself in trouble again and this time he couldn't get himself out. Vic knew all about the law's process and he figured they'd reached the flophouse by now. If not, they would soon. Vic hung up the phone and walked over to the couch. He sat down and turned on the television. It had been a long day.

Negative Aeon strode through the hallway, keeping pace with the alien lights and the mechanical dogs. July followed keeping deep within her cloak. The streets were just another vortex in the city's night of lost souls, breathless thoughts.

Aeon was just another crazy kid, roving through the shadows like a lamb in search of beauty. Before he'd come to this point he'd been sustaining just fine, working pointless jobs at the interspace palladium, grooving on the club scene and drowning himself in dopamine shakes.

Blue-black hair, shiny eyes folded flat against the world of licensed sun. The advisors of young fops grazed upon his image. Internal battles resolved in his plasticene gaze. In the smoothness of his graceful walk yuletide republics gambled brash candies.

A smokeshifter and a pagemaster was he. All the feathered boys twitched in their seats as the writers seethed with admiration. Artists and hustlers alike followed Negative Aeon down the hall, weaving among the mercantile kiosks and personal transports of the palladium, most modern of the new commercial community colonies.

The three-c's were popping up everywhere these days - three on Io alone: Newmark, where the new transwarp ships were being manufactured, Crux, sustained by mining work done for the new Consortium of the Cross monastery, and New Basin City, named after the old one on Earth, the one the Arabs had ravaged with Anthrax. Negative Aeon had just gotten off his shift at the Interspace Palladium and was heading out into the cool Basin City streets with his new girl July in tow, ready to get a few dopeshakes at the Blue Noose and get down to the acid planet freakbeat.

The duo ducked into a small archway and joined at the lips for a few seconds. July could feel the dopamine high through Aeon's mouth, even more frantic and intense than in his eyes.

"What are you staring at me like that for?" Aeon's face screwed into a pissed-off Japanese cartoon's profile, with raised eyebrow and tortured, paranoid look.

"You're too high, brother," she started, and stopped herself. He'd handled everything thrown in his path before. That may not excuse the abuse, but at least she didn't worry as much. "Nevermind, have it your way."

The moonlight reflected off of ivy leaves trailing up the archway. An iron gate crossed a ragged old cobblestone path, the path widened and surrounded a small spiral staircase going down into the ground. The two wanderers struck down the path and got to the staircase. A small sign on top of the bannister read: "Dr. Richard Brannigan. Psychosomatic Assessments. For Entertainment Only. Additional Walk-In Fee."

Aeon started getting nervous and turned to July. "What is this shit, honey? Some kinda old-time shyster who grandfathered his way into mind control? I thought the government got rid of these guys years ago. Entertainment only - fucking carnival act. Who the fuck does he think he is?"

They crept back out onto the street and made their way back to Aeon's pad. Wild love was made, and they both had a really good time. July fixed breakfast the next morning - scrambled eggplant and wild curds - the curds were the latest in a long line of genetically engineered "fad-foods."

Gregg had rediscovered the personal prince of Machiavelli as he carved away at the old door. Three inches of near-petrified hardwood were slowly scraped away in the week Gregg sat, rationing water from his pack and enduring bitter cold and hunger in the cave. All he saw were his own shadows, cast by the sunlight streaming through the keyhole. He didn't know how he'd gotten here - he wasn't sure what he'd been doing before. He didn't even know where he'd go when he got out - he just wanted out.

If a person feels in any measure a success within a system, he will go to all ends to defend and strengthen that system, viewing any system-wide success as his own.

All that is necessary to profit from these people is to present a well-constructed system that allows for a small sense of success and a large sense of inclusivity.

Any semblance of true community is equal to gold in today's uncaring world.

The skies stretched forth all blue and pink, only clouds defining layers of meaning and shadow. Below the treeline a hundred poachers crept forth in search of the king's game. To kill is another form of quiet truth. Who can say no time-honored path has grown over from lack of traffic? Motherfuckers just lost their bet.

Johnny woke up in the old eight by eight. They'd finally gotten him. It was almost a homecoming. Where he should rightfully be, done with running. The wheel had lost its bearings. Trial was set for next week. He'd made Channel 312, right beside the top talk show in that time slot. Things were looking up.

The network had hired a good lawyer for him, complete with holographic necktie and the latest in antigravity nez pierces. He was a real stunner - the judge got real excited and banged away with his gavel like some ancient Celtic headhunter working his tentmate over.

There is a point where it all becomes hazy, and recordkeeping is impossible. Have we entered those times? Or is the point in perspective? It is hard to see the origin of sight.

In his fever Johnny imagined a newspaper box - he put in a quarter and got a rag. The headline ran "Down With Political Affiliations! Partisanship is the modern Amerikan equivalent to nationalism - it is the carrot on the stick for the rats in the maze. The bipartisan groupies have used idealistic dichotomies to divide and conquer the affectations of the people. Vote for your local Consortium representative today!"

Another day, another party. Another synthetic moral delivered to the masses for delusion and subdual. God bless our good leader.

Lao Tzu would've eaten his head. Had I the nerve I'd summon strong earthquakes, desperate winds and stormy mondays and direct their furies to god Money.

How could this glass cabinet give me love? The diamond in my chain, the gilding on my cuff. All good undone when the old soul-to-soul is given up for material good. Material good is not bad - that's why it's called good - but never trade off. Don't focus on your priorities - question them. Often. Mindfuck yourself. Give your whole value system a good going over at least twice a day. Drink lots of fluids. Mind your p's and q's and don't forget cauliflower. Brussel sprouts I love because the taste is completely vegetable - there is no doubt you are eating something grown in good black earth, fed by the sun, all green and leafy with cell walls and massive chlorophyll and the handy side effect of converting carbon dioxide to oxygen and with a little salt and pepper they're even better.

Darkeyed demons flew across Johnny's brow. He was in the cave now, he was another man in another life, he was a prisoner of the fates, he'd been clawing at the door for five days now, he was feeling pretty damn ill, his tongue could barely move, he was cold, he hadn't eaten, and beyond all that, he heard behind his shoulder the screams of a thousand souls, the damned and depraved of the world, the big business crooks screaming as they lay on the coals, the pervert carnival workers turning some cash back over to the kids, the meter man catching the wife with Pookie, the mastiff, three hundred mothers screaming in agony at the loss of their child, their husband, their parents, and their dog. Fuck this shit.

Fucking Tourette's agony in the wasteland of my latent mind. Machine ruins churn along the horizon as old guards contemplate the structure of the rules they uphold. Tiny she-devils and insurance claimsmen crawl around on my coat, I brush them off, they climb back up. I burn pinholes in my new coat, I panic at the sound of running water, I tear at the lip of my friend.

This is my friend Marty. I know you can't see him but he's here. If you're very still and very quiet you might just hear him. He's talking about you right now. He says he likes you and he hopes you and your family are very happy and wealthy. Those are two different things, you know. Marty taught me that.

I'm sorry, I have the advantage. My name's Eric. You probably won't hear from me again because I'm really just a minor character but I wanted to tell you something really quick, if you didn't mind.

I'm a pretty happy guy right now, what with my new job, and my cool pad, and my good friend Marty. I'm playing more music and we take a lot of walks in the woods and now I'm working on a new play called "Bloody Nixon Fistfuck" and I'm really having a great time. But I'm actually a tragic character.

Last week my mom's dog, Pookie, died. Pookie was the most beautiful mastiff, extremely affectionate for the breed, and was my mom's constant companion. I understood how stressful the loss of any loved one could be, so I agreed to take her in for a few days as she went through the grieving process.

Well, Mister Radio Doctor man, my mommy has gone way out of normal grieving routine. Since the tragic and unexplainable death of Pookie, she's been humping every couch in my apartment! I've had to wash my carpets three times, I'm running out of pet-stink-be-gone, and I'm tired of explaining her unruly behavior to guests!
<...rip!>

THIS IS MARTY. I'M REALLY SORRY ABOUT THAT LAST BIT WITH ERIC NARRATING. WE REALLY TRIED TO KEEP HIM OUT OF HERE BUT I'M AFRAID IT HAD BEEN HEADING THAT WAY FOR A WHILE. JUST TURN THE PAGE (scroll down! -ed.) AND WE'LL TRY TO GET BACK TO OUR HIGH-QUALITY ORIGINAL PROSE.

The tidal wave of crimson clouds moved in upon her eyes. It was night, the fires had all burned out, and though all stars were present still too many demons moved out amongst the trees.

Grace lit a cigarette, sucked in deeply, and looked out at the small town strip outside her window.

Pool halls and jukejoints once littered this street - you'd walk in and somebody'd know ya, and you'd know somebody, and if you didn't, well, the barkeep was happy to make introductions. No more. Fallen victim to urban rejuvenation, the false rehabilitation of historic districts with the aim of removing aboriginal interests in finances and culture.

Poor white jazz girl lost to the government. Lost, down below the soil Grace, singing old tunes of tireless frustration butted against celebration of unreal love, adolescent chance and swinging invincibility.

Yes, Grace was a real job. Paid by the hour.

The edge of the paper loses focus and fuzzes up before the lost voyager hits the time pocket. Words lose their balance and gracelessly flare and burn, stinging the air and staining the ground.

I had no thought of time. It all slipped beyond my sight. Now I stand, emptiness in place of remembrance, and I mourn opportunities lost by my sloth - or by my fatigue? What is the limit? Entertained the fool, gadabout and wanderer.

Time passed in elaborate rays across the field of reality. Aeon gazed upon the whole spectacle of these lives arrayed in systematic fashion. The childlike voices of the dawn elves began their chant. Lifeless wailing, emotional interchange between the subjugate and their god, mindless escape in the fluid movement of undirected thought, where has he been before; how does it relate to his current laundry list? The old lovers and last week's sewage is being stored in the grain bins of yesterday's Dixiecrat wonderland.

The innocent marched out before Aeon, leaving the cynics and the disillusioned gasping for air in their dusty, wrecked apartments. Bells from other worlds chimed in delightful derision - the wretched - the inhuman scum of maniacal oligopoly has been vanquished by the children, the glorious yearlings, our pretty dears have saved us from dark mills.

Martha turned to Blake and whispered in his ear - the sentiments of machines shall be our compass, dear. The frightened old couple cruising through Wisconsin thought they saw an old schoolmate - it was just a tree, or a bush. It's getting so hard. The pilot dove in a textbook assault. Third scalp of the week. Blake lit his pipe and asked Martha for the next section of the newspaper. Her talking about business this late in the evening bothered him. Next thing he knew, she'd be bringing up his life insurance policy again.

The beat comes in full force now, ensuring audience satisfaction. Might not be able to sing along with the freaks, but at least you can dance to it. And don't they look groovy. I'd love to bang that one on the right, there.

Now you're lost in your subliminal state of peace. Can't talk to you now. You said you were an instrumental but I can hear the conundrums stirring, I am affected by the din of your qualms. I feel how badly you want to say it and can't. It's all awkward and stumbling and either redundant or conflicting, and then the singer comes in and people really start questioning what media are you using, really?

What's the main motive for your choice of thought and action? Why are you the one you made? Is this what you want, or on the way there? Or did someone else make you? Did the invisible man in the land of the skypeople make you? He wrote a book about himself, didn't he? Or did your parents make you? Are you the product of hundreds of ancestors merging chromosomes in the candlelight, or just the result of good clean behavioral training?

You must admit it's difficult. I've already expressed my dismay and anxiety about this thing a few too many times before, but perhaps I can allude to it once more tastefully. It's just not working, and I'm doing it out of stubborn vanity.

The boy is lying on his bed, listening to the latest bohemian on the radio through headphones. The baritone with the crazy falsetto has got it down, or so thinks the kid. Some kind of clever take on the existential shit makes this singer the most attractive human in the books, and damned if the body don't match. At least in the pictures. But there is some truth to the music and the pop libretto that moves the soul. Some crazy magic in the changing of chords, the repetition of mouthnoises that fills those holes where fear and angst creep in. It's the beauty of empathy. What empathy can be expressed in art. I know where you're coming from. I've felt the grief and pain you are now in, and look, listen, I made something out of it, something for everyone to see, and it's new, it's not pain or fear or anger anymore - it's pure white light it's beautiful and I made it for you and it's precious but you can smash it if you'd like because it's all for you, where are you - I saw you for a second and you retreated and I've been all over the fucking country looking for you

This is getting tiresome. For you or for me? Perhaps for both. It is only in the hopes that the message is getting through that I continue. But to whom am I sending this? And what is, at heart, the message?

I felt warm in that next-to-last moment. The moment before he set the baton down. That magic time just after the epiphany. Nothing's clearer than that moment, and it's something I've lived for since birth. Newer, baser interests are coming into play. I must integrate the adult animal with the child intellectual.

I am on the lookout for excuses to scream. I must wail in anger and sadness at those I love. I can not do this in reality, for my actions would prove false to my truest motives. The theater is calling me. I want the mask that allows talk of truth.

Is it nothing more than the allotment of space? Real estate for our wayward thoughts, comets of negative mass.

If we are patient, we can find unity.
From the drip of a faucet we can find the sea.
In a gloomy living room fantasy
We test the bounds of what can be

I'm trying not to fold.

Must be bold in the wake of previous attempts. The clawing, the frantic search, on the path to dissatisfaction, I moved to recess. This is the recess. This is my work away from play.

Is this the search for soul or simply the passing of an idle evening? I sit in my arm chair, but it's not an armchair, but how would you know?

Johnny reached up and unpacked himself from the box he'd just woken up in. Standing up he found himself in some alley - looked like Chinatown. What the hell just happened? From ordinary night to police chase to jail, courts, wicked dreams, and now this. Johnny wanted to know exactly where he was, how he'd gotten there, and why it had all happened. He stepped out of the box.

Maybe the whole world was against him. Some minor mistake in upbringing, perhaps a wrong turn a few weeks ago, and now. Now is never what you thought it would be, this is something Johnny was just now learning. His mother had once accused him of being overly idealistic to risk of his success. Perhaps she was right.

Without idealism he saw little point, but he went on. Nothing was original - all observed or stolen; outer and inner experience were all that mattered, and he had balanced the seen with the imagined long ago.

Sure.

So this nutcase who lived off Rock Street went down to the public library every morning after his first fix and read his Dostoevski till his eyes hurt, then he went back home to his bathroom, took care of business, and walked downtown to get his afternoon pastry. Two weeks ago a bus got in his way relieved him of his term.

But it goes the other way the next day - just as easily. Goodbye to my self, goodbye to my strength, goodbye to my weakness. I've lost control, I've cut the pilot.

I'm feeling it going. I'm feeling the fabric tear. The trumpet used to sit on that mantle. I can't hear it any more. The lamplight is dying.

I keep hearing these tones.
I keep feeling these vibes ruunnning upp and down the spine, a snaaake from tail to skull. I've lost it all and gained

Modifying simple behavioral patterns may have profound affect upon psychological states and abilities. Basic breathing exercises can calm the mood; variances in the posture could modify persona; adjustments not to the outer being but to the typically automatic being will bring change upon the conscious mind.

Put the brisquet on the bottom of the pan so that it receives the most heat. Potatoes on the next level, then the cabbage - small pieces first, then the larger pieces. As the brisquet and potatoes cook, the cabbage will steam.

Try not to think of this as torture - think of it as a training session. That may not be far from the truth, you know - things do tend to get worse. Just try and be more prepared next time. We know you're not really a bad person - just a bit confused. With time and proper guidance, I'm sure we could find you a place in our mailroom.

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These pages last updated 2008.02.24 by Ralph J. Murray.				Copyright 2008, 2007, 2006, 2005, 2004, 2003 The Burnt Possum Poets (Dan Easley, Jeremy Frey, Chad Gusler).