A tale for another time

Saturday, February 24, 2007

Biography of a Grizzly

Ernest Thomson Seton's Biography of a Grizzly

Even then, reading Seton's book, I could,
in my eighth long year, in bed
with chicken pox and Marvel comic books,
even then, I could sense something
deeply human about being hunted,
even then, seeing my father come home
from days and nights in West Texas
machine shops, with blue fingernails
and eyes that vibrated like hummingbirds,
even then, before Jessie the drunk foreman
came raging with his shotgun cocked
and shaking in his hands, before Red
the welder lay curled and crying on the bed
when his woman ran off and then,even then,
before the dust would thin
from Kansas skies and we would take the rags
from the windows and breathe again,
even then, I could turn with Seton's bear
at the gateway to the last canyon
as the Angel of the Wild Things waited,
as the fumes rose like night's warm quilt,
as the hunters crept closer slowly, slowly.
B. H. Fairchild

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

Jewish Minster - A ballad of sorts

When he first came to town we were all quit surprised
By the black cloths he wore and the way that he sighed
But as soon as he spoke we knew it's quit right to have a
Jewish Minister

A few ladies at church had a hard time abiding
With the fact he rejected our Lord's crucifing
But the way he taught Hebrew was such a delight
Our Jewish Minster

He never intended to come here of course
He was lost on his way to the people who chose
To not send him a ticket as soon as they heard
he's a Jewish Minister

Today all the people they cheer and play bells
Since the sermons he preaches are always so well
And the jokes were so clever I wept from the joy
of a Jewish Minister

Monday, January 01, 2007

Zombie Worker

And as the water cooler softly gurgeled in the background and the flickering bulbs above him twiched nervously Bob felt the presense within himself. His skin glistened with sweat and his fists clenched. He looked around to see Tom, Harriet, Mike, Ben, and Delphy.
He wanted to warn them but could not speak. It might have been life as a Navy kid, living in so many diffrent places in the world and being exposed to God knows what. Radiation, particals, strange plants, exotic animals.
Maybe it's the nuc subs, the sterophom cup, the instant chicken soup.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he opened his mouth to revel row upon row of rotting teeth and a black-purple void waiting to be filled with flesh...

They shot him down and burned the body five hours later.

Sunday, December 31, 2006

Under the wheel of the Moon

The werewolves shed their human shell and go hunting for blood-filled candies. Bhangra music expolds from the massive speakers places in the chests of convicts crossified on street intersections. A gass filled spider shaped baloon hovers above centrl squre. In the radio towers the pale host works the turntable while trying to remember the taste of water in a village with a forgetten name. It has been five hundred years since he last saw the sun. The whores sharp their knives looking for Jacks and Johns and Jims. Santa cowers in the sewers while the great gators walk by in trenchcoats and gas-lights looking for him. The scholar puts on his clock of eyes and focuses his mind on the point at the end of the sentence. Dances and fireworks and ale burn the night away.

Friday, December 29, 2006

The living deck

Sometimes, in the night, he shivers in his makeshift cardbord castle. Nobody was ever told what dreams are projected behind his beating eyelashes.
His body is large and exposed. His beard huge, his hair long and filthy. He seats nexts to his cardbord castle all day watching the people walking to work, walking home, walking to see a movie, walking to a lovers meeting, walking to a work-out, walking to a funeral service, walking to church. Always they walk.
And always he seats. When he needs to make he makes his bussiness in a loo outside a Pizza place. The owner sometimes goes to see him. A Chinese man comes once a day with a greasy cardbord box with flaming red Chinese letters printed outside of it. Different letters every day. Once the letters meant: "Why?" In a dialect of a Chinese City that no longer exists.

The living deck went to the Chinese man's car and stayed there for half an hour. Then left the car and went back to his cardboard castle.
The following day the Chinese man returned with a box that said "Courage" in a Chinese urban slang that will be spoken one day on Mars by people who are too young to be up to what they're up to.

The living deck also has letters on his castle. They also posses a great deal of magic. But since they were spoken in the West for so long the letters seem communplace to most people.

"Co A LA"
" E SI"

The letters change as the castle sheds its old skin and grows new organs when needed. The cops never hassale him.

The living deck now has a young woman coming to him. She throws him a coin, he grunts and lends her an ear. She whispers to his big hairy fleshy noise-pore when traffic goes by with a "VHOOOSH" and the people walking walking.

She glances around nerveously. The living deck is somewhat of a joke, somewhat of a myth, among people who went to college. Up there with the man with twenty women who all bear his name tattoed on their necks or hands. "Sam Savoir" in pale blue ink.
Oh I've seen them. Sitting around their man Sam holding babes and children and watching the man eat a salad under a tree in the City park.

The young woman was taken from one of these women by the women's mother. Which is why she can now read and write and pay the living deck.
She wants to find her mother.

The living deck closes it's eyes and a pattern begins to emerage on his skin. Tiny motors spray ink from the inside of his flabby flesh. Following a design selected randomly by a tiny computer inside the living decks brain. No two living decks have ever given the same reading to the same person asking the same quiestion. There are currently only three living decks in the world. One is dying in a hospital bed far far away.

The living deck now has a naked, chubby woman with pale skin painted from the inside of his skin. The young woman sees the colors added quickly. The blue water around the woman. The green bucket she holds. The light-blue water she pours from her bucket to the lake. A black bird next to her watching but not being watched. Yellow and Red stars gleaming above her head, between the nippels of the living deck.

The woman gasps. Tears roll down her eyes, she's thinking of someone. Can you guess who?

She thanks the living deck and leaves. Tommarow she will see a black bird being fed by an old woman. If she's paying attention she'll stop.

Paying attention is what this is all about.

Somewhere far away tiny out-dated motors spray more and more black and yellow ink on the inner side of an old man's skin. The pattern of the card which is of the number 13 grows larger and larger. The point of the cropping tool is now on the old man's cheek. Touching his lips.

No one remembers how the living decks got started. Some say it's a relic of a tatoo culture that went high-tech in the recent past with some mojo added for flavour. Some think there was a cult of the living deck once. But nobody knows for sure. There was a book containing interviows with twenty living decks (17 were straight men, one was gay, the two women were siamese twins trying to cash in since their circus act was losing it's appeal). But the book is no longer available even in the oldest, vastest libraries in your head.

No new people are joining the living decks. Why bother with it when there's so much to see and do in the city? Isn't it all much more fun when you don't know?

The old man on the bed in a place far far away is gasping for his last breath. After he dies. The motors will do one last thing. They will adorn every skin cell in his body with the design of all the decks that ever were. The Fools and the Devils and the Magicians and The Hanged Men and The World always dancing dancing dancing it's crazy dance.

If you try to remove the skin of a dead deck to keep the paintings you will be very, very, sorry before you pass away.

Thursday, December 28, 2006

The point

"But why Jack?" Bob said while holding his gloved hand on the gleaming blue formica table.
Jack waited while the cute waitress filled their coffe mugs and departed. Swinging her cute little tush under the short skirt. Steam rose from the mugs in heavy caffine scented streams. Muzzeling their faces and creating a delicate mist over his tinted glasses.
A bug fell into his coffe with a cheerful Plunk sound.
Neither of the men commented on that.
Jack lifted the mug to his lips and had a mouthfull of the bitter black liqud. It was scalding hot, but he didn't much care for that.
"Because I'm sick of it." He finally said, in a flat tone.
"Sick of what?" Said Bob. "Of being a human being? Of your job? Of our relationship?"

Something wiggeled under Jack's scarf.
"You're part of it." He said. "And so is the job, and the elections, and the quiet, constant increase in the number of homeless people on the streets. Of children sold for body parts in Eastren Europe. Of the whole stinking christ-sufferng mess of it..."
He stopped speaking after that and took a deep breath. Outside the planes from the recenty re-opened airport flew back and fourth. "Special Rate Flights! See Cairo, Dublin, or Paris for 100$!"
See and possibly be melted by some clever organism sprayed in the lobby. Why not.
"I'm sorry" He said. "It's not you, it's not us. It's me."
A scattering of bugs escaped from his left pants-leg and began eating his chair-leg. The waitress came up to them and said: "Sir I'm afraid I'm gonna have to ask you to leave. Some of our other patrons are a little sensetive and well..." A quick glance around. "I think these sorta things need to be done privatly."
She lingered for a bit and softly said to Jack: "I'm sooo proud of you. I'm doing it too as soon as I finish college." Jack smiled, wished her luck.
They left more money on the table then was needed.
It was a short car ride to the open field where the swarm was waiting. They hugged for the last time. And then Bob watched with watery eyes as Jack's body melted into a hord of tiny winged insects all happily flying into the moonless night. Leaving behind the assorted garments of a heavily dressed short man.

He thought about giving the cloths to charity. But instead burned them then and there. Tying the painful stump.
A moth circled over his head. No doubt attracted to the light and warmth.
Bob didn't have the heart to shoo it away.

Saturday, December 16, 2006

Too fucking Old Master for this shit

"I went to the Classical Master, though. He was an old crab he was."
"I never went to him", the Mock Turtle said with a sigh "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say."
"So he did, so he did", said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn, and both creatures hid their faces in their paws.

("Alice Adventures in Wonderland")

As always, the most important quiestion in the world is "Who cares for you?"