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Showing posts from August, 2017

My Hurricane Harvey story

It comes close, and often.
Six times in these past two years it’s come close, so close the water licks at my very doorstep as though waiting. Waiting for what, Harry? Don’t think about it.
And six times in these past two years I have strode out into the waters of my street, clothing rod in hand. With my clothing rod, I have poked holes through collected leaves, the odd branch, newspaper wrappers, door handle ads for Chinese restaurants, business cards, fast food straws, and other things as well, I’ve forgotten the rest, all clogging the sewer drain. Stood there, feeling like a god, as if this were the kind of thing gods do I guess, as the waters drained around my feet from front yards. From around automobile tires. From the street.
My street having been saved again and after five days confined to my depression den, a trip to the local Walgreens today appeared as an exotic thing, to me.  I found many others had had the same inclination. The food selection was unenviable.
I stood there at…

My folly was a poisonous tree

A large assemblage of the people, a mob, one might say – it is not too much to use that word here – and angry, too, so an angry mob, then, has gathered just outside the jailhouse tonight. One imagines torches. Pitchforks. Insulting signs, too, it is as likely.

I cannot see them, however, and I did not expect them. I did not expect there to be no windows but there are none. I did not expect actual bars but there are many.
And if these are to be my final moments, among the living, as they say, then I shall take but a few of them to explain myself and what has gone wrong. I have it in me to say, to admit, to hypothesize, at last, that it is all my own fault. I had the best of intentions.
The town in which I reside was, in former days, bitterly divided upon itself. Any old excuse would serve for a fight. Citizen against citizen. We fought over which bathroom to use. Over statues in parks. The utility of bicycle lanes. O, you wouldn’t believe the blows we came to. And brother, how can a town …

The incoming hordes

They enter my country via a routinized system of smuggling – inside of people – and once freed from their host bodies, are entirely unconversant in our language and in possession of no marketable job skills.
Furthermore, if that’s not enough, and it is enough so what I mean to say is what’s more, after being welcomed here literally with open arms, they waste no time in getting around to killing us. With guns. Yes, they mow us down – do they ever! – without a second thought, or without any thought at all, really, in numbers surpassing even those of extremists in religion.
You know this is true. The gory corpses pile high yet the shooters go unpunished, mostly.
And if it should so happen that I should sound angry here, perhaps a bit hateful even, well then, I am angry. Like that quote I remember by a coiner I forget, when faced with injustice, anger is a natural and appropriate human response, and I am responding.
I am responding to the killer babies¹.
You’re not responding to the killer b…

Parts from a passenger train

The Michaelmonger appeared then, down the aisle at a distance, looking sharp and hawking his wares loudly. His voice was fine and I longed for a Michael to talk with, only I lacked exact change and anyway, I was saving what money I did possess for a small browncup of banana tea – yum.
The train lurched from side to side not seeming nearly so rhythmic as I’d hoped. I could creep onto passenger trains but I could not call the beat. Ba ba-dum bum bum.
Outside went by and the plain was black and the sky was black where the stars were hiding. My train shrackled by dead Scotts. Scott Brister, Scott Long, Scott Bouyear, most every dead man I’ve known was named Scott and here they all were: feet sending out shoots through the soil where they stood and not seen in this lamplight from tall train car windows but I knew my Scotts were there all the same. By some other sense, it is supposed. Not smells from their blooming smiling corpses nor buzzes from their bluebottle flies. Something else.
The g…