Predisone Side Effects

I am rage. The hunched over, sweating Robert DeNiro throwing opponents around a ring. I am every splinter and chip of wood from the furniture hurled out the windows at random moments amid grunts and groans. I am the beating of fists on the bathroom floor tiles one after another. Hear my bones crack. I am a thousand kilograms of adrenalin pumping in my veins like bees buzzing together to sting a little girl who threw rocks at the hive. I am thunder, I am lightning, I am a million storms. Show me New Orleans and I’ll flood the streets. I am the black hole of the universe sucking in everything and building up this explosion. The great big bang taking place over and over again just inside the skin that they call flesh on a body of something they call a boy. Edison created light but I can only create in my own way by smashing his bulbs to bring back darkness.

And then there were two.

There were two. Two males. They'd waited until the last possible moment to abandon the planet. For thousands of years the species known as human had walked the earth. They'd left their mark on every piece of earth available, often to the disadvantage of the planet. Now within the hour they would depart for the last time. Millions were already dispersed through the galaxy, busy leaving their fingerprints on other planets not as old as theirs. The mother planet was a single mother bidding her last adult children farewell. She was greying and her core cooling.

The two men had spent the morning walking the abandoned streets for the last time. They'd studied the rain clouds trying to make their eyes take pictures. They'd felt the soil of the fields slip through their fingers like farmers. Now they sat in the rocket making the final countdown checks. The nearest inhabited planet was expecting them within a fortnight. Then something happened. The older one turned to the younger one with watering eyes. They didn't speak, not because they didn't want to, but because they spoke different languages. The younger one saw the death in his companions eyes. He saw the fire going out and the coals cooling. They shook hands and that night there was only one man left on a planet that once supported billions.

In the silence after the last rocket left the earth, the only thing that broke it was not the earth crying for its sons and daughters. It wasn't the songs of birds, they had died centuries before. It was the short drop of a body on a rope from a plastic tree in the town square. The body swung back and forth and the eyes rested on the ground. On the home that seemed so far away.

Malibu and Smokes

Its all about Malibu white rum. That and a pack of cheap cigarillos. No Marlboro reds for us no sir! We don’t smoke that. What you have next is a hike in the jungle. We wouldn’t be up here, our souls are normally like the tide; driven by the beating of the waves. Some mornings I would swear I could wake up and hear the breakers impacting on the beach. I would look up and realize that it was still dark out. To early to surf. Wait another hour. Today there are no waves and that is why we reached that peak. We thought ourselves explorers until we saw that John and Amy had carved their name into the tree and left an empty bottle of beer between some rocks. Someone else had carved a face on the palm fronds. We light up and mix the rum with some cheap juice from the little grocery store a few miles ago. We talk about this and that. Every dream is amplified by a trip. Someday I’ll see that peak again. I may have a bottle of something better than rum and I probably won’t have cigarillos but I’ll still be a dreamer on that rock face.

The Only Sane Man in Stockholm

He's there outside the department store next to Sergels square. If he isn't then you can find him at Stureplan beating back the crowds. To describe him is to describe minimalism and simplicity. He wears clothes that no one has even studied. Grey is the only color one thinks about when they pass him. It isn't the glints of white in his beard or the steadily receding scandinavian hair line. Its the erratic movements that they might call dancing somewhere far from these streets. The movements would turn anyone's back into jello and leave him hunchbacked for a month. Not our hero, he is there everyday playing to those who don't listen. If he spoke he might be a prophet. A Jeremiah or an Elijah. Maybe if you watch long enough the skies will part and doves will descend on him. His only tools are a handheld radio tuned somewhere between two stations and a harmonica that he uses to create his own reality. The fingernails, the skin, the eyes are so blank and dirty. Maybe its the music that only he hears in his own noise. Everyone else uses him to fulfill a purpose in their lives as they pass him by. Today I am sane for I am not that poor man playing a harmonica and a song that only he can make out. Its conceivable the government is paying him to play and let the masses believe for a minute that there is sanity.

A Tuesday in Late Summer

I saw him in the mirror. He was hazy at first and just visible around the edges. Superstition was in the pupils. Lines of veins leading to the eyes were growing into red spider webs. Who is that? Sometimes when I wake up it takes a minute to register who I find in front of me staring back. the wavy hair and patchy beard are things you forget every night in your sleep and only remember that they exist in that first glimpse. I gave him a name. Fear suits all practical purposes. Fear he shall be called. Bring out the holy water. Where is the priest? Anoint him with oil and we shall name him Fear. But enough of the capitals, no he is fear of triviality. Give him a smaller name; fear. He isn't logical, he isn't even real, but I can see him there staring back at me. Hello fear, hello he answers back. I guess I must have left the door unlocked last night. Here to stay a while? I ask. Maybe, maybe not. Hmm.