the hittites

the hittite empire was founded by hattusili who engaged in rapine and plunder quite freely but hattusli was only the first and some of his successors were even worse hattusini was followed by mursilish who trampled his neighbors like a whirling dervish and after him came telepinu but i don't know much about him, do you? watch out for tukulti-ninurta do him wrong and he'll hurt ya but good king suppiluliuma though mighty, had a great sense of humor

musings

why does a dictionary weigh ten pounds? because humans are filled with a million sounds they twist them and stretch them and play the game but in the end they all sound the same

slow

i was not wild and free i was never meant to be and walked silent on the earth to death from birth my fellow humans stopped to look as my weary steps i took for the very mark of cain on my face was written plain but when i turned around no trace of me was found on the earth's unyielding crust i left no footprints in the dust i took it slow for where was there to go? i looked up at the gray sky and it said goodbye

ode to sinners

o come all you sinners with guilt fit to burst lets go down to the river and see who is the worst let us stand up and testify and write a message across the sky about all our evil schemes and tricks and how we wanted to get our kicks kicks, man, that's all there is not fame or money or show biz or christmas dinner or apple pie or scratching your head and wondering why we're riding through the endless night not even putting up a fight tossing here a nickel and there a dime in the tin cup of borrowed time

a letter

a kitty kat has whiskers a puppy dog has a tail i wrote a letter to the president and put it in the mail i told him he was an idiot i told him he was a fool i asked him what he ever learned when he was a child in school he never sent an answer he never sent a reply i wonder if he goes for walks and looks up at the sky and if he sees the hand of fate pointing at his face and showing him the sands of time in which he will leave no trace he goes back to the white house and climbs the white house stair to find inside his office a visitor in his chair who is this importunate stranger who sits there with a smile with no sense of decorum and no sense of style everybody has a stranger who follows them through their days and shows their face when the time has come so do not be amazed

float

this is a poem i wrote in the water it would not float in the air it would not fly in the rain it would not stay dry in it i confess my pathetic helplessness swallowed without a trace by a void without a face words may be blessings or curses in expanding universes they may be slow or fast but never last o bubbles in the stream! o disappearing dream! one last moment i beg of you one last word - or maybe two -

everybody can't be a hero

to be in a book but not be the hero that does not sound like fun but when the hero dies his heroic death you can still sit in the sun reading a book about the hero in lively vivid prose sipping iced tea or lemonade and wiggling your toes the hero lives forever at least the book says so “in glorious memory” but how do they know? when the hero goes to the gallows protesting his innocence you can laugh or cry or close the book and wonder where the time went

desert island

sometimes i feel floppy sometimes i do sag sometimes i put my head in a box sometimes i put it in a bag i don't like the human race or the world that it has made i want to find a desert island and lie in the palm tree shade let the coconuts fall on my head and pound it into mush and lie there drooling in the sand in the glowing sunset hush

a strange dream

i dreamed of a place last night the strangest dream I ever had where all the bad people were good and all the good people were bad I dreamed I was in a courtroom of shiny paneled wood i was tied to an old oak tree accused of doing good the judge sat high above me with horns upon his head adolf hitler was my lawyer and all the jurors were dead the judge asked me how i pleaded to trying to do right and as i opened my mouth to speak i beheld a terrible sight the gallery was filled with angels with burnt and blackened wings their golden harps were melted and they could not pluck the strings a witness then was summoned to give evidence to my fate ’twas none other than st peter who had abandoned heaven’s gate what say you, saintly wise man asked satan from the bench as he waved a ten pound hammer which in his fist he clenched his eyebrows fairly sizzled and his lip was sneering curled what say you of this specimen who wished to save the world? what say you to this sorry cuss who challenged my dominion who thought eternal damnation was just someone’s opinion? have pity, lord of darkness the sad eyed sage appealed and his white beard it did flutter as before the fiend he kneeled he is only a poor human incapable of thought and the lessons life has taught him i guess he just forgot the demon roared wth laughter as he brought his hammer down a noose was placed around my neck and on my head a crown and on the crown was set a stage on which a play was playing my old dog ran across a field to join my poor old mother praying a serpent slithered through the grass king arthur raised his sword jesse james threw me a lousy dime it was all he could afford william mckinley and wyatt earp raised their voices in a hymn and i thought i saw abe lincoln but it was only railroad slim i awoke upon a green park bench with rain upon my face and all the players in the dream were gone without a trace

country ways

the lamp burned in my little room above the silent stable i looked out in the winter gloom as well as i was able no bird disturbed the brooding night or horses hoofed the road no angel at the window offered to share my load * in an icy wintry blast as the snow was falling fast i went out to milk the cow and tripped over the plow that the lazy hired man who since the world began had been sleeping on his feet without missing a beat had left there in the gloom to hasten me to doom and he laughed in his dream floating down a shady stream where an apple cheeked lass winked at him as he went past and i lay in the mud in the mud, in the cold mud * silas martin picked an apple but didn't feel like eating it sarah jenkins shook a rug but didn't feel like beating it everything that moves moves at its own pace sometimes nothing moves at all upon the earth's dark face

railroad men

railroad bill railroad bill had a dog named harry and a cat named phil railroad bob railroad bob never drank whiskey except on the job railroad joe railroad joe got up in the morning and took it slow railroad mike railroad mike never flew an airplane or rode a bike railroad tom railroad tom hated his pappy but loved his mom railroad jim railroad jim played poker with the sheriff who cheated him railtoad bill railroad bill caught a big old catfish down by the mill railroad john railroad john never came home before the break of dawn railroad dan railroad dan the railroad was the railroad but he was the man railroad men railroad men ask for eleven they will give you ten mothers, look out the window at a duck and a hen don’t raise your sons to be railroad men

you have walked in the rain before

frankie woke up. it was dark. the window was open but it was night outside. she was lying on the bed in her hotel room in her clothes. she could hear music out in the street, and a couple of cats fighting. damn, she thought, what time is it? what day is it? she remembered she had pawned her watch. actually she had given it to johnny, and he had pawned it. but he hadn’t given her her share, he told her he needed it for a while, he would give it to her later. johnny. where was johnny? now frankie remembered. johnny had heard that old man mose had come into some money - from the irish sweepstakes or some such - and he and frankie were going out to old man mose’s hut to check it out. maybe even rob the old man if it was worth their while. frankie got out of bed. she was wide awake. i must have slept for a while, she thought. she left her room and went downstairs to the desk. cardinal mazarin was at the desk, looking at the register. he nodded to frankie but did not say anything. “what day is it?” frankie asked him. the cardinal did not look surprised by the question. “thursday, the 23rd.” “thursday! are you sure?” the last day she remembered was monday. “of course i am sure. tomorrow is friday, and i have just been checking the register, to see who the deadbeats were who did not pay last week.“ “i paid last week.” “i am sure you did, frankie. you are the greatest. you are a good girl.” frankie changed the subject. “has johnny been around? or mean old stagger lee?” “i haven’t seen either one of them.” the cardinal wrinkled his nose. “how about richelieu or wallenstein? have they seen them?” “if they did, why would they tell me? they don’t tolerate bums hanging around any more than i do. while you are here, frankie, do you want to pay next week’s rent?” “um - i will catch you tomorrow.” “fair enough.” the cardinal turned his face back to the register. frankie went down the stairs to the street. a light rain had started to fall. she headed for the road of sorrows tavern. maybe johnny or mean old stagger lee would be there. but neither of them was. pope innocent xvi was behind the bar. he just nodded to frankie. he did not seem any more surprised to her than cardinal mazarin had. nothing too bad must have happened in the three days i was out, frankie thought. the only other customers were st teresa, mike fink, and sister rose. sister rose’s white habit looked freshly starched, and the black beads of her rosary had a new coat of polish. frankie sat down, and pope innocent began mixing her usual. “has johnny been here?” frankie asked. the pope shrugged. “how long ago?” he asked. “he was in here a couple of days ago,” said st teresa. “with mean old stagger lee. and st louis jenny, and nellie bligh.” mike fink laughed heartily. “what a crew! they must have been up to no good.” “i think it was marie laveau with them, not nellie bligh,” said sister rose. “then it must have been,” said st teresa. “you have the sharp eyes, sister.” pope innocent brought frankie her drink and she put a silver dollar on the bar. “i was just asking,” said frankie, “it’s no big nevermind.” “that’s a mighty shiny silver dollar,” sister rose said to frankie. “i wish i had one half that shiny.” keep riding me, frankie thought, all of you keep riding me. but she did not say anything. the door opened and inspector lestrade walked in. he sat down beside frankie. “how have you been, frankie? “ he asked. “great,” she answered. until you came along, she thought, but dd not say aloud. “why don’t we go for a little walk?” lestrade asked. “it’s raining out.” “you have walked in the rain before.” “just let me finish my drink.” “why not? i will have a drink myself. a double scotch,” lestrade told pope innocent. frankie and lestrade finished their drinks. none of the others spoke the whole time lestrade was there. “a merry group,” lestrade observed as he and frankie went out the door. “where are we going?” frankie asked. “i thought we would take a little walk out to the edge of the swamp. pay a visit to old man mose. see how he is doing.” frankie did not answer, but followed lestrade. the rain fell steadily. neither of them spoke. they reached old man mose’s cabin. no light was showing in it. lestrade banged on the door. no answer. “look in the window,” lestrade told frankie. “tell me what you see.” frankie looked in the window. old man mose was lying on a cot. his head hung over the side, and his left hand hung down to the floor. she described what she saw to lestrade. with a single shove, lestrade forced the door. he crossed swiftly to the cot. he did not bother to strike a light, and looked down at the old man. “this is it,” lestrade announced. “the end of an era. the old order passes. there isn’t anything more to say.” frankie could not argue. because old man mose was dead.

the pope walks into a bar

a lone figure was coming across the desert, from the north. joe watched him through the binoculars. “here comes somebody,” he told max. max looked up. “you don’t say so,” he said. he did not sound excited. he did not get up off the rock he was sitting on. but both joe and max watched as the stranger approached. joe and max, and moe and polly, who were in the cabin sleeping, had been waiting for almost two years for the connection. they were almost out of supplies. max and moe and polly had talked of giving up. but joe had held them together, convinced them that they had waited this long, why not wait until the bitter end? they were waiting for the connection. the connection would have the password, to show that he was the connection and once he arrived they would pack up and be ready to pull off the job of the century. of the millenium. the figure in the desert came closer . nether joe nor max were getting their hopes up. other wanderers had come by, but that is all they were … wanderers. they didn’t have the password. the stranger was tall and thin. he wore a wide hat - which he would have needed to cross the desert. “howdy,” the stranger addressed joe and max. “howdy yourself,” joe answered. “my name is ted.” “pleased to meet you, ted. what’s the good word?” ted smiled. “the pope walks into a bar.” that was the password. joe looked at max, and max looked at joe. at last! joe and max stated to laugh, max a little hysterically. joe smiled at ted. “this calls for a celebration.” * they woke moe and polly up, and told them the news. they all agreed to get packed up, get a good night’s sleep, and leave in the morning. joe didn’t really doubt that ted was the man they had been waiting for, but as they sat around after packing up, he got him a little loosened up with his best whiskey and asked a few casual questions. it was obvious ted knew what was going on. * they were getting into the trucks in the morning, when polly pointed into the desert. “who can that be?” she asked joe. another figure was approaching , this one from the northwest. “maybe we should just go,” moe said, from behind the wheel of the first truck. “no,” said joe. “then we would be wondering who he was. we can wait a few minutes for him.” they waited as the second stranger approached. he was short and dark, and wore a bowler hat. joe spoke first. “hello, there.” the second stranger gave joe a big smile with big white teeth. “the pope walks into a bar,” he said. “you don’t say so,” joe replied. “you don’t say so.” “my name is willie,” the second stranger added, with the same big smile. joe pulled out his .45. “i think you got some explaining to do, willie.” joe turned around and saw ted behind him. “and so do you, ted. get over there beside willie.” with a shrug, ted obeyed. joe held the .45 on both of them. “max and moe, get some rope and tie both of these buzzards up.” “and then what, joe?” polly asked, as she scanned the horizon. “i don’t know. let me think about it.” * the next morning. the trucks were still loaded up. ted and willie sat beside them in the sand, their hands tied behind their backs. joe and polly looked out at the desert. max came up behind them. “i say we move out now.” “here comes somebody,” polly said, and pointed to the horizon. joe said nothing . they waited. the third stranger emerged. a woman with long blonde hair, wearing a blue dress, a red hat, and a yellow bandana. “well?” joe asked the woman, when she was close enough to hear him. “the pope walks into a bar,” the woman replied. “who are you?” joe asked. “you know who i am, joe. you all know who i am. you have been waiting for me all your lives.” suddenly the sun disappeared and the sky turned dark as night. and the rain began to fall…

dark night of vengeance, part 4: falling leaves

phil still existed and the universe insisted that he get up every day with his role to play he had no excuse his head was in the noose but something impelled him to his destiny, however dim phil went down to the street despite the fact that his brain was beat another day of desperation beckoned then something happened on which he had not reckoned for the second time in 24 hours a stranger felt empowered to approach phil without prelude or asking if he was in the mood for direct interrogation as to his existence and station in this mysterious world of flux and flow in which things come and go the newcomer had eyes dark and bright in a face quite wrinkled and white that stirred a faint recollection in part of phil’s brain - the section triggering primal fear - my friend, it would appear the stranger began with confidence that by fate you have been sent to close a book that has been open too long to bring an end to a sad song to bid a weary traveler drop his pack to tell the prodigal he can come back to end a farce playing to an empty house to bid the panther make friends with the mouse to make a long story short, forthwith phil - you see before you bill smith! the insanity of youth has cooled by that nasty bitch emily brown we were both fooled by even demons of lust we were ruled let us no longer be their tools phil could not believe what he heard inside his brain a strange motor purred was he a ship that had never sailed? he gaped as bill resumed his tale i ran into whitey black last night he had seen you with his own sight when his words a message to my brain did send i knew my quest had come to an end they say revenge is best served cold but even better left to shrivel and mold we have only one race to run beneath a single fading sun why waste our lives in silly contests when time is a river that never rests and the sky is an empty page that never records our joy, despair or rage with these and similar remarks bill regaled phil - a few sparks landed on phil’s befuddled brain but he would never be the same again come, said bill, let me buy you a drink let us nor care what anyone thinks whether our so-called honor was lost or won how is that the business of anyone? phil followed bill in a daze no bystanders were amazed or made of them any mention their reconciliation attracted no attention bill and phil became great buds and sat on park benches watching the floods of embattled humans roll on by as leaves and raindrops fell from the sky in passing, we should mention that in another dimension emily brown in time’s web was caught but never gave bill or phil a thought i hope you found this poem uplifting but now my brain is drifting down a river on a cloudy day i have nothing more to say

wild

i used to be wild, i used to be free i loved everybody, and they loved me i was the king of the road and the queen of the may and woke up with a song in my heart every day i had a message of love in my heart and took to the highway the message to impart friendly strangers in volkswagen bugs gave me rides and i gave them hugs it was time to turn the page and greet the dawn of a new age war and hatred belonged to the past the new kingdom of love was built to last life was one long celebration of the gathering of the tribes and nations one night in the throes of ecstasy i passed out on the shore of a shimmering sea how long i slept i do not know but i woke up covered with snow the night was dark and covered with clouds i sat up and cried aloud where have all my comrades gone where is the rainbow, where the dawn what is this ice that covers my bones where is anybody - am i alone? i forced myself to get to my feet rain fell on me and then sleet i had no hat upon my head and wondered if i was not dead then i saw a light in the distance and summoning some persistence and a desperate flicker of hope through the darkness i did grope to make a long story short i ended up in court charged with murder in the first degree oh what, i thought, will become of me i saw and heard the judge from afar as he cried, o prisoner at the bar what have you to say in exculpation of your exercise in widespread desolation will you show a sliver of repentance before i pronounce sentence? but i had no reply except to hang my head and cry poor boy you’ve got to die poor boy you’ve got to die dawn lights up the jailhouse and rain falls from the sky

dark night of vengeance, part 3: the smiling stranger

phil tried to pull himself together and asked if it mattered whether at this point if he lived or died he was almost at the end of his ride how much worse off had he been than other children of sin who had dreamed and loved and lost and on the scrap heap been tossed phil sucked in his gut if bill found him, so what? all bill could could do was kill him and his existence was already dim o so easy to say! but one more, one more day! one more day without a prayer - but on your skin the living air phil stopped and looked around silence was all he found the dark streets neither friendly nor cold had heard every story ever told his panic was suddenly gone it was almost dawn he had run through the streets for hours ignored by all cosmic powers on the corner was a little cafe with a sign - open all night and day phil went in and took a seat he was suddenly totally beat he ordered a cup of joe as the world around him spun slow and a slice of blueberry pie which tasted a little dry phil had totally given up staring into his coffee cup with a dull eternal shame when someone called his name who could it be ? he was lost but he was free though his guilt had been substantially accrued he could enjoy it in solitude phil turned and saw a face in which there was no trace of anything but good cheer brought on by oceans of whiskey and beer aren’t you phil, phil jones? asked the bum who used to play steel drums in a vacant lot behind kaiser park at night, when it got dark? that is not i, said phil smiling with a desperate will my name is neither phil nor jones and i walk the earth alone the bum responded with a shrug peace descended on his scarlet mug his response to phil was muffled as away into the night he shuffled phil was in a state of shock he felt like a pool in which a rock had been dropped from a great height as ripples expanded in the light of an exploding full moon phil’s brain played a screaming tune who was that stranger so affable with his implications so terrible? phil had been recognized he thought he had been so wise drifting faceless beneath the tide had he ever been able to hide? time goes by, phil told himself everything gets dust on a shelf the bitterest memories finally blow away in the breeze was bill still alive? and if he was did he thrive? had he forgotten emily brown? was he the mayor of his town? phil asked himself these things he knew the night would bring dark and twisted dreams unlit by moonlight beams

true story

everybody has a story to tell everybody has something to sell a story has a beginning and an end that does not mean you are my best friend i was mistreated as a child and so i started to run wild and took up with a bad crowd but then i heard a voice from a cloud saying, ————, you are unique a fate-appointed freak you are not like others you have no sisters or brothers of the universe you are the center it is your kingdom they must enter if you decide that they can live that is in your power to give this message gave me hope that i was not just some mope that people were right to despise and to fame would never rise i proceeded down the street with a new bounce in my feet but suddenly i was not alone a gentleman with a microphone said, i don’t want a nickel or a dime but just a moment of your time if you could spare a few words for the members of the human herd now that you are the ruler of the world with your teeth so white and your hair so curled will you allow humanity to flourish or do you in your heart still nourish an implacable hatred of the miserable race that has punched you in the face and knocked you down and on your face put a permanent frown or will you find it in your heart to give the planet a new start - as the man with the microphone continued to blather a crowd around me began to gather and then the people in the crowd started to chant my name aloud and all their faces began to blend into a road that had no end and i was walking down thew road toward a sun beginning to explode and then awoke to my true story - a rat in a laboratory professor smith smiled down at me little fellow, i’m glad to see you looking bright this happy morn are you not glad that you were born?

disappearing act

“did you find the guy?” “yeah, i found him.” maury plopped himself down in his favorite chair as the big guy glared at him. “then were is he?” the big guy asked. “he didn’t want to come. he wants you to come to him. he says he’ll talk to you, though.” “well, isn’t that nice of him. you didn’t try to persuade him to come see me?” maury shrugged. “i could have. i made a command decision, in the field. it just did not seem worth it. i think you should go see this guy. it won’t kill you. you should get out more, anyway.” “you think?” the big guy glared at maury, then laughed. “all right, see him where? some bar? where did you find him?” in a dunkin donuts. on third avenue. that’s where he hangs out.” “this guy hangs out in a dunkin donuts? i would have expected someplace a little more … mysterious, you know? or out of the way.” “it’s where a lot of people hang out these days. america runs on dunkin. by the way, there was one thing he wanted me to tell you.” “and what was that?” “he said there were plenty of guys who could do what you wanted. “ “yes, well he was the guy i was told about.” “so, do you want to go see him?’ the big guy sighed. “sure, why not?” he got up and grabbed his hat and put it on. “let’s go see this magic man.” * the magician was still sitting where maury had left him, in a corner of the dunkin donuts, beside a window where he could watch the world go by. an ordinary looking little guy, not getting any younger. he wasn’t wearing a cape or a top hat or anything to show he was a magician. a small empty styrofoam cup sat on the table in front of him. the big guy sat across from the magician at the little square table, and maury grabbed a chair and sat down between them, facing the window and the street. “this is the gentleman i was telling you about, “ maury said. “the one interested in your services.” the magician just nodded. “you understand what i want?,” the big guy tried to look the magician in the eye. “i think so. you want to make somebody disappear. “ “exactly. totally disappear. i don’t want any body, i don’t want any blood or guts or evidence, or screaming or shouting, i just want this guy to disappear into thin air. can you do that?” “easily. and you could go over to joe’s joke shop on thirty-seventh street and find a dozen guys who could do it, too.” “you don’t say so.” “i do say so.” the magician looked down into his empty styrofoam cup. “then if it is so easy who don’t you ever hear about it being done?” the big guy asked. “because there is a problem - a possible complication.” “ah. a possible complication. and what might that be?” “there is no guarantee you won’t make the whole universe disappear. you might not, but you might - the whole universe and everything and everybody in it. me, you, the pope, the king of spain, everybody.” the big guy nodded. “i can see where some people might not want to take that chance.” “but what about you? “ the magician asked. “are you willing take the chance?’ “listen,” the big guy answered, “i have wanting to get this guy for forty years. he did me dirty, like no man was ever done dirty before. thinking about him has been eating away at me every day for forty years, like a cosmic green cancer, like a mountain of red ants whose ravenous hunger can never be appeased. yes, i’m willing to take the chance.” the magician nodded. “does this person have a name, you got a picture or something…?” “i got this.” the big guy handed the magician a small photo, a black and white polaroid at least thirty years old. the picture had been taken at a beach, and showed an ordinary looking man in a bathing suit with a little smile, an ordinary looking woman in a bathing suit with a big smile, an ordinary looking little boy in a bathing suit with no smile, and a dog. “you need anything more?” the big guy asked. “no, this is all i need.” the magician put the photo down on the table. “so, you’ll do it.” “yeah, i’ll do it. i just want one thing.” “and what is that?” “a frozen strawberry banana smoothie.” “coming right up!” the big guy nodded to maury. “get the man what he wanted.” “which was?” a frozen strawberry banana smoothie, ” the magician repeated. maury got up and headed for the counter. “so how soon can you do this?” the big guy asked the magician. “as soon as i finish my smoothie. but i want to make sure i get every last drop.”

ars poetica

take a piece of paper write some words upon it look at what you have written - it’s a poem, doggone it! mary had a little lamb johnny had a panther alice did the crossword puzzle but didn’t know all the answers it rained on billy’s birthday mary didn’t go to his party henry wanted to drink champagne bur settled for ale most hearty the world is filled with humans and also cats and dogs some folks climb up mountains others fall into bogs that is all the wisdom i have for you today meet me on the sabbath morn and we will kneel and pray

a trip to chicago

i decided to take a trip to chicago. actually, i had no place to go, but i had to go somewhere, so i decided to look up my old friend harry in chicago. harry had let me sleep on his couch or on his floor on many occasions in the past. i found harry’s apartment - number 68. the door to the apartment 68 was very narrow and heavy looking. the whole apartment building had a heavy, old-fashioned look about it. i knocked on the door. nobody answered right away, and i knocked a little louder. finally a man opened the door. i didn’t recognize him. for a second i thought it might be harry, so changed since i last saw him that i did not recognize him, but then i saw that it was not. is harry jones here? i asked. yes, come on in, the man said, he did not seem surprised by my appearance, or interested in me. i followed him down a very narrow hallway. the hallway opened into a surprisingly wide room. the room was cluttered with chairs and couches, mostly cheap looking old-fashioned leather couches, and the chairs and couches were about two thirds filled with people. not people who looked like members of the ruling class. but not out-and-out bums either. and they weren’t talking much, just staring into space like they were waiting for somebody. the man who had let me in disappeared into a little side room. i could hear voices. harry? what was harry up to here, i wondered. i remembered that harry had passed the bar, but never actually practiced law. maybe he was practicing law now? the place did not look exactly like a law office. i sat down in a little red leather armchair. before i put my bag down, i checked it to make sure everything i owned was still in it. everything was there - some socks and underwear, toothbrush and toothpaste and such, and the two books i always carried with me - think and grow rich, by napoleon hill, and the collected poems of edgar guest. i looked up and saw a very old woman seated across from me on one of the couches. she was leaning forward on a cane and seemed to be looking at me through impenetrably thick glasses. do you know harry? i asked her. of course, she answered, don’t you? i’ve known him for a long time, i said. harry is a wonderful person, the old woman said. yes, he is, i agreed. he does so much for the community. i am sure he does, i said. it sounds like harry has a good thing going here, i thought. he must be practicing law, or maybe he is a - what do you call it - community organizer or something. surely he can put me up for a while, at least let me sleep on one of these couches. an old black man sat down on the couch beside the old woman. i tried to think of something to say to him. the only thing i knew about chicago was that the cubs were on the north side and the white sox were on the south side. or was it the other way around? and were the “north side” and the “south side” actually the two halves of the whole city or were they just the names of neighborhoods, like “south philly” or “south boston”? how about those cubs?, i asked the old man. how about them? he replied. what does the ticket to a game cost these days? i asked him. the cheapest seat? you can get in for thirty dollars. wow, i said, that is cheap. i noticed that the room was filling up all around me - most of the chairs and couches now looked filled. the man who had let me in came out of the little room. harry will see you now, he said to somebody. and he will see me, too, i thought. it will be like old times. everything is going to be all right. i woke up. i had fallen asleep on a bench in the park. it took me a few seconds to remember who i was, and where i was. harry had been dead for years. and i had not spoken to him or looked him up for thirty years before that.

the shadow

a beggar, sitting in the shade of a bridge, watched a traveler approach. the traveler’s shadow fell on the bridge. o traveler, cried the beggar, give me what i want. the traveler, not breaking stride as he crossed the bridge, laughed. but i do not know what you want, the traveler replied, not glancing down at the beggar. i want whatever you have, cried the beggar - a bird, a bag of gold, a book with pretty colored pictures, your soul, your memories, a letter to the emperor testifying to my unique worth, a mythical beast, immortal life - anything. i have a shadow, said the traveler, laughing, you can have that. and the traveler’s shadow stayed behind on the bridge for a few seconds after the traveler had crossed it. the beggar reached for the shadow but the sun went down and the shadow vanished. the beggar continued to sit beside the bridge for many years, calling to the travelers who crossed it to give him what he wanted, to give him anything they had.

water in the stream

who will save the last wanderer when he falls in the last stream who will wake the dreamer dreaming the last dream i fell in the gutter and the gutter kept flowing i, like the water do not know where i’m going

around the fireplace

up in the city, down on the farm a rollicking yarn will do you no harm around the fireplace, listen to the rain and a tale with the wallop of a freight train and what really makes a story go best is the introduction of a mystery guest whose sudden appearance always must alter the entire narrative thrust come on grandpa, do we really have to wait a whole week to hear the hero's fate? and grandpa sez, don't holler, don't shout just stayed tuned - and find out

a vision of eternity

i dreamed i went to heaven and all the seats were taken st peter smiled and shook my hand ’twas then i did awaken i wish i could remember what st peter had to say for it would surely comfort me on yet another dreary day

dream of a hero

in the insane rioting of his soul he knew he had to play the role of a debonair lothario and go on with the show as the huns rode over the hill he stood perfectly still and with the trace of a smile said "darling, i may be a while" "not too long, darling, please" she sank to her satin covered knees through the french window he strolled to a sunset red and gold where are the heroes of yesteryear? who laughed at fate and smiled at fear? and what would they now defend? for, alas, we have come to the end the garden is barren of flowers the day is bereft of hours the telephone in the drawing room waits for a call from an empty tomb

me

by ricky joe sternwall i don’t mean to whine i just want what’s mine i want my fellow humans to realize that i am one of those special guys i am not like those other folks those losers, wasters, mopes, and mokes those fish in a barrel waiting to get shot i am not like them - honest i’m not i’m the one who knows the score the one you have all been waiting for if i could just catch a break the world i would remake it is really elemental if i could just reach my potential if i could just be wild and free the world would revolve around me the way it was meant to be why can’t you all see? stop saying no to me and say yes and recognize my uniqueness i’m the one who was prophesied through the universe to glide wiping out the whole world’s frown if you would only stop bringing me down

in a churchyard

on a dreary rainy eve a hand plucked at my sleeve i turned to see a pallid sprite flickering in the fading light and though i made protest it put me to the test and as the rain did drip it did not relax its grip and down a muddy lane like a runaway train he proceeded to tell a tale old and sad as a rusty nail he was a sad and lonely cuss of whom the world made little fuss the desires with which he was torn met with society's scorn he became an incubus possessed with sodden lusts vainly seeking peace at last in the worlds through which he passed the particulars of his tale sought my pity, to no avail perhaps we all have stories but their resonance and glories are best left to our own selves everyone else leaves on the shelves the narratives of others so let me go, brother let us each go our own way perhaps on judgment day we may our acquaintance renew until then - adieu so i reasoned with the shade who, in fact, began to fade with a look in his pale eyes more of sadness than surprise i looked around the gloom at the wet grass and the tombs the faded words scribed on the stones again - happily - alone

vengeance

eddie was in chuckie’s place, just starting to dunk his cheese danish into his coffee when he looked up and saw frankie sitting by himself at a table in the corner. eddie had heard frankie was in town, looking for ray, but he was still a little surprised to see him. he figured it wouldn’t do any harm to go over and talk to him, so he picked up his coffee and danish and went over to frankie’s table. hello frankie. hello yourself. haven’t seen you around for awhile. i guess you haven’t. mind if i sit down? frankie shrugged. suit yourself. eddie sat down. so what brings you back in town, he asked frankie. i think you know why i’m back in town. you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. i’m looking for ray. oh. you seen ray lately? a little bit. i do a little business with him now and again. everybody does. everybody has to. if you say so. so old ray’s doing pretty good, huh? pretty good isn’t the word for it. he runs this town, huh? runs the town? i don’t know where you been, frankie, but ray runs the whole west coast and beyond. and has for a while. i‘ll tell you where i been, but first you tell me how good ray’s doing. has he still got that big house out by the lake? no, he sold it or gave it away years ago, when he started getting really big. he lives in a big castle now, in this state he bought up north, idaho or montana or one of those places. it must be nice. you been there, seen it yourself? once or twice. you wouldn’t fucking believe it. he’s got everything. he’s got a million guys guarding the place, a fucking army. more swimming pools than you can count. a million game rooms, with every game you can think of, night and day. and if you’re a pal, you don’t have to pay to play. food - the place is one big buffet. every kind of booze ever invented, right there for you. i suppose he’s got a few women around. i was just getting to that. he’s got this special harem or palace, just for himself, where he keeps the hottest babes, for the heavy duty, you know. and he’s got another harem of women one cut below, for when governors and presidents and ambassadors come to visit him. but besides that, there’s hot women and cute chicks all over the place, every size and shape and color you can think of, and they know what they are there for, and they do it. eddie nodded. i think a life like that might make a guy a little soft. well, ray must have thought of that, because once a year, he goes on this safari for about a month, up in the yukon or some fucking place where it snows all the time, him and his favorite boys, what he calls his mighty men, and they hunt grizzly bears and three thousand pound wild boars and roast them around a roaring fire and tell stories and sing songs and all that shit. frankie laughed. and that keeps him from going soft? i don’t know about that. how about you, frankie, what have you been up to? you mean ever since that son of a bitch set me up thirty years ago? let me tell you what i been up to. the first ten years i’m in a fucking chain gang, out in death valley. i plot for years to escape, with three other guys. then just when we are about to make our break, one of them finks out. the other three of us get sent to another chain gang, in the middle of the indian ocean, building this new island for the king of this and the shah of that and sons of bitches like that - maybe like ray. maybe. anyway, this place makes death valley look like a kindergarten, there is no union or banker’s hours, if you get my drift, and after nine or ten years i snap and kill one of the guards. here is where things start to get tough. they put me on yet a third chain gang, this one on the bottom of the pacific ocean building some kind of radar station where the bastards who rule the world are going to contact the bastards who rule the other worlds out in fucking space. there is not a whole lot of fresh air, and i feel i am finally in hell itself. but i escape. by myself this time. but i don’t get very far. i come to this undersea kingdom ruled by an evil mermaid and i get captured and made a slave. and the things i did there, and the things they made me do, trust me, you don’t want to hear about. so one day i am on this gang working on a coral reef. by this time i have just about given up hope. and i see an abandoned diving bell drifting by. what are the chances i can get to it, or that it will work if i can get to it? one in a billion. but what have i got to lose? i swim over to the diving bell, with these mean lobster-guards right behind me, and i close the hatch door behind me in their faces, and i pull the first lever i see and what do you know, i go right to the top. i come up off the coast of fucking japan. i lose myself in tokyo. i get a job as a strikebreaker for this rich guy in japan. i start to save my money. i meet this chick, and it’s beautiful. she begs me to stay, but i am a man on a mission. i save enough for a plane ticket and here i am. that’s quite a story, frankie. yes, here i am, ready to pay a call on my old friend ray. well, it’s no concern of mine, but i don’t like your chances of getting to him. there is always a way. there is always a way, if you just hang in there. but look at it this way. you’ve been through hell for thirty years. and ray’s been leading the good life, ruling the world and hanging with the beautiful people, for those same thirty years. how is anything you do going to undo that? neither of you are getting any younger. if the booze and cocaine and babes haven’t killed ray off by now, what difference does it make if you do now? maybe you should go back to that woman in tokyo, if she really cares about you. the only thing i care about is getting my fingers around that son of a bitch’s throat. eddie looked out the window. fog was rolling down the street. if frankie is serious, he thought, about trying to get at ray, i am not doing myself any favor by sitting here palavering with him. eddie finished his coffee and got up. well so long, frankie, he said, and good luck. you are going to need it. later, eddie felt kind of bad about saying, you are going to need it, to frankie, because it was not really necessary. but when a guy is down, it’s just instinct to give him a little kick. it’s nature’s way.

the price of gold

mister makoiu is usually the first one down to the lobby in the morning. sometimes a bum will have wandered in and been allowed to sit or even sleep in one of the chairs by rack, the night clerk, if he was in a good mood. sometimes, if this happens, the bum will be sitting in mister makolu’s favorite chair, the one beside the potted plant. if the bum is awake, mister makolu will politely ask him to move to another chair, and 99 times out of 100 the bum will comply. but if the bum is sleeping , mister makolu will let him be, 999 times out of 1000, and move to another chair, one approximately the same distance from the window as the one beside the potted plant. in any event, mister makolu will sit down and begin looking out the window, whether the morning is sunny or otherwise. the next person down to the lobby is usually madame b, who will say good morning to mister makolu and take a chair within speaking distance of his. the paper is late today, mister makolu will say. madam b will smile and say, the newspapers went out of business thirty years ago, mister makolu, is there any news you were particularly interested in? yes, the price of gold. gold has been off the market for as long as mister makolu had been sitting in the lobby, but madame b will not say this. instead she will take out her phone, pretend to look at it and say, the price is unchanged. thank you, mister makolu will say. then mister makolu and madame might or might not discuss the weather. next to appear will be professor barvis. usually, but not always, he will remember to greet mister makolu and madame b. he will take his seat, and consult his own phone, to see if there is any message from the committee of arts and sciences - which, does, in fact, still exist - regarding his paper on the incompatibility of dimensional-based and path-based fusion and expansion. to date he has not heard from it. the last regular to appear is miss arg. she does not have a favorite chair, but seems to sit randomly in the many available in the spacious lobby. she, too, looks out the window as if waiting. if anyone asks her, which few do any more, she will say she is waiting for her prince. she has been told many times, by the regular inhabitants and helpful strangers, that there are no more princes. glen, one of the maids, has even gave her a copy of the four volume “history of the rise and triumph of woman” by anna randle, but miss arg has never read past page fourteen. rack, the night clerk, leans on the desk and looks out the window himself. he is waiting for suss, the morning clerk, who is often late, especially if it rains, as it often does in this part of the world. and there you have it, my friend… humans…. waiting… always waiting… never satisfied…

walking past you

remember people when you are feeling blue whether you are sad or happy you are only you the fellow walking past you with his briefcase in his hand inside he may be weeping because his dreams have turned to sand the kid behind the counter at subway or burger king do not tell him your troubles to him they don’t mean a thing sadness is all human’s fate sung by heavenly voices whether you walk the dusty roads or ride in rolls royces

van nuys and cupertino

nobody knew where they came from. or cared where they went. their names were smith and jones. or maybe they were van nuys and cupertino. they met in a comedy club in terre haute indiana. it was fate. it was meant to be. it was kismet. where did you say you kids met? when his karma ran over my dogma. they looked at each other and said at the same time, we could do this. they were both traveling salesmen. van nuys sold paper plates. not paper cups, paper plates. i mean, what can you do with a paper plate? hey? a paper cup can be useful sometimes, you can slip a little wine or brandy into it when the occasion requires ,but what can you do with a paper plate? except put potato salad on it. potato salad. let’s talk about potato salad. who invented potato salad, anyway? nobody wants to take credit for inventing potato salad. how about that? or cold baked beans. what about cold baked beans? what did i tell you, you don’t talk about really disgusting things, things that turn people off. like cold baked beans. this is why we can’t have nice laughs. cupertino sold cigar cutters, cigarette lighters, nail clippers, and toenail clippers. you can just see it - somebody asks for a light and you hold up a cigar cutter in front of their nose - and they’ve got a nose like ( william mckinley/henny youngman/de gaulle/barbra streisand…) they teamed up, started playing open mikes wherever they went… all over the country, all over the world… new jersey, des moines, hong kong, baghdad, the moon, the ocean floor… everywhere they went they left a trail of death. forget bombs over the tokyo, hroshima, nagasaki, curtis lemay, the unabomber… these guys were the real bombers… accept no substitutes… they tried everything… they cut recipes out of the local papers… the coupons from publishers clearing house… van nuys noticed from the start that a lot of people got laughs just by saying the names of celebrities and pausing…. it worked for them. but not for our guys. the years went by… kennedy, nixon, frank sinatra and dean martin, oswald and jack ruby, jimmy carter, jackie o, johnny carson and rodney dangerfield. o j and marcia clark and kato kaelin, saddam hussein, axl rose, ted bundy, timothy leary and gordon liddy, whitney houston, britney spears, the olsen sisters, paris hilton, obama, mitt romney, taylor swift, they all came and went … still no laughs. cupertino was for trying to just be filthier than anybody else… it worked for some people… a guy in international falls minnesota did a twenty-five minute routine about nuns giving cardinals enemas and they had to call ambulances from five states and canada the customers were rolling on the floors laughing their guts out… finally, in a motel outside flagstaff arizona (where else?) they had a fight and van nuys pulled out a gun and cut cupertino down like a dirty dog. van nuys, who by this time was sixty-seven years old, got seventy-five years to life. they had open mike in the pen. this is my chance, he thought, he had always heard that convicts were a great audience because they were so bored they would laugh and cheer for anything. he died deader than ever. finally he decided if i can’t make them laugh i will make them cry. he told them a story about his grandmother’s canary , about how he loved the canary but was always afraid to show it, and then the canary died and he went up to his room and cried by himself because boys weren’t supposed to cry… did that old offender in the second row smile, or rub his eye… or shake his head… or something…? it’s raining on my grave. i know you are out there. i can hear you decomposing. and the worms… i can hear you too… you… yes you… the little white one, with a couple of molecules of my gall bladder on your ugly face… come on up here…

perfection

once upon a time there was a poet who wanted to write a perfect poem - the most perfect poem that had ever been written. he felt that to write his perfect poem he needed to have a perfect, perfectly white piece of paper. as he was an emperor as well as a poet, he had limitless wealth at his disposal to search the earth for the perfect piece of paper. his spies told him that perfect papers were to be found in a little shop in a town in a little kingdom hidden in the mountains. the poet-emperor knew that if he rode boldly into the little town in his character of emperor, he would be charged an exorbitant price, as the inhabitants of the little kingdom were notorious for their hard bargaining. disguising himself as a humble peasant he entered the town and approached the shop. but as he did, a group of the local king’s soldiers entered the shop, arrested the proprietor for printing seditious pamphlets, and burned the shop to the ground. disappointed in his ambition as a poet, the emperor decided to become a paramour. and to find the maiden with the most perfect face, and the most perfect pale cheeks in the world. he sent out a thousand spies and agents to search his empire and the surrounding kingdoms and find this maiden. a maid whom he was assured fit the description was discovered in a small village on the western border of the empire. the emperor found her seated n a rock beside a gently flowing river, gazing at a pale moon. approaching the maiden, he boldly declared himself, both as an ardent, faithful lover, and as an emperor possessed of all the wealth in the world. the maiden turned a sorrowful gaze on the paramour-emperor. i am sorry, sir, she said, but my heart belongs to another. disappointed again, the emperor decided to become a painter, and to paint the most perfect snowy landscape. in this attempt he disdained the use of agents or spies, but left the palace one night alone, with a knapsack on his back containing only a canvas and easel and some paint and brushes, a jug of wine and a loaf of hard bread. he traveled to the north of the kingdom, where a perfectly white, snowy landscape was most likely to be found. he was crossing a perfectly flat plain, in the shadow of a great mountain, when the snow began to fall. this is my opportunity, the painter-emperor thought, and he set up his easel and began to paint the ghostly scene. the work, once begun, went as smoothy as the snow itself was falling. when the snow began to fall too heavily, obscuring the landscape he was trying to copy, the emperor commanded it to stop. but it did not stop, and went on for days, burying the unfortunate emperor beneath it. he was succeeded as emperor by his brother, who spent the days of his long reign in a tavern in the shadow of the imperial palace, drinking wine with beggars, eunuchs, and old soldiers, and playing darts and dice.

four or five

night fled behind the horizon. the birds flew out of the dawn. five riders rode across a flat, empty plain. the had left the battle behind them. they were the only survivors of a mighty army that had taken the field, full of confidence, and with flags flying, only twenty hours before. the emperor rode in front. his faithful adjutant, general f——————, rode slightly behind him and to his right. colonel h—————, who had commanded the 5th cavalry, rode behind him on the left. bub, the emperor’s valet and cook, rode behind colonel h—————. jones, a young cavalryman who had had his first taste of battle on the previous morning, brought up the rear. they rode on. no one spoke. the sun was not unpleasant. is there no town? the emperor finally asked. we took this route because there are no towns, general f————— replied. the parthians are less likely to follow us here. the emperor made no reply. they rode on. i see something, colonel h————— said. over there , on the left. probably just a campsite, if even that., he added as the others turned their heads. without a word, they all turned their horses and headed for the spot the colonel had pointed out. it was indeed a small campsite, a very small campsite. a small pot was suspended from three sticks over some stones and ashes. the only living creature visible was a very old woman, obviously a witch, who looked up without blinking at the riders as they approached. good morning, mother, general f————— greeted her. good morning yourself, the witch replied. what are you waiting for? colonel h————— addressed her. you see five weary and hungry soldiers, get us some dinner if you please. with what? the old woman asked, gesturing at the tiny unlit pot and the surrounding desert. come come, mother, none of your tricks, we know you are a witch and have magical powers. use them if you please or we will make it hot for you. if i had magical powers, sir, why would i be living in a patch or rock and scrub in the desert? ha ha, do you take us for fools? you witches have been spouting that same tired nonsense since beelzebub was a kitten, and jezebel a ball of string. and colonel h————— drew his sword and pointed it down at the old woman. very well, sir, since you will have it so, the old woman replied. she pointed her bony finger at the riders and they turned into small birds and flew away into the sky, except for the emperor, who turned into a scorpion and burrowed into the dirt. the horses were turned into rats and scurried away across the desert in different directions. the old woman sighed. again, she thought. how many times through the centuries had they come? always four or five riders, more usually four. one day there would be seven riders. and then everything - the sky, the desert, the world, the little empires with their armies and battles - would change. until then… the witch began to gather bits of brush to build a fire.

cousin braithwaite and the children

miss quail waited until tea was almost finished before making her announcement to the two children. i have invited cousin braithwaite to dinner tomorrow, she informed them. oh no, cried darius. oh no , echoed persephone. what is your objection to cousin braithwaite? miss quail asked. he is the most boring person who ever lived, said darius. darius was an outspoken and literal-minded child, not at all given to making allowances for other persons’ fantasies and frailties. persephone was also an outspoken and literal-minded child, and much given to random acts of spite and malice. if you invite cousin braithwaite, persephone announced , i promise we will make it uncomfortable for him. nonsense, miss quail replied. you will do nothing of the sort. and what, exactly, do you so object to in poor cousin brsaithwaite? he is a bore, darius repeated. well, miss quail expostulated patiently, everybody can not be fascinating, can they? if everybody in the world was fascinating, fascination itself might lose its luster, don’t you think? and besides, is not a person only as boring or as fascinating as you wish them to be? is not boredom in the ear of the listener? no, persephone replied firmly, that is not the case at all. cousin braithwaite is a bore, plain and simple. it seems to me, added darius, that bores are a supreme example of the pitiless irreducibility of reality, and its imperviousness to opinion. if a person bores his fellow humans, then he is, by definition, a bore. what possible recourse does he have, and to whom or what, to reverse the decision? that is all very well, said miss quail, but it is settled that cousin braithwaite is coming to dinner tomorrow. let us move on. how are coming along, darius, with your translation of suetonius? * cousin braithwaite duly arrived on the following evening, and the children immediately began quizzing hm unmercifully. tell us, cousin, persephone began, has anything exciting happened to you lately? exciting? why no, i don’t suppose so. the funds have been up a little , down a little , in their usual way, you know, life goes on, all that sort of thing. that’s very deep, cousin, darius interjected. tell us, how have you been getting on with the ladies? met any charming creatures lately? ladies, ladies, yes i believe i have. of course. after all they are everywhere you go, aren’t they? ladies and gentlemen. fifty percent of the human race are ladies, are they not? isn’t that so? then you have the servants of course. have you saved the world lately, cousin, persephone asked. or slain any dragons? ha, ha, slain any dragons? yes indeed, i may have. ha ha, that’s jolly, quite droll. quite droll indeed. cousin braithwaite continued with an incoherent narrative of slaying a dragon in front of the nelson monument, thinking the children were finding it amusing, and never suspecting the depth of their contempt… the evening passed, and from miss quail’s perspective passed successfully enough. at least persephone refrained from playing any of her typical pranks, such as putting a spider or a scorpion into braithwaite’s glass of eggnog. * how, if at all, do you think this narrative should proceed? a) cousin braithwaite suddenly inherits a fortune, and marries miss quail. they invite darius and persephone to dinner once a year, on or about st swithin’s day. b) cousin braithwaite suddenly inherits a fortune, darius and persephone successfully ingratiate themselves with him, he makes them his heirs, and they murder him. c) darius and persephone become anarchists, and blow themselves up making a bomb. cousin braithwaite remembers them fondly, and writes a book defending their memory, and presenting them as tragically idealistic youth. d) in time darius becomes prime minister, or at least home secretary. one day he encounters cousin braithwite in the street, old, destitute, and incoherent. darius takes braithwaite to his club, where he treats him to a good dinner, brandy, and cigars, and they sit by the fire until dawn, talking about old times. e) other ( specify )

professor wilson's conclusion

professor wilson was putting the finishing touches on his paper when there was a knock on his study door. it was sort of sunshiny outside, but the blinds were drawn on the windows, and the room was in shadow except for the light cast on professor wilson’s paper by the old fashioned lamp his colleagues had presented to him at a testimonial dinner a few years back. the professor enjoyed working by the light of his testimonial lamp, but he did not like to be disturbed - a fact well known to all. who can that be, he wondered irritably as the knocking continued. come in, he called. the door opened and parker and perkins, two of his youngest and most callow colleagues, entered. professor, cried parker, something amazing has happened! there is no need to shout, parker, professor wilson remonstrated as mildly as he was capable of. just say what you have to say. sir, an alien space ship has just landed outside on the quad! don’t listen to him, professor, perkins said. there is no space ship on the quad, or anywhere else in the vicinity. professor wilson leaned back in his chair. he took his glasses off his face and twirled them in his left hand. it seems we have a problem, gentlemen, he announced. one of you says a space ship has landed on the green grass outside, the other says no such thing has happened. you can not both be right. let me think. the professor, still twirling his glasses, stared at parker and perkins. i have known you both a long time, he said. actually he had only known them for about a year, as they were his youngest and most callow colleagues. you, perkins, though you made no great impression on me at first, i have always found to be respectful at least, and willing to learn, and to learn from your mistakes. i particularly remember your conduct at the dean’s autumn dinner, when dr marchmont’s wife made her series of abysmal disclosures, and i thought, that young fellow can keep a cool head at least. and i thought your most recent paper showed, if not exactly anything that could be called promise, at least a decent concern for proper procedure. you, parker, have not made so favorable an impression even as that. i have found you the particular type of cringing little toady that i had thought the modern world, whatever else might be said of it, and with its relentless and tiresome glorification of disrespect, had dispensed with. i have always found you quick to agree, and slow to comprehend. i also recall that there was some consideration, at your last review, as to whether you had always properly documented your sources. from all this i have decided to believe you, perkins, rather than parker, and i conclude, therefore, that were is in fact no alien space ship on the lawn of the quad. good day, gentlemen. parker and perkins left, closing the door gently behind them. * what do you think of the way professor wilson handled the situation? do you think he came to the right conclusion, given the evidence at his disposal? do you think he might have found some surer, more effective way of determining if a space ship had landed on the quad?

morning glory

by samantha monday sternwall

little flower outside my window shaking in the breeze i heard a story about you tell me if you please all these years i thought you were the same every day but now i am told different this is what they say that every night you die and in the morning are replaced by another little flower with the same smiling face every night i go to sleep and i every night i dream and in the morning i wake up having floated down night’s stream am i the same or different every morn? have there been 10,000 mes since i was born? o little flower let us face the day are we, or they, or anything real? who are we to say?

the traveler

a weary traveler walks down a lonely road to a deserted garden. where are you going, o traveler, and why are you so weary? i am weary because i have traveled a long way, and because i am lonely. why are you lonely, o traveler? i see a light in the distance. perhaps it an inn or a pub, you could retreat to its cozy warmth and rub elbows with your fellow creatures, consume a warm or cold beverage as your fancy suits you, perhaps share your thoughts on politics or art or philosophy or religion. such things are not for me, i walk alone. alone, always alone. night is falling, o traveler, are you not afraid of losing your way? i have already lost my way, a long time ago. the moon is rising, o traveler, perhaps it will light your way. i have no way - no way except to doom. look at this deserted garden, traveler, does it remind you of happier days? no, not of happier days, but of all i ever loved. and what might that have been? the flowers. ah, the flowers, always the flowers. yes, the flowers that bloomed, the flowers that never bloomed, the flowers that were cut and placed in vases, that were displayed in lit windows, the flowers that blew away, that blew away in the dust, even as i…. ah, poor traveler, i will delay you no longer. the flowers that blew away, that blew away in the dust, even as i….

the stranger

by manfred corrington sternwall

i was born to rule the earth but nobody noticed it at first and treated me as just another anonymous little earthly brother my early years were filled with woe i had no place much to go it should come as no surprise my brain was streamed with endless lies how i waited for the day when i could stand up and say i have had enough - hereafter you shall be pupils - i shall be master the years went by- i was assigned my place in society’s waiting line i expected as i grew older for the world to tap me on the shoulder and say, you should not be here there is some mistake, i fear you are not number 21,876,943,501 you are the child of the sun the years disappear in the breeze but somehow nobody sees will they never learn? must again and again i return?

thomas and samantha

thomas and samantha lived for many years in the house left to them by their parents, attended by a painfully small number of servants. they were both creatures of routine. every morning samantha would come down to breakfast before thomas, and when thomas finally arrived, she would say to him, “good morning, thomas. if you have nothing to say, please do not say anything.” and thomas would nod, pick up his coffee cup and his copy of the times, and say nothing. then one day, shortly after a war had ended, samantha made her usual statement, and themes responded, “yes, i have something to say.” “oh? and what is it that you have to say, thomas?” “that you would look nicer if you smiled.” “really? well, thank you so much for that astute observation.” and they both resumed their breakfast. thomas never again broke his silence at the table. after a number of years samantha died of pneumonia during a bitter winter, and thomas followed her in the spring, of a heart attack which he had never attempted to forestall through healthy living. they were both buried in the garden they had loved so well, though thomas had perhaps loved it a bit more than samantha.

ask for mr black and tell him you are feeling blue

johnny had a number he kept it in his head he decided to play it every day until he was rich or dead danny stood on the corner and took down johnny’s number with a philosophy of life danny was not encumbered johnny had a number and danny took it down eddie wore a hat of straw and was a man about town florence wore a girdle to keep her tummy flat edna sat in the window and did not approve of that harry drive a taxicab in order to pay the rent joe remembered doris and wondered where she went sometimes i sit in the darkness and ponder what to think but my pencil has no lead and my printer has no ink

history

hitler was a bad person stalin was a family man bismarck was a man of the people and drank his beer from a can mao wore pink pajamas and slept all afternoon churchill ran around naked whistling a happy tune roosevelt liked the ladies and watched them through his pince-nez the kaiser was always a gentleman i don’t care what anyone says ronald reagan studied the stars to determine what to do margaret thatcher sat by the river singing the weary blues richard nixon did crossword puzzles and often fell down drunk boris yeltsin wore funny hats and wished he was a monk they all drank tea with honey and ate croissants with flaky crusts now their memoirs are forgotten and their empires have turned to dust

bob and bill and brad

a guy named bob and a guy named bill lived in a shack on top of a hill they were watched by a guy named brad whose binoculars were all he had brad kept an eye on bill and bob because it was his job he watched their actions ebb and surge and a certain pattern emerged bill had the upper hand and abused bob to beat the band bob did all the work and bill claimed all the perks this went on for about a year and brad began to fear there was nothing more to see in this here territory brad was ready to move on and then awoke at dawn at the shack he took one last glance and what should he see by chance but bob pounding on bill! suddenly the air grew still brad looked on with surprisement as bob gave bill his chastisement from then on bob was king and bill was the underling bob cut bill no slack and watched the sunset with his feet on bill’s back brad made out his report and tried to keep it short had everything changed? or were they still the same? brad looked out at the sky white clouds drifted by somewhere a child scraped its knee and a bird sang in a tree