Who Is Sheila?

"Who am I?"

It was a question she'd only murmured to herself up to this point in life. A wrong answer could mean an annihilating ruin, cast into the deepest depths of hell. So best not to know.

But why now, at 57, as she's getting ready with her morning makeup, dabbing and brushing, seeing her face in the mirror same as a thousand times before, did this question burst forth?

Perhaps one can only hold one's secrets in for so long. Shame she didn't die before this question came to the fore. She could have pulled off the perfect crime.

Sheila the Hidden Housewife had mastered her role as the dutiful wife, loving mother, and - most of all - fierce protector of her way-of-life. So fierce, in fact, she'd killed to protect it.

Murder weighs on one's mind and only gets heavier over time.

Perhaps that also explained her recent nightmares of entrapped suffocation, eternally drowning in horror.

The art of successfully living a lie is in one's dedication. Oh, the bitterness she swallows on a daily basis, grinding her into tormented rage.

Just make it stop!! Someone make it stop! This can't go on!

And, yet, it does. Certainly a question is in order with such a dilemma.

"Who am I?"

Her previous answers of "Nobody" wouldn't suffice this time. But if she were something or somebody that would mean she'd spent a lifetime in self-betrayal. A 'nobody' does what is expected and the world applauds. That had become the center of her life.

The murder of her love had been a necessary evil, she reasoned. After all, worldly approval is all a 'nobody' has to live for. Only if she's 'somebody' would it be a crime.

An old and cold fate awaits her the rest of her remaining days. She'd made sure her world is locked tight where no one can get in to speak unwanted words - which also means no way out.

"Confess!"

Nooo, you idiot! NEVER do that. You'll die on the streets alone and unforgiven. You'll die with your lies in a snake filled pit, hated by any who see you!

Yet she must come clean somehow. Even set for life with her millions she raged against imaginary foes who wished to destroy her. They were the reason she has no future.

Yes, her Bible told her she must be a clean spirit. But not now. Maybe tomorrow.

My Name Is...

Saint Petersburg is the historic soul of Russian culture with her grand architecture and exquisite art. Inside one of these buildings filled with connecting grand ballrooms had gathered dignitaries of the criminal elite (i.e. the mob and government officials), agents who conducted the business of state wielding power in an infinite state of internecine conflict.

In dresses unfamiliar to their wearers were women who monitored from the edges of the rooms: the order of Savaged Souls. Peasant women plucked from rural villages traditionally brutalized by the state, left to starve and fend for themselves as their crops and livestock were plundered by city dwellers throughout Russian history.

With no way to fight back, they turned on each other, maiming and disfiguring in heated hate, crippled for life. From such places were these woman recruited.

Part of their training was gang rape from troops conscripted for war (conscripts are pulled from rural areas to keep the city elites on board with the Ukrainian war.). The soldiers took their anger out on these women until the eyes of the women flickered with life no more. From this point on, their only mission in life is to kill men - a very useful tool for the state.

A few of the Savaged Souls mingled with party-goers, missing nothing and no one, in communication with their stationary partners along the edge. Each possessed a hidden blade hungry for sanctioned blood. Trained and inbred with these knives, the women were impossible to disarm. Only death can stop the cutting.

An Intruder was at this party. He too is stopped only be death. Though his mouth betrayed a certain cruelty of decision, his eyes were alive - that was his edge. But he was just the sort of person for whom the Savaged Souls were seeking.

For the Intruder the women posed a problem. Inept pot-bellied military generals - the only kind Russia allows to stay alive lest they become too popular for the president czar's comfort - had been compromised by the Intruder who now needed a way out. But there was no fooling the deep dark ethnic eyes upon him. He'd been spotted.

That's when the lights went out.

Screams and gasps of resigned fear echoed within. A killing time had come.

One terrorized voice wailed. "My name is Igorian Petrovitch! I am protected member of the syndicate!"

"Oh, shut up, Igorian. There's nothing to be done now," replied a weary older voice.

But others cried out their names hoping their station and political connections would protect them.

Like hissing snakes the assassins slithered through the rooms seeking the Intruder. A heavy air of despair silenced the room in diminishing murmur. Only the rustling of the women's formal attire could be heard.

The gig was up. Deception is no protection this time. This must be faced head on.

"My name," stated an unapologetic voice with singular clarity, "is BOND."

Motel No-Tell On Planet Hell

It was like a nightmare from which I could not wake at the Motel No-Tell.

First I hear the grunting of a large nude black man with a gorilla mask over his head. Behind him is a well-suited white man with CEO PRICK printed on his back as he deeply penetrates gorilla guy. As he finishes, the black man angrily confronts the courtyard and yells, "Next!"

On a far wall a man is singing and wailing his one hit wonder, rabidly hitting his head against the bricks because he'll "never have that love again."

In the middle of the yard a man was being kicked and beaten in tormented desire - or as they called it: Tongue Fu fighting. The beaten man struggled to his feet crying, "Who didn't hit me?? I know someone didn't hit me!"

A man in a white robe was identified as the non-hitter. The Beaten Man was livid to his core. "Kill him! Kill him NOW!"

"Now you will pay for not hitting!"

The fighters proceeded to murder him in the worst way possible and when someone asked Beaten Man why he rationalized, "Because he's not like us and will betray us. But after he's safely dead we'll declare him a savior who died for our sins making us saved. Brilliant, huh?"

Along the perimeter I noticed a string of explosives. A group of children was placing detonators in them. "They think we don't know what's going on but we do and we're going to blow this place back to hell!"

One man panicked as he noticed the impending doom planned by the children. "Hey, look, we'll be blown up if we don't do something!"

The CEO barked, "Shut up! I'm busy!" The Tongue Fu fighters laughed, "We don't have to care. We are saved!" The head banging zombie singer slurred, "It sounds like a hit!"

Although with only a few minutes left to spare, the motley crew assembled for a press conference. Gorilla man put on his judge's robes. The CEO proudly displayed his instrument of profitable rape. The fighters put on their priestly collars. Dead head crooner exalted in an audience at last.

The judge declared the white-robed man's murder to be "absolutely legal - no appeal!" The priests displayed their bloody faces saying, "We've been persecuted for our sins!" One Hit Wonder guy confidently proclaimed the constant banging of his head against the wall "has finally fixed me! Everything seems great!"

Those were the final words spoken before the great blast which I heard as I myself was fleeing far into the desert. The explosion left no stone in place. In front of me was a sign designed to enlighten me: "Desert = death! Do not enter!"

CODA: Later I was banned from MSNBC's Morning Joe for insinuating Supreme Court Justice Uncle Tom Thomas was regularly sodomized by a real estate CEO who'd inherited all his wealth. Sorry, not sorry. Got to call them as I see them.

Forget What You Know

When the police give a lie detector test, they start with a few innocuous questions to measure your reaction.

"Place of birth?"

"I can't answer that."

"Sir, this is not a game."

"You'll be upset. I could tell you and you still wouldn't know."

"Just answer the question."

"The Dog Star, as you call it. Sirius."

The two detectives and the man running the lie detector sighed at one another.

"I can't accept that as an answer."

"Does it show as a lie?"

"I need an honest answer to set an honest baseline."

"I gave you one."

The tall detective spoke up. "You're from another planet? That's your story."

"Not everything is as it appears. Forget what you know."

The men queried each others' faces.

"You're going to sit in that chair until you answer truthfully."

"No, I'm not going to sit in this chair unless you can prove I'm lying."

"Look, pal," said the short detective. "I don't care what kind of game you're playing, we won't stand for this."

"Your game. Your rules. I'm following them, you're not. No way I can stay in this chair if you don't accept the truth."

"Is that right? You going to zap us with a ray gun?"

"There are no weapons in space. That would be complete insanity, like devising something to blow my own arm off."

"How convenient: 'no weapons in space.'"

"There's a structure to the universe you clearly do not understand."

"Well, buddy, I'll tell you what I do understand -"

"Your violence speaks for itself. You are at war with yourself, you can see it in your eyes. Once you move beyond that, the universe will pour forth, simple as that."

"We're not interested in the universe, only our investigation."

"Th universe is your investigation. Open your eyes! You're crying out for it, pleading for hope and an everlasting way to life."

"If you keep refusing to cooperate we can only infer the worst."

"Infer as you please. I have not spoken falsely. Search within and ask yourselves. Determine for yourself what is right and what is wrong. Anything else is a betrayal."

"How is it we can make you understand we don't care about the universe??"

"You might as well say you're not interested in breathing - while you do exactly that!"

"OK, I've had enough of this. But I'm going to get this much on the record: you know so much, tell us just what the universe is."

"You already know."

A murderous silence entered the room. Up and down reversed. The three inquisitors instinctively felt the urge to kill. The angriest of them exploded.

"I can tell you one thing! I can tell you what the universe is NOT! It's not LOVE!!"

The Battle Within (Here But Not Here)

The butter was melting and the popcorn was popping as Jamison waited on my living room couch. It's not often I get to inflict my Asian passion on someone. Today he was going to meet one of the all time great film characters: the blind swordsman Zatoichi.

I was hoping to provide something I rarely got during my own homeless bouts: a reprieve from the constant bombardment of scorn and soulless judgments. It felt almost too good to be true, that somehow God was slipping up to let this slide through the net of daily torment.

And I wasn't being completely selfish: Jamison already loved samurai films.

I put the popcorn down in front of him when:

"Man, I can't do this. I gotta go."

I knew that disturbed, lost tone - I've used it myself. But I had to say something.

"Dude, you're homeless! Where you gotta go?"

"I just do. Got too much on my mind."

2024

Into the woods I go. Briskly, then faster. Possessed.

 Am I running to something or from something?

Whichever it is it is getting worse.

In madness I rush, branches slashing me, time slipping away.

Then it catches me

"Help!"

"HELP!

"H-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-L-P!"

She is gone

I can't go on

Time to sigh

Time to cry

Time to die

Spin No More

I was dead-ending my way down the
crumbling concrete
of the side streets of my apartment cell
wandering and wondering
how to live up to the life narrative
I'd constructed so not to
spoil my script
as I peered a poverty stricken fellow
with his head stuck under the hood of his
misbegotten jalopy
under a searing sun
with only a hint of sky boiling we in the
immaterial world
with the lost pity of eyes spying ants vialed in
endless labors
when in sudden final exasperation
a twinkling surrender unleashes a universe of
uncried tears
whose pull halts the earth causing it to
spin no more