Sleeping At The Feet Of The Sphinx

In the desert Sinai
Where I wandered to die
Comes manna from the sky

"Damn!"

***

The purgatory of a purposeless existence is beyond pain. It crushes, suffocates, demeans, debilitates, and pierces the mind with a cutting blade that twists in endless pursuit. No wonder so many turn to a foul purpose rather than no purpose at all. But in this vacuous domain I do find myself, praying for death that will not come.

If only we'd let Nature take its course we'd be driven to be released as a fulfilled people instead of blackmailed slaves, no doubt.

I tire of fighting the wind. I surrender in hopeless defeat. The killing desert has taken many a life, so take mine.

Yet, just as I dropped to my knees, ready to drown in despair and make my final exit, manna rains down upon me.

Manna, if you did not know, is irresistible to the human form. It sustains not only the body but the spirit, invigorating each. Long forgotten dreams feel obtainable once more. There's a connection to something universal, a wild hope beyond logic or reason that makes you want to leap for joy. It's electrifying and exciting and humbling. Though death was my wish, I ingested all I could.

But why did this miracle happen to me? I am unseasoned salt, a fallen angel, useless in all ways I can conceive. I felt it time to go, that I had tried God's patience to the point of no return. And yet...

Strange thoughts had I in the burning colors of the desert sunset. Is this some leftover karma granting me a seemingly undeserved time? Or am I like a homeless soul, this emotional vagrant serving a purpose that only heaven can see? Why is my life being extended?

The ancient Hebrews tasted this taste and now so have I. But God was introducing a consciousness back then, a Presence we've since banned at all costs. Then I think of misguided Israeli assassins deceiving they protect the homeland, turning their back on the covenant, the one truth that actually can protect; more twisting aching minds seeking purpose across the globe.

Thus I remain in purgatory having been revived by the manna. When I seek death, I get life. When I seek life, I get death. So I move onward to God knows what - and God knows why.

Blow Job Betsy

Goodvine Bar's innocuous name in uptown Dallas belies a raucous and free-spirited reputation. Only one rule is enforced: leave your judgments and attitude at the door. (And woe to those who believe it won't be enforced!) When it comes to fun, these guys are fascists.

For the past fifteen years Betsy had made the bar her personal hunting ground, trolling by on a near weekly basis. It was Halloween time (her favorite) and she arrived in great anticipation with her handmaid tale outfit, ready to serve. The bar was small and tight but complemented with outdoor seating - and a rooftop stairway out of sight of the others. Betsy surveyed the landscape for a willing partner. Though the bar was visited by both billionaires and bums, from straight-laced to sex queens, only a small sliver could suit her needs.

The young bucks she had downgraded on her scale years ago - and they usually had nubile accompaniment. The wolf looks for weak strays from the herd. She spied an older man - much older than her 42 - and decided he was the best of the lot. His silver mane still had signs of life and she predicted she could be a fantasy come true for him. Fantasy fulfillment was her self-designated job in a world populated by the army of the dead.

She struck up a conversation, slyly speaking of the dangerous deeds she'd witnessed over the years, couples engaging right there on the grounds! See planted seeds of possibilities to see what would sprout. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. But she always has to keep trying.


She had her day job. She had her small and tidy apartment. But in them she had no life; neither were home. Goodvine Bar was her hope, her base of operations. A shy wallflower would look upon Betsy with awe as she commanded the field and made her charge without fear or hesitation. What wallflowers did not see, however, was the ever louder ticking clock in Betsy's head.

Her looks have a shelf life and one day her visits will bear no more fruit, a wretched lipsticked hag throwing herself in unseemly desperation. She knew she had to stop before she became that creature. Each time she looked in the mirror preparing for her visit a piece of her heart broke as she took one step closer to the end of the trail.

To deal with her aching fears she became a "Comfort Christian" to hedge her bets for eternal life. Next to her bed she kept an unread Bible below a wall-mounted cross hung in dutiful devotion. She waxed and waned on her rituals participation according to her current level of panic. When Betsy did pray, though, her most fevered request was to extend the number of days of her blow job career.

She imagined the thrill she must be giving, offering a gift available from no one else but her to the shadow men she serviced. She felt she was in a small way keeping the world alive, to spin another day; human need never-ending. Yet outside of this, she saw nothing else to offer.

Unconfessed and unadmitted until her dying was the Turning Point in her aspiring youth. Betsy had always felt special - even if she couldn't exactly explain why. Back when she had relationships she took pride in domineering her companion. "They'll do anything for me." She reached her height of power when she formulated The Speech, laying down the law of her escalating expectations. Then she went too far.

It was her strongest lecture yet, sure to cow her latest companion/conquest into permanent submission, demanding he up his game to match her lofty ideals. She deserved the best! (Plus she had just read that in a magazine). She'd never forget that Moment, the Look on his face, the Confidence she was sure was hers.

But his crestfallen face did not export the words she expected to hear. "Jesus! If I were all that why would I want you?"

She'd been tumbling ever since, trying to regain her footing, her one certainty never to feel that burn ever again. It was as if she'd been branded with a scarlet letter. "They might reject me but they won't turn down a blow job." Betsy settled on her formula for success, not to be swayed otherwise.

"Look, I'm headed over to this block party down the street. OK, if I get your digits?"

Flattered, the silver-maned man duly provided his cell. Betsy cheerily waved goodbye.

Stepping outside into the crisp night to make the half-mile walk to the block party was like stepping into a dark swallowing void. Sleeping in her place was like sleeping in a house slowly on fire: only a matter of time before she has nowhere to go, no way to live. Nights were getting longer, the sedatives getting stronger. Tick...tick...tick

"I have to get this fixed! No point waiting another day. I feel like the national debt, for God's sake," Betsy blubbered.

But in the end, the only crop she could reap was the seeds she had planted. Trembling and isolated at the block party, she whipped out her phone. "Heya, how's it going?" she texted, Blow Job Betsy for one night more.

Putin Assasinated (Looking For God In A Godless World)

The Dreaded Dream - the recurring ever-present nightmare - perpetually lurks in the shadows waiting for unredeemed eyes to close in dire search of escape.

It starts in a place of darkness, down a slippery slope of black ice, scrambling for absent grip, praying for a way to stop the slide, unable to see above or below - or what horrible unimaginable fate happens when the slope runs out.

His fingers ache from the stress when he wakes up, the desperate clawing to no avail. Each time he asks himself: "Is this when the slope ends? Oh, God no!"

Russian roulette has never been more real.

"How can no one see me? How can no one see what's going on? I must have help! But I must hide my truth at all costs. How can I win?"

Each day he waits unredeemed, his truth becomes more horrid.

His was the last house standing in the neighborhood. He'd burned down the rest in fits of insanity. He thought himself clever making himself fire marshal coming to "rescue" his victims. As he hears the families scream in burning deaths, he gloats with smirking outrage as the hero of the day.

Of course, some people aren't happy unless they are being lied to.

But his victories are his defeat. "Please, someone - anyone - stop my madness! Intervene! Is there no crime big enough for you to detain me?"

His crimes are his plea for help. He is too weak and too helpless to do so on his own. He is scared of the sun.

He crawls naked into his his closet, begging his suits of respectability to clothe his shame and suppressed sex fantasies of dominate; a life of tortured charade.

As much as he needs his veneering suits he needs his enemies. Life would be unbearable without these illusions of love. "You must love me for I wear nice suits!" "If you don't love my suit you must be enemy of my state!"

He never met a lie he didn't like.

So desperate was his soul he cries out before the world: "There is no happiness in life, only a mirage of it on the horizon." Even this could not break the crushing silence.

Craving fame he'd chosen infamy, begging and bribing others to join his folly. Who needs to be voted a "winner" more than life's loser?

But nothing solved the riddle of escaping the Dreaded Dream's cage. He could imprison the world but still not escape his own. This thought scares him more than any other: that his path does not lead to ultimate freedom.

"I'll burn down the world if they don't stop me! You say you are so moral! Prove it!"

Then it hits him: Life is a love or death situation. And in his broken mind love is not an option.

So he fixes himself a brew of polonium tea, to equal his cruelty of the past. He notices while contemplating its ingestion the wild elation of finally being free of his godless world, causing an erection. Not one to waste a rare opportunity, he stripped down and masturbated as he drank the poison.

And that's how he was found by his traitorous aides the next morning: naked, covered in ignominy, and assassinated.