I'm A Racist, I Swear!

"Look here, ol' Harry's got a secret!"

"No I don't!" I declared in a preemptive strike.

It was the gang of usual suspects: Larry the Loser, Beer Gut Gary, Redneck Randy, and me. You may ask why I would hang out with them but the real question is why would anyone hang out with me. So here - as in my fucking job - I am stuck.

I'd left the monthly receipt out from my ACLU donation on my chest of drawers and since the only bathroom in my tiny abode is in my bedroom it was left to the scrutiny of unscrupulous eyes. Even as a spy, it's too much for me to be able to hide everything little thing every fricking time. So there I was, caught by Redneck Randy as he presented the blasphemous evidence to the kangaroos.

"Thirty-five dollars! To the ACLU. Always figured ya for a librul pussy, Harry!"

"Nigger lover!" spurted Gary - after fully swallowing his gulp of beer.

Larry didn't want to feel left out as he hated everyone - especially those named Larry. "You're not fooling anyone, Harry, on what you are!"

In this this twisted gang everyone's got your back - with a knife in it. "Hey, guys, I hate niggers, spics, chinks, commies, and lefties too! See? I just said nigger, that proves I'm a racist just like y'all."

"Sayin' it once don't prove nothin'. Ya gotta say it all the time - and mean it."

"Yeah! This ain't Twitter shit! One slip doesn't mean anything if you can't back it up."

"You're a real hypocrite claiming to be a racist, Harry!"

Boy howdy, there I was sitting there like chum in the water with these foul faced sharks circling around certain of a meal to come. Yes, I was scared, but I knew it was because they live in dire fear.

"Look, guys, I say nigger all the time. You've seen me when I get cut off in traffic. I always call them a nigger! And I know all the other names too: porch monkey, jigaboo, coon - " Under pressure of the moment my mind went blank and I was forced to grab my "fit in" list out of the back pocket of my jeans. "- Oh ya, and 'gator bait' and 'moon cricket'!"

"I always liked 'moon cricket'," beamed Randy.

"I'm sorry, but the fact you had to get a list out is highly offensive to me." Gary folded his arms in a huff across his beer belly - after grabbing a fresh can.

"We're not stupid like you think, Harry. We know a racist when we see one and you're just not one."

"Nothing pisses me off more than finding

a black man in a klan outfit!!"

"Dammit, I'm just like everyone else! I'll go cut up a pillowcase, write KKK on it, and spend rest of the evening wearing it. How's that for ya."

"We don't want no fakers in the klan."

"You got no credentials. When's the last time you even joked about burning a cross on a lawn??"

"We're people of integrity, Harry. You can't con us with a little black face or empty slurs."

Great. Now they have integrity. When it comes to being assholes they get on their high horse. Rest of the time they slink around like the cowardly snakes they are, never standing up to anyone. For some reason, I always seem to embolden people around me. I really hate that.

"You guys must not have seen my Twitter account. They're calling me racist and homophobe and even sexist too! I swear, I make nuanced points all the time and they hate me for it."

"Them idiot fuckers say that about everyone! Don't mean a damn thing."

"Twitter is for people got nothing better to do than call people names. They full of ideas no one got any sense of."

"Really, Harry! Getting called racist on Twitter is the best defense you can provide? I had a woman on Twitter call my cat a racist. You'll have to do better than that."

"Shit, don't know what to say. Maybe we could go nigger knocking later?"

"Nah, man, I think we better leave."

"I want to drink my beer someplace where I'm wanted."

"I remember seeing you eat watermelon few weeks back too. We're outta here."

"Hey, what's with this 'cancel culture' move? You're acting like a bunch of lefties now!"

That halted them in their tracks, forcing the cruelty of questioning thought upon them. Can I be called a liberal for this?? Anything but that, Lord! Hating on them is all I got!

The three of them slowly, reluctantly, sat back down, as a dog would after having been scolded. Their furrowed brows felt compelled to speak.

"OK, Harry, but you need to watch yourself. Donating just doesn't sit well with me."

"You're gonna end up wearing feathers in a gay pride parade someday if we don't reel you in."

"We don't want to catch you showing signs of self-respect again, Harry. We need to know we can trust you."

"Don't worry," I sighed, realizing I'd just kept three idiots in my living room just to keep from being alone. "No danger of that."

"What do know about that? Ol' Harry here is a soldier."

Kennedy Quietly Died In The Kitchen Tonight

Get the book!

It happened with an unexpected sigh. She wasn't doing anything different from what she'd always done - never deviating from her lifelong formula for a successful life - when the bottom fell out. She hesitated as if in reply to the observing universe, then continued cleaning the pot from tonight's party. Guests were still in the living room but this was her ritual to have a clean kitchen after serving the meal. Then she'd rejoin all shiny and new.

My God! Will they notice the change in me?

Having happened, it wasn't as unexpected as she'd hoped. Part of her knew. Over the years, too many weights had been added to her burdens. Now, at last, she moved no more. She'd be a laughingstock, a fool for the ages, a sloth mocked by children with light in their eyes. The choke-hold on her heart extinguished the last hope of her unspoken dreams.

What happens now? she pretended not to know.

Outside of the hesitation, Kennedy had shown no outward sign of the devastating event that had just occurred. Do what you always do. Pray no one catches on. She asked God for help in hiding her truth.

Entering the living room to the assembled group it was if she were looking through a two-way mirror: she could see them but they could not see her. It terrified her to think this would be life from now on, viewing the world through a shaded window, skewing reality's perception. An earnest discussion was going on but she only wished to cry out for help.

You're supposed to be happy! What are you going to do: Tell them you've been lying all this time?

She sat down on the sofa as she expected a normal person would. She had trouble assimilating the words being spoken around her, as if she were a leaf stuck in a river who couldn't keep up. Her interest was elsewhere. She cursed God for not answering her prayer even as Heaven, facing an irreparable loss, wailed its concern for her.

Dear God, you don't expect me to break down and scream right here in front of everyone do you?? That's too much to ask! When the answer came back in the affirmative she decided that was the devil trying to trick her.

Kennedy forced herself out of her reverie. Who the hell cares what they're talking about. Some crap showing on TV. The world's going to do what the world's going to do. Get over it!

Kassidy was livid. "Cops are out of control! They flat our murdered that guy. Choked right to death  in front of God and everybody. Unbelievable"

Scenes of protests flashed across the screen as open rage erupted across the nation. To Kennedy, it seemed as if everyone's dreams had suddenly died. She saw people crying out for help in hopeless drowning terror. All she knew for sure was she needed a hug. Instead, she hoped for someone on whom to blame her woes.

"They should all just shut up! None of that protesting does any good. Nothing's going to change. Only God can bring justice."

Karl, her husband, along with Kassidy and her husband KC, vehemently disagreed in a cacophony of backlash she did not care to hear - so she didn't. She retorted in equal conviction.

"You don't know all the facts! of me. Give that cop and me a chance to speak. Maybe things aren't what you think. You don't know what you don't know about me."

The debate continued with facts Kennedy felt irrelevant. She just hated the sound of people speaking so confidently of their position, like a judge's voice passing sentence. She too was upset in the extreme - she just couldn't tell anyone why.

That night in bed, she felt a tail growing from the small of her back. This frightened Kennedy more than Hell's fury and Heaven's wrath combined. She pushed it back in with the force of her hand, choking back the fears, holding back the years, lost in an unmapped wilderness. And this is how she slept for the rest of life, her mind disintegrating, begging for rest - and the world to be quiet.

Through The iPhone Looking Glass

It had been an unenjoyable evening with my parents. The long walk back from the restaurant did not help. The visiting city didn't turn out to be near as interesting as I hoped. There was just nowhere for me to go. Defeated, I prayed I'd find safe haven back in my hotel room. Instead, I was dropped directly into the fires of Hell.

I was still collecting my thoughts when my Mom, my stepfather, and a hotel employee burst through the door. My Mom started in right away.

"How could you do such a thing?"

My stepfather was red-faced and livid, smoke coming from the large ears of his narrow head. He lived for these moments. "What's wrong with you!" He never meant that as a question, only an accusation; the only words he knew.

The hotel guy, the designated observer, scared me the most. He had that Official Hotel Look with his burgundy vest, trimmed hair, and square face. In one hand he had handcuffs and the other an electric chair. What the fuck is going on here? They can't mean to fucking kill me - can they?

"What are you even talking about??"

"I saw you take that cowboy hat with the Yankee logo from that woman. You just walked right out of there!"

"What's wrong with you!" chimed in my stepfather, ever more smoke rising.

In my head I tried to imagine what possible scenario could have caused this misunderstanding. I'd met and seen no one since I left the meal with my parents. There's no way my mother could have "seen" anything to even be confused by. Worst part was, this didn't feel like a misunderstanding. It felt like a courtroom conviction from a trial that had already been held.

"What woman? What are you talking about? Is this like something from the hotel gift shop? Only thing Yankee tonight was on the Fact App I showed you on your iPhone, for your theme."

"This kind of behavior cannot be tolerated. No more, ever again." She gave the nod to the hotel guy to strap me in.

"Wait, goddamit, wait!"

"Do you hear this? Do hear the kind of language I have to put up with?"

"What's wrong with you!"

"I didn't do anything. Who are you? Are you some type of imposters!"

When I said that my mother's face turned different shades of colors. He hair too, going from blonde to orange, like an orangutan. It was the only logical explanation I could think of. Only one thing felt for certain: a desire to kill me.

"We know you're guilty. We talked to Emily. We know what you did."

They played the trump card. I crouched down and cowered behind the bed as my mother went off.

"Why did you do that to her? What kind of person are you! What would the neighbors say if they found out?"

"I was afraid! I was afraid of her - afraid of me. I knew it was wrong..."

"Are you telling us you don't feel guilty?"

"What's wrong with you!"

Guilt? I'm a billionaire in guilt, a global leader. I can't possibly deny guilt - even though I had nothing to do with this whole supposedly stolen cowboy hat fiction they concocted as a ruse for the hotel executioner. In what I thought would be a stroke of luck I remembered the Fact App.

"Look, see here on the Fact App. It shows everywhere I've been tonight. There's no woman, no nothing. Just me walking back here."

That really set off my Mom who was screaming at this point. "This isn't about facts! We're not here for facts!"

"What's wrong with you!"

I couldn't believe my crestfallen ears. This can't be who my parents are. Irrational, fact-hating, out-of-control blaming homicidal maniacs. My head was spinning as I stayed crouched behind the fig leaf of protection provided by the bed. Then in an instant, things became crystal clear.

"My God! You're Trump supporters!"

All three started yelling at me at the top of their lungs, exposing the conspiracy. "Who are you to say anything!" "What's wrong with you!" "We know you're guilty! We know all about Emily, you sick bastard!" "This has gone on long enough! Can you say to us you're not guilty!"

The room drew quiet, like a hurricane had passed through and one is viewing the devastation in stark disbelief. I knew my time was up and I had to pay for their sins. Each of their chests heaved in unison, bloodthirsty, ready for the kill. I realized during that miserable dinner tonight I'd done a much reviled Innocent Thing in showing the Fact App, thinking they'd appreciate it and be delighted with its use. But my Emily betrayal can not be denied.

"Yes, I'm guilty."

Like hellhounds released from a cage I was strapped in to the electric chair and fried to death before their wide open eyes absorbing every moment as if they knew they were witnessing their own fatal future to come. As my spirit left my body I saw my Mom sip a celebratory cocktail.

"Thank God we got the son-of-a-bitch before anyone found out I can't operate an iPhone."

I Live In The Sky

Angry judge with gavel hand
In his fury did demand:
"Homeless fucker tell me why
"You say you live in the sky."

"Your honor meaning disrespect,
"In you treason I detect!
"You have the power and the might,
"But not the love to make you right."

"Yes, I was a high school loser
"But I got me a slick judge cruiser!
"In this world they call me winner
"I pity the god who calls me sinner."

"These false things you find pleasin'
"Justify what you call reason;
"But you will have to give them up
"If you want love to lift you up."

"Listen, beggar, at my feet
"My victory is your defeat;
"Do not suffer my contempt!
"Ruling you makes me content."

"You may rule hell's last domain
"But what has future is the sane.
"Be careful of the life you claim
"In the end, your love sustains."

"Philosophy, your last resort!
"And by your words I suffer tort!
"In these robes a holy whore -
"Better that than living poor!"

"You sit on bench a piggish cow
"Accusing me both here and now;
"But of your debts I cannot pay
"And in this case you have no say."

"I'll not be damned in my court room!
"I'll see to it you're sentenced doom!
"We're not here for my confession -
"That's not required by my profession."

"If your job's your life but life's your job
"Then tell me from which one you rob.
"It's true I live in poverty -
"But you see my soul is free."

"I don't care if I do or die;
"I'll not leave you in the sky!
"I make my final stubborn stand:
"On this day, God's will be damned."

At this, the court reporter leaned over to the bailiff and whispered:
"Sheesh, all this from asking his address..."

ERROR 16; UNDEFINED

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                                                                                                 MEMORY LEAK 48

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STACK OVERFLOW

SHUTDOWN; SYS FAILURE; TERMINAL

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Computers are just a series of light switches
commanded by code

I Can't Breathe (Video)

From a combination of personal and found media, and of, course, a song which I could never do justice.

I's Saving Da World!

Harry trynna be famous like me!

"Hey, Harry, I gots me a blog now jess like you has!"

"That's very special of you."

"An' guess what! I's saving da world jess like you!"

"Good deal. I was ready for the world to die anyway."

"Dat right! We gonna pull it off together. Guess wot I done did do??"

"Lord, punish me more."

"First thing I does, I puts this thing at top sayin' 'Wash Yo Hands!'"

"You're a real lifesaver."

"Dat's da fact, jack! And dat not all. Next I puts up a thing saying, "Stay da fuck home!" How dat for being responsible!"

"I'll have to start addressing you as 'Mahatma'."

"See wot you mean how great it feel sendin' out powerful messages to the peoples. Doin' the Lord's work we is!"

"Somebody certainly needs to."

"Now I's on a roll! So I puts up "Don't be racialist!" on there too. So by-dammit I be licking these racialist problems ev'ryone yappin' an' protestin' about!"

"I'm sure you're in the running for a Nobel Peace Prize."

"I aughts to be! Dis most fun I ever done had. I be tryin' new shit just like real folks does! Looks at me, I be woke! We gonna shake up da world!"

"Don't get your hopes up there, buddy boy. Nobody - and I mean nobody - reads the stuff I put out. See, there's millions of blogs out there, almost impossible to get noticed. It's good that you do this for own self, but don't expect anything to happen."

"Nah, man, dat's wot I been wantin' to tell ya! I has like actual million hits on it. It done gone virus! Peeps sayin' how great I is doin' what I doin', sayin' right thing, bein' all responsible an' shit. An', hell, I thought it be hard doing actual writin' but there ain't nuttin to it!"

"Well, uh, I...a million hits, eh? From mindless sloganeering?"

"Yes, suh! Got interviewin' line up an' everything. People wants to hear wot I gots to say! I shoulda done this years ago! How long you been doin' it, Harry?"

"Not sure, escapes me at the moment."

"Like fifteen year, ya'll tol' me afore!"

"Something like that..."

"Dang, it great bein' social responsibull. Nuttin' to it, really, I's still same asshole ever was. Thanks, Harry, y'all teached me everythin' I need 'bout dis - accept for da part 'bout not gettin' read."

"Glad I helped prick your social conscience. Good to know my life has purpose, after all. The future is saved."

"Ya got dat, right! I gots all sorts of stuff to save now. "Don't be killin whales!" is next. I feelin' da power!"

"Life sure has a sick sense of humor. Have a nice day, Mr. Trump."

Divorced Again, Naturally

Everywhere she went, she wasn't there. Her voice was not her own, but a recording from years past. Her body went through the motions of living as her spirit moved out. The sun had become a curious onlooker to her life, she noticed in the corner of her eye. Distracted by dead dreams, sorrow her final celebration. These were a few of her horrific things.

"The smell - that new car smell - it smells like...victory!"

Her nephew was showing off his recently purchased American dream. She could barely remember the last time an inanimate object gave her that kind of excitement. She emitted the expected words from the midst of her grieving slumber, even congratulating herself afterwards on her acting job. Had she been honest as she wished to be, she'd have told him the car had no meaning just like everything else in this world.

Worst of all, she discovered her divorce a bigger failure than her marriage. Freedom from "that man" had made her realize her prison was her own. She raged at the face in the mirror for having got her in this impossible position of falsified blame. The detached deviltry of her bridge burning left her at sea with no land in sight. Which way do you row your boat when every direction looks the same?

Had she followed the vein of honesty she cried out for, she'd write "FOOL" on her forehead every morn for all the world to see. "I lied, I died" would be imprinted on her shirt. She would stand in front of her house, holding a sign saying "My injustice is my own!", protesting her life. She was rapidly using up her capital reserves paying rent due on her soul. Oh, to be free of pretending!

One stray morning she was busy dressing herself, forgetting who she was, experiencing an innocent moment, a painful reminder of what she'd lost. She felt she swam in an ocean of shame as others passed by in ships of joy. A few ships exhorted her to come aboard but that would mean even greater pretending, so she floated away wherever the salt water currents took her. She trusted anyone's decisions more than her own, giving self-righteous fools power over her love.

Her greatest fear was her ex would grow and mature, not staying faithful to their sordid contract of co-dependence. Only if he stayed as pathetic as she could her divorce be declared a success. Living in the shadow of irreversible disaster gnawed at her day and night, waking her in pounding fear in the middle of the fright. "What have I done to my life? It keeps getting worse!" Childhood photos stabbed her heart.

Her "plan" had been no plan at all. Just another waste of time, a political stance to appease the masses. She looked at the son and decided that was not for her. Who could believe in her now, the house-frau cow? "God will have to fix me." Which duly increased her bitterness regardless of how many "God is Great!" signs she plastered around the house.

Another sunset for the ages glowed over the ocean waters behind her house. She studied the sky to read God's mood. Surely her life wasn't meant to end up this way. Yet she didn't see another path. At long last she was forced to face to lie is to die. Too late, she wrote a poem on the beach.

I sit on the shore

A Florida whore,

Magic in the waves.

An ancient dream

This does seem,

With one foot in the grave.

Returning home

I'm left alone,

In a place no one stays.

The Biwa Priest

The road to Itanaba is a busy one leading up to the days of its famed Thunder Drums festival. Roadside tea shops overflow with travelers filled with anticipation, the air ignited with energy and a general feeling of camaraderie. Among these pilgrims was a nameless biwa priest, who took his food off by himself into the woods, as if he were in solitary pain. Then he played himself a song in stringed sympathy, the trees and insects his audience. By the time he returned to the tea shop, there was a commotion.

Kurobe, the ronin samurai who had terrorized the Itanaba village since he arrived three years ago, was demanding tribute from the tea shop owner, an elderly woman who had no choice but to comply. The priest made his way through the onlookers to stand front and center so that he could eye Kurobe up close. Kurobe was stung by the priestly stare.

"What do you look at, priest? Robes or no robes, I will strike you down!"

The shop woman returned from the back, sobbing, handing over what meager coins she had. Her deference was abject and complete as the priest stood witnessing before the heavens above. Kurobe was infuriated.

"I thought I told you to be gone!" he railed as he pocketed the money uneasily, as if he were standing on coals. No one ever stood up to Kurobe, who could not be defeated with a sword. But the priest had no sword. "Now avert your eyes or you will never see out them again!" A raging, trembling hand grabbed his sword handle, ready to draw and slice.

"I do not wish to kill," replied the priest in all sincerity, teetering on the edge of despair at the prospect of having to do so.

"Kill? Kill who? You have no sword or weapon. Is your biwa so lethal?" A bemused Kurobe walked around the priest in studied observance. "No, you have nothing. Do you have any last words, priest? Been a long time since I had such an enjoyable kill."

"What's enjoyable about killing yourself? Do you not see the sun above which records every deed? Will you strike it down too?"

Kurobe sensed a strength in the man, a soul who walked his own path. Each man is alone in the world, answering to no one at the end of the day. Like every terrorist, Kurobe's campaign was a cry for unanswered love. With the priest he felt a connection, of someone who could give him the understanding he craved. But the reason the terrorist was driven to instill fear was to express the very fear he felt victimized by. The priest knew this.

Kurobe changed his stance, unable to sever the connection he needed. "Very well, priest. The next cloudy day you will die." Kurobe turned his back rather pleased with his pithy response.

"Wait!" demanded the priest. "What is it you fear in the sun?"

A furious Kurobe spun around. "I fear nothing!"

"Do you not fear to give a sobbing old woman her money back? Are you so weak?"

"I take what is mine! Why should I care about her? Who cares about my heart in the still of the night? It's every person for himself in this life."

"I am sorry for your loneliness. Its wounds I too suffer in daily torment. I play my biwa in healing ritual. Shall I play for you?"

"I have no need!" waved off Kurobe who stormed back to the village suddenly embarrassed.

The witnessing crowd gasped at the priest, assuring him he was lucky to be alive.

"Who said I'm alive?" he rebuked. "Listen not to my priestly musings."

***

A nameless wanderer of the land, the priest took pleasure in the simple things of life: a good meal, the smells of early Spring, listening to the rain while visiting a temple. These were his final refuge in a destroyed life. A former high-ranking samurai, he betrayed his liege-lord in a fit of jealousy over his lord's wife. His desires exposed to the clan, he was given the choice of an honorable death or a dishonorable priesthood. His cage of guilt crushed him with every dawn; a man proven untrustworthy. Fools who approach the priest as a godly man were sorely mistaken, he wryly observed.

"Everything is the opposite of what it seems." Only a loser needs be called a winner.

He was a poor biwa player but dedicated. "If only I had the talent..." Then maybe he'd be safe from his unmet needs, his instrument friend enough. But then again, he'd been forced to realize: he who lives by the biwa dies by the biwa - just as Kurobe lived by his sword. Though not knowing what shape or form, he knew another encounter was imminent, as if the script had already been written. No doubt Kurobe was a in a bar somewhere downing sake fast as he could, licking his wounds trying to clear his head of the demon's pitchforks of inadequacy the priest had unleashed. Otsuna's face, however, was a problem he could never solve with sake or sword. Kurobe's one ambition in life was to reduce every situation to one he could resolve with a blade.

"That stupid priest. There's something wrong about him."

The idea his life - and every life - was nothing more than a struggle for love and that no other endeavor has meaning or purpose was the idea he most wanted to slay. The fact the priest had taken up that point of view bothered him greatly. Yet even Kurobe knew killing the priest would not save him from his torment. No, he must prove his sordid soul too could have love and with that eliminate the priest's pestilence. Tonight would be the night he'd have Otsuna's love - even if he had to take it. A fool no more he'd be - he just needed more sake first.

The priest knew he'd set off a chain reaction. He figured by that evening the time bomb that was Kurobe would tragically explode. That's when the priest knew he'd have to pay for his sins [deliberately ambiguous].

***

The Itabana village at night during festival time is a magical place. With the influx of outsiders the villagers were able to shrug off the ever-looming threat of Kurobe and his band of thugs and connect to the ancient traditions that had passed down for centuries through civil war and famine, an historic string binding them and bringing them together. There was no escaping the sounds of the thunder drums, a beating heart for miles around. Their soundtrack provided a communal backdrop for the activities lighted by the excited glow of lanterns lining the edges of eaves as only happens during the festival. It was impossible not to feel special.

A few revelers begged the priest to join in with his biwa but he was on a mission. He knew Kurobe's pain and humiliation firsthand. And though loathe to be connected to Kurobe, the universe had made its decision. Out of sync with the surrounding activities, he stepped slowly and deliberately, keeping an eye out for a doubtless angry beast on the prowl. The priest would be the last person the beast wanted to see - it wanted no witnesses to its seething crime. The priest knew he must be like water to match the level of the beast's focus.

Having found the bar where Kurobe had been drinking, the priest asked of the madman's whereabouts. The owner said he did not know ("I'm just glad he's gone.") but had heard Otsuna's name mumbled on the way out. She lived south of the village. To the surprise of everyone, Kurobe had actually been careful to court her in a legitimate way, as if her stamp of approval would legitimize his life. Yet the priest found the beast exactly as was feared.

Kurobe's eyes were of another world, possessed by a demonic will. "She refused me! She refused me again!" he explained to the approaching priest. "No more! Tonight's she's mine." Otsuna's limp body was in the grasp of his right arm, clinging to his body.

"Kurobe!" barked the priest. "Did you kill her!"

"Not yet. But she's mine tonight!" His voice spoke to the priest but his eyes were still not present, trapped in an inner nightmare. The priest knew he must act quickly.

"Kurobe! If you must kill someone, kill me!" The eyes did not hear him. "Listen! You cannot kill her. It's me you should kill."

The eyes half-heard, their voice that of a curious parent to a child. "Kill you? Why kill you."

"For you to face yourself! I said I did not want to have to kill you but you've left me no choice."

"No." Kurobe's eyes were gaining consciousness. "You can't kill me."

"You don't need to understand it for it to happen. Leave, Kurobe, before it's too late!"

The priest had gained the eyes' full attention. They dropped Otsuna, stalking their way towards the holy man, sword in hand. With a single stroke, the priest's biwa was sliced in two. "Now I kill you," the beast vowed with eyes looking from its forehead.

"Is that what you want? To expose yourself like that? Then we'll know who it is you think you are - but are not!"

Kurobe hesitated.

***

CODA: No one is certain of the outcome of Kurobe and the priest, as neither they nor Otsuna were ever seen again in the village. One rumor had that a silent killer of priests roamed the countryside in a ceaseless quest for vengeance. Another had it the priest saved Kurobe's soul that night ("I am the devil!" "We are angels!"), marrying the couple in a runaway ceremony. The rest were somewhere between homicide and suicide. In Itanaba, it was only after Kurobe had left that they sensed his previous loneliness.

Mein Böse Benign!

"Oh, those wacky Nazis! What they up to now, Frans?"

"Oh, Hans, that General Göring, he's a clever cookie, stealing all the best paintings in Europe for himself."

"He's so funny! Sounds like something my stupid friend from high school would do, always taking last piece of pie."

"And Himmler, maniacally keeping all the unwanted people in their place. He's so dedicated!"

"You know, there's a couple of things I disagree with him about but overall he's doing a good job far as I can tell."

"And everyone's hero, Herr Hitler, is at it again, foaming at the mouth in his speeches and inciting hysteria wherever he goes."

"He's just like a crazy uncle invited over for dinner. He sure does stir the pot!"

"So many people badmouthing Der Fuhrer. Some people just want to complain."

"Ja, ja, it's the radicals that ruin it for everyone. Kill all the Jews. Kill none of the Jews. Truth is somewhere in the middle, like always."

"Thank you for your moderation! I like it best when we all get along."

Don't be judgmental, support your local Nazi!

"We must be reasonable and confine ourselves to sports talk. We're just little people. Who are we to have opinions - except for latest soccer strategy, then we get tough!"

"Precisely! Supporting our government is a good thing. Let's keep silent any major criticism. The approval of the good people out there must never be lost!"

"Exactly! Stay in good stead, we shall. That's how you know you're on the right path."

"Of course, we never say things can't be better. But only a fool expects perfection."

"Ja, those concentration camps aren't perfect but that doesn't mean they won't be made better! One must keep an open mind."

"It's the responsible thing to do. It used to be OK to have so many Jews here but not anymore. They'll end up taking everything and leaving us with nothing!"

"You know, Frans, the responsible thing is not always the popular thing."

"Right! Taking a stand has a price but we won't shy away from that when the time comes."

"What a crazy world we live in! Most people are just plain selfish, always happy as long as they have their toys, oblivious to the world around them. But that's OK as long as one does greed responsibly."

"My priest Gordon has said those very words to me. The German way has given us very good lives. Der Fuhrer has done many great things for the German people."

Don't be an extremist who never sees the good in anything!

"No one can deny that! Except one of those anti-Hitlers who just blindly hate everything he does."

"I can't stand that sort of mentality who refuses to look at both sides of the equation. You have to give the devil his due."

"That you do! People way overreact to evil. After all, the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was getting elected."

"You gotta respect that if ya got a lick of sense."

"And just to show how broadminded we are, let's head off to our golf tournament to raise funds for the Jewish orphans whose parents were gassed after the women were raped and experimental surgery was performed in the most horrifyingly manner possible."

"Sounds good! See you there!"

In a few short years, Hans and Frans were sent off the to Russian front, both dying of exposure from having been given only summer clothing to wear by the responsible government they supported. No one knows or cared what they said during their time on the Russian front because the time for speaking out had passed. They were swept into the dustbin of history like all the "good Germans" who went along to get along. Neither one admitted anything bad could happen as long as they kept quiet and did what was expected.

[Inspired by Dunham and Miller, 1310 The Ticket]

The Girl With Naked Eyes

[From the freedom of the clouds the camera descends upon a cold, sterile prison. Then we pass through the walls to a man clutching iron bars in his cell. His face is wrought with pain and dismay. He has an urgent message!]

"Tell me what I've done that's so wrong! I don't belong here. I should be as free as anyone else. Why can't you people see that? Are you insane? You think this is some sort of joke? I'm here to tell you this is as serious as it gets!

"I want to speak to you today of man's inhumanity to man. Of injustice. Of jailing a man without just cause. Of a day of reckoning coming to us all. I want to speak of the future we must create as opposed to the one we have chosen. I want to speak of the one thing driving every soul in this world today: salvation.

"When I look around I see a people who've forbidden freedom to themselves. They claim there is no other to live in order to justify their criminal behavior. But no matter how passionate or persuasive their arguments, they fall on deaf ears at the end of day. We will never stop crying out for freedom, in this we are inseparably bound whether we face it or not.

"From behind these bars I plead guilty for love. The sun does not shine for me, institutions hold heads under water in godless terror; hearts without eyes. How much longer can this go on? It is NOT an infinite time! Imprisonment is not a solution, it simply embraces a defeat that need never happen. The paradise we've lost is out there waiting to be had.

"Only the truth can save us. Anything else is a tragedy in the making. When a heart has no more tears left it dries up, the universe reacts in sorrow and woe. I must speak my mind on these things killing me, trapped in hell's nightmare a framed man. What is the recourse for iron bars? Where is a prisoner's hope?

"Each night I cry out for the Girl With Naked Eyes who sees the truth of me, her face  unreachable as a rainbow. I want to see the sun again, not die alone unheard in the dark. Can no one understand me? I make my case to the heavens but nothing ever changes. I ask you: Is death my only freedom? [Eyes turn inward] Madness! It's madness, I tell you!"

[Camera holds steady with same frame as we see him retreat and fade into a blurry background, swallowed whole. Then it pulls slowly back, giving us the full picture. Very clearly we see the cell door wide open. He is his own jailer.]

NOTE: Scene is to be filmed with door closed and actor should not be told it will be edited later to show the door had been open all along. Keep him cooped up as long as possible to put him on edge. Feed only one paragraph at a time to the actor so each one stands on its own. Tell him he has to make his case for justice and if we don't believe him he'll be left there to rot forever - or through lunch anyway. No matter how well he does, say it won't do - especially if he's trying hard. Let him feel the sting of blind injustice.

[After credits roll we seem him sitting on the call's bed, hands on head, slumped over. He looks up to see open door. Camera cuts to door. Camera cuts to close up of his face, eyes hurt and trapped, unable to leave.]

NOTE: Consider doing whole scene as a voice-over, viewing his anguish while hearing his thoughts. Only at the "madness" line do we see him speaking out loud.

I Spy!

With the hunger of a priest released
from his vows,
he stalks the night,
inhabiting recesses,
espying flesh denied and cried,
evading God's searching eye.

Brooding hipsters future grim
Rehearsing laughter drowning sin

Broken token takes a fall,
"He ain't needed, after all!"

Doctor! Doctor! is academic,
Viral guilt true pandemic.

Hug the devil cursing heaven;
Roll another lucky seven!

Park bench drooling man, he dozes;
Park Place drooling man, he poses

Twilight Man soothes his suit
On his feet two left boots

Spineless jellies ooze out ear;
No more rides for Paul Revere

Witless witness to the fire
Impaled atop a churchly spire

Trapped in prison: he dares to boast;
Free at last: his life he roast

Holy product manufacture,
Un-mended still his heartless fracture

Sinner winner takes the stage!
Witches arson all the rage!
Voodoo child adores her cage!
Masses hail the thoughtless sage!

Mortgage freeman peerless actor,
Chains of debt be his captor

Not until her booty twerk
Could she make the numbers work

Macaroni candy cheese,
Filling bellies fast as please

Property-intellectual-trespass,
As the universe sighing laughs

Presidential casting take,
Audition won by deep dead fake

Decrepit liar spanks his cane,
Another day lived in vain

Inquiring God wants to know:
Did you let your talent grow?


Hopeless fool swats helping hand,
Sinking silent sorrow sand.

Pounding concrete on his head;
"Sorry, pal, the truth is dead."

Enter The Void

When a shepherd views his flock, not a single sheep is un-precious to him. The loss of even one is intolerable, creating an immediate and all-consuming crisis. But to the wider world, the loss or gain of another sheep is wholly unremarkable, unworthy of notice. So who has the correct perspective?

J and D had lost their star - if they ever had one - after 24 years. The contract on their marriage had been declared null and void, rotting away through the years as the strain of lies broke down their pretenses into lives of pointless gestures. The premise of parting was one most obvious: life should have meaning. They deserved better, these mature adults were ready to face reality and move on. They could hear the praise of angels in this decision. No wonder that guy wrote parting is such sweet sorrow.

He went west cost, she went east coast - the adventure begins! D joined her college-graduated daughter hoping to recapture the purpose of motherhood by buying an abode where they both could live in safe harbor from expensive city rates. But her daughter had found her own life, Mom was no longer needed outside of monetary logistics. Scratch plan A. But that's OK, meaning is out there waiting to be had!

She was willing to try anything - as long as it did not involve opening up. She got heavily involved in the local denomination of her church, but try as she might, she couldn't escape feeling a stranger in their midst. Furnishing the house was a pleasant distraction - for a while. The list of possibilities kept dwindling like a fading mirage, the harder she chased the further away it got. Then she just couldn't run anymore.

For J, coming home to an empty house was a punch in the stomach every time he entered the engraved mahogany of the front door. The glitter was gone from his prized possessions that had previously ruled the roost. Shame crept in with the evening darkness: shame of a life wasted, finding "success" in running away from himself. He figured with his millions he could buy his way out of despair. But he couldn't buy a future. Scratch plan A. If he kept on like this the worst of all possible fates would end his reign on earth: revelation.

J and D found that the illusion they were able to create as a couple, while choking them, also allowed them to keep up appearances. Safe within the confines of a marriage, they were free to imagine themselves as they wished without having to face the true state of each one's rotted soul. They were cocky cockroaches in the dark but scattered for dear life when the light came on. How long could they stand it in front of the mirror?

Resignation happened in a heartbeat. Though building for years, the final give-up was instantaneous. For them, the world stopped spinning, J and D would be left behind as the universe moved forward. The dire bitterness was too much to take, so they turned off the spigot of their feelings. They concocted clever lies ("The separations didn't work out. Haha!"), making a political coup, garnering votes from family and friends on what successful lives the pair were leading. From this point forward, life would be a perpetual campaign of keeping up appearances - conspiracy theories encouraged.

*******

Two more recruits enter the zombie army, unfeeling and unthinking, spewing repressed rage in furious blame at the still living, weaving ever more fantastical and outlandish tales to explain the emptiness of their lives as they honor their new contract - a contract of depravity - as they drink poison from a gilded cup of lies, admitting nothing but fearing the sun's daily rise. Reunited and it feels so bad.

Two lost sheep among billions. Is it the end of the world or a negligible non-event; another hobo dying in a cold dumpster on a winter night - a heartbreaking story but the world shrugs, adding to a bill that must one day be paid. Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.

Billy's Got A Note

There strode Billy. Right down the serenity of our tree-lined street with its singing birds and harmonious expectations, there strode Billy. Clutching madly note in hand, eyes fixed straight ahead, target acquired, there strode Billy.

He carried the world in his oblivious hand as he passed my living room window. I don't a think a hurricane gale could have knocked him off course. Once seen, I don't know how anyone could take their eyes off him and his laser focused march.

He had news that must get through. Empires would fall, nations plunge into turmoil, mountains collapse into deserts, oceans drain dry if he did not accomplish his mission. The whole of the universe rested on his shoulders, anxious angels side by side with divided demons awaited the outcome. Billy's got a note.

Each step put him thicker into the fray. Under our sweet suburban skies raged invisible bullets in fatal fury along Billy's path. Despairing land mines awaited him in anticipated ambush. Tension mounted in ticking time in this daylight drama: would he survive, much less succeed?

Is miscommunication the start of every war?

What is the wisdom of enduring this peril? Certainly he believes the reward is worth this risk. Or perhaps to Billy, the greater risk was a note undelivered. Who can judge what is right in these weighty matters? In a godless world, what can serve as a Faultless Guide?

His face holds the terrified grimness of a battlefield soldier. In the moment of facing danger, the mind is filled with thoughts unable to share. What do observing angels see in our time of trying? One thing I do know: like Moses passing through the parted sea, no force of Nature would deny Billy.

Reaching Veronica's yard, he stiffly turned towards her front door, trembling on the manicured grass. Had a bomb exploded or the heavens burst or the ground below split in two, Billy would not have noticed. His shaking hand placed the note in her mailbox as if lightening would strike him down. When it didn't, he turned 'round to retrace his steps, lost in the fog of war.

For what had he fought? Like a soldier returning from a losing battle, he was forced to question his life choices. Would he lose an arm or a leg or an eye to live a forever cripple? Or had he fought on the side of right, bringing healing to a hurting world? With words his only ally, he'd been the author of his fate. I suspected he'd never return. One can endure only so many battles.

CODA: That evening I couldn't pull my mind off Billy's Walk as I sipped my drink. In the prison of my home I no longer engage, feeding off the lives of those I spy. Then a thought occurred to me: Take the note. I could play the role of saboteur, altering the course of lives as happens in every war. When darkness was complete, I darted my way down the street, slipping through trees planted in original innocence. The exhilaration of plucking the note proved worth the effort!

Safely back in my cell I took stock of my plunder reading Billy's pleading explanation Veronica would never see. I felt so alive! I was bound to them both now as part of my despair. I am a Thief Of Hope, drawing whomever I can into my hole. I will keep this note as proof of the fragility of life. And besides, what does one more broken relationship mean in this broken world - right?

The Winter Of My Fall

It wasn't supposed to come to this...

I wander in the Lost Woods, alone and unknown

Who was the past person to trespass here? Has it been a hundred years or a thousand? It's common knowledge no possible future is in this place

The dry dead leaves covering the ground are shocked by my presence, crunching in protest under my plodding feet. They must understand: I've nowhere else to go

I couldn't stop until I burned every last bridge. Seems I couldn't stand the offered hope. Choices bedeviled me until I left myself no choice

To have abandoned oneself is to empty the universe

In what passes for civilization, I'm a wanted man, enemy of the status quo. Infatuated and prepossessed with the idea their salvation lies in others' destruction, they live beyond reason's reach

Bad men who follow the rules hunt bad men who do not follow the rules so that bad men who do follow the rules can be called good. But they will still share the same fate of bad men

I walk a stranded being, disconnected, marooned on a planet where I cannot live. I am son of Strelnikov, worshiping the flames of glorious defeat, sowing seeds of regret, a betrayer of angels

So much time surrounds me and drowns me! Dreaded sobriety opens my eyes to oncoming darkness as these trees who answer to no one but Nature witness my slow, dripping death

My savage tear drops onto a brittle brown leaf. For a moment it brings back color, giving an illusion of life. Illusion brought me here

I cannot see the point of going on. "Supposed to" and "what is" are forever separated. Just to be caught here is a confession of sorts

Am I missing something, swallowed whole, I cling no more

Nobody's Fault But My Own

End of my rope

Lord A'mighty, does it ever end?

I'm constantly seeking answers to the perpetual dilemma of dying in my life. Getting by by killing myself just won't hack it anymore. People can see I'm searching, hoping against hope, ripe for the picking. All they ever offer is shit.

"Hey, Harry, I know where they're hiring: over at the Gold Standard Toilet Paper company." Is he shitting me?

"Shaft" is the one telling me this, a big black burly guy just like the movie character. Don't know his real name as we've never directly come across each other before though we have mutual acquaintances. But is he fucking with me or not??

"Yeah, man, you know everyone need their ass wiped, rain or shine. You won't never get laid off there!"

The future is shit. Long live the future.

What I'd be doing is hand rolling the toilet paper by turning a crank, counting the sheets until it reaches "400 or some shit like that." Then repeat for eight hours of my soul's life. Maybe because he's seen me around doing so many other crap jobs he thinks I'd be fine with this one. Scariest part is, after a lifetime of losing, I don't know what else is out there for me.

Not that I know everything.

Have I given life a true chance? There's a reason shit like this keeps happening to me as I keep drawing it in. I need to give up the old ways. It's true I do blame a justly wrong world for many of my woes. But how much am I the architect of my own demise? That part I conveniently leave out. Would I be happy even if not stranded on a dying planet? The fool on the hill can never know.

I apologize to Emily, her dear heart should be praised and preserved at all costs. It sure brought out all my insecurities, no doubt.

I've never allowed anything good in my life. Guess I didn't want (and feared) the responsibility. I snipped those flowers like a possessed madman. To really say something about a God-forsaken world I must not be forsaking myself. Oops.

When Virus Eyes Are Smiling

Is it really this virus we're so deathly afraid of? This underlying panic in the daily reporting, is it warranted by the actual danger? Why does this strike our hearts so much more than other causes of death we readily accept? There be a reason for dat, folks.

We're guilty. The movie version of this would be called: "Nature Strikes Back". For we have sinned against Nature and know we have a certain comeuppance heading our way. How bad will it be? we secretly wonder in dread. So any inkling of us getting our just deserts scares the holy hell out of us. We live in a web of mutual lies maintained by a common greed. We know that party has to end one day. And we know the longer we put off facing it the worse our fate will be. We see the hand of God in this viral retribution. Have we unleashed a beast we can't control?

The reactions we're seeing are metaphoric. The War On Reality is playing out right before our eyes, dismissing the very concept of responsibility. "I can do whatever I want and nothing will happen to me!" But the beauty of this virus is that it has no ears and no eyes, subject to no persuasion political or otherwise, an angel of death unleashed on a defiant world. We desperately seek control over it so we can resume our wicked ways in earnest. We can vote and decree and mandate it's OK to pollute and ravage the planet but that won't make it any less lethal. Seems that's a lesson we're determined to learn the hard way.

Looks like we'll just have to register the virus as a lethal weapon

In mad and vain desperation to kick the can down the road, we put the worst and most vile among us in charge, for only they are so unreasonable as to continue the lies that become more obviously outrageous and outlandish by the day. These darkened minds grant sanction to the darkness in our hearts, giving social cover to our transgressions, as if our Maker does not see all anyway. Give up the ghost, folks. It ain't worth it. You know you want to!

What we have here is a fidelity to treason. That's the perverted world in which we live. We have faith in faithlessness, we have trust in betrayal, we place hope in doom. Preach these values and you'll be rewarded by our backwards world. Not only that, you'll be labeled "responsible"! But the inevitable inversion is coming, driving us insane with the thought of it - even to murder.

Nature's gonna do what Nature's gonna do. Fight it all you want, windmill slayers! Time is not on your side as you provide tragic amusement for the gods. I know we will never speak directly of our guilt. We have to use metaphors to explain our demise as something coming from outside of us. But our fate comes from within. The sorrow is unspeakable and at some point incomprehensible. But Nature's purge cannot be stopped, one can only get on the right side of it.

That virus is out there. It can't be bargained with, it can't be reasoned with.