Sunday, December 25, 2011

Ghosts in Fog



Driving, lost in the predawn fog. I pass something, a white shape made of fog, a pale woman, her feet not touching the ground. I shiver violently and roll up the window.

I pass an old barn. There is a pale light inside and I think I see steam drifting from the open loft, but it is another fog woman, ghost woman. She leans forward like the figurehead on the prow of a ship, moving blindly forward as I drive past. I drive faster.

I see more of them, one every few feet along either side of the road, like fence posts. My hands are shaking. I don't think these things are angels. I try not to look directly at them because their faces are not right: they are ill-formed and hungry.

They press in closer. Their misty gowns and bodies are taking on a more solid form. One holds a knife. Is she threatening me or threatening suicide?

Then there is one standing in the middle of the road, hands held out, pleading for me to stop. I keep driving, and she blows apart into a smoky swirl, but there is also a soft thud, as if the car passed through a wall of cotton.

Four more stand a few feet further down the road. When I hit them they are less yielding. The ones along the sides of the road lean forward and touch the car, brushing it with disintegrating fingers. I am slowing. I push the accelerator to the floor, but I am still slowing.

I am nearly stopped. Faces press against the windshield. They are weeping, enraged. Now one of them is inside. She reaches to touch my face. I pull away before her fingers can brush my cheek, but there is nowhere to go. She leans closer. Now there are more of them. Inside.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

AND NOW, THE VERY LATEST CONSPIRACY THEORIES--PART II


Euro-zone debt crisis resolved by Satan in a Santa Clause suit or Santa in a Satan suit. Authorities will not be able to establish identity until DNA tests come back from the cleaners.

Sheeple establish base on Moon. May soon settle other planets, leaving the rest of us behind.

Scientists find strange orb near sun. Conspiracy theorists are suspicious, think scientists are just yanking their chains. Head of NASA says, "No, it really is a space ship! Pull my finger!"

Kim Jong Il still dead, probably replaced by son who looks like a confused baby watching a dog fight. Rumored to sleep in Star Wars pajamas, son is actually a military genius who will soon conquer Japan using hand grenades thrown by catapult.

Pope to visit Nebraska, meet with Illuminati there to discuss launch of papal missiles from underground bunkers. Cats and dogs are scared, move in together.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Asphyxiated mongrels. We are locked in a room. Try random numbers on the door lock until Kim Jong Il opens the door and informs us he is dead and wants us to be in a Godzilla movie, but only if we remove our pallets properly, keeping track always of every missing can of soup. I try to explain that we are only human and am informed that I am a childish prick because I have never had children.

I just wanted to buck the trend, but it is no use in explaining anything to these people. They told me that if I struck this pose I would be in a Broadway musical or something.

Christmas is the most fascist holiday. I am told I am to punished today, but it turns out they don't have time, so they put it off until after the Nuclear Olympics. Kim Jong sits on the sidelines in a cast while the players try to take the field, but the marching band refuses to bifurcate.

If I don't get my blood pressure down and stop drinking, children in a small Asian Country the maps don't notice will die of N'Ga Ching DoH. If you cut back on caffeine and salt, you slow down and the world speeds up. The flag snapping in the wind looks like it is having a major anxiety attack, but you are tranquil, watching the blurring buzz of it all, not understanding and not caring or cringing.

Monday, June 13, 2011

An Entomologist's Story



She wanted to be a xenobiologist, but had to settle for being an entomologist. That is okay. She has come to love her insects. They scuttle across the surface of the sand, and bury themselves, only their mandibles showing . . . She uses tweezers to grip one by the mandibles and pull it free of its little sand pit. It has undergone a metamorphosis, becoming surprisingly large, glistening, something not quite an insect any more. There is something very unnatural and unpleasant about it.

"This one has devolved, or perhaps evolved," she says, smiling sweetly. "It is hard to tell."

Despite the insect's hideous appearance she still loves it.
______________________________________

She remembers how it was, how throughout the evening, he had his arm around her, stroking her hair, feeling the pulse at her throat. She leaned against him, lowered her head onto his shoulder. They had not even kissed yet.

Months later, at the holiday dinner table, he became a pompous asshole, insulting her friends and alienating her family. She felt cross-eyed, as though she had lost her focus on something under her microscope. Is this the wonderful person she wanted everyone to meet? What happened to him?

And she saw that he had not evolved or devolved, but had been just the same, hiding beneath the surface with only his mandibles protruding. She realized that he had only touched her with his mandibles, and she had responded in kind. They had not mated at all, but she was terrified and overjoyed to think that she just might be pregnant.

Friday, June 10, 2011

Why I Have Not Yet Transcended

Werner Herzog will not avert his eyes. That is what makes him something special. I could have him and Cormac McCarthy and Herman Melville in a hole, shooting down at them with a .22 rifle, and they would take it in stride.

The three of them would continue to have a philosophical discussion about the whole situation until a tiny bullet silenced them. I am convinced of this.

I'll never be an artist.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

I've been through the desert on a fish with no legs

Japan may soon be inhabited by earless rabbits. Bjork dances in a tiny pink dress. Radiohead sings about Scottish mist. It must be sometime in the early twenty-first century, the pre-tween years to be exact . . .

Bombs fall in Yemen. People die. No one knows why, except the oil, the oil, the oil must flow. If I believed in God I would probably be upset, but there is indeed a dog, and he is hungry, nemA.

Sleep Now. Sleep Now, the Bilderbergs are planning it all out, and it will be find. Sleep well but keep doing push ups, until your arms are like iron.

I want to awaken or to fall completely, eternally sleep, no more of this dreamland bullshit, yet the sun erupts.