Archive for December, 2016

I crouch over the bucket and piss.

Ahh, relief!

Simple pleasure, perverted context.

Water is the first medicine.

It passes,

and splashes upon my thighs.

Kindly, my captors have provided old newspaper for me to wipe myself.

It is Pravda.

How appropriate.

The truth shall set you free…

within the bounds of societal captivity.

 

Advertisements

I wake up.

A door clangs shut.

I come too.

One voice tells me that I’m in a prison cell,

another says: welcome to hell.

Laughter and footsteps get fainter.

And I am on my own.

My eyes take a few seconds to adjust to the dim, yet harsh, light. A bare light bulb, hanging, reflecting on gray drabness.

I’m on a bed (if you can call it that). Four walls cramming in upon me. A bucket on the floor. A tray next to that.

It is what it is.

And that is that.

In pain, I slowly uncoil and get up. I stretch my back as best I can. It’s cold. I’m instantly thankful to be wearing a tracksuit top, the kind that zips up to cover one’s neck. I don’t remember putting it on but instantly I consider it my best friend.

I reach for the tray: bread and water. I smile thinly.

I try not to think about my prospects.

I lie back down on the bed. The mattress is skeletal and the base below hard. I pull up the blanket. And then I realize that, for now, I’m all alone. And I can’t hear any sound beyond my own breathing, and the thoughts in my head.

Peace, of sorts.

Imperfect peace, in an imperfect place.

For now it will suffice.

Such is life.

 

Shit!

How’d it get so late so early?

How’d happiness become but a vague memory?

Night-time,

and I’m locked outside,

stuck in freezing fog,

I embrace my apparent fate,

and lie on the hard, unforgiving ground,

… will I ever awake?

 

I looked up at the cloudless night sky,

impressed, as ever, by the stars, planets

and other phenomena on show.

And I was reminded how little we humans know,

how much of what we think we know

turns out to be wrong

(take perceptions of Pluto) …

and can we even be sure of what stars really are?

Then my eye caught a twinkling, down below, at ground level:

Christmas tree lights.

Yeah, that’s about the epitome of human achievement,

the sum of what we are “good” at,

that and exploiting others,

getting fat

and trashing Earth.

 

Charismatic jerk!

Pretends the system can work.

(Delusion prospers?)

 

Pardon,

Patron,

Peon!

Shit!

It’s been such a long chertov time!

Centuries of exploitation,

degradation, misunderstanding, pain.

It’s the way of people and society in this world…

Constructs and commodification…

Masters and Margaritas…

The soul is tired, needs sleep,

we crave stasis.

But, smile,

and wipe away your tears of hurt,

all men and women are created equal,

so they say,

at our funerals,

as they pile on the dirt.

 

The Ukrainian Guard sighed,

All too aware that history would remember him as scum.

His motivations and complications didn’t matter,

No one would remember that.

No one would care.

Posterity’s a bitch…

Might as well keep killing

with prejudice…

Nothing comes without strings,

No patronage or support is free,

Everything and everyone else is

hell-bent on compromising…

YOU.

Just ask the Palestinian mother who gave away a son to “the cause” so that her other children may eat.

We can blind ourselves

Temporarily,

But we can’t hide.

Legacy of slavery.

 

The preacher has two main churches:

one in the capital of the South,

one in New York City,

the capital of Capitalism.

I was in town, so as to speak,

and,

having seen the preacher on TV,

opportunity and providence aligned,

I went to a sermon.

I was engaged by the Word,

the preacher was in a rich vein,

congregation inspired,

motivated,

righteously hyped.

Then after an hour,

the preacher said a few banal words,

basely suggesting: “offering time”.

Buckets were passed around,

as hands reached into pockets and purses,

and the vibe changed from holy expectation to human desperation.

(Buy your blessing!

Don’t be shy…

Small plastic trinkets available in the foyer, only $49.99, plus tax…)

Strange.

I’d thought New Yorkers would be more “sophisticated”,

cynical, one might say.

Turns out they’re just as desperate to believe as everybody else.

 

Samantha Smith visited me last night,

my how she has grown!

She smiled knowingly

and reminded me that we’re all the same,

just inconsistent

in application, desire, situation, desperation, and focus,

time and place,

depending who our neighbours are,

and whether we’ve been used and abused,

discarded.

Apart from that, we’re all pretty much the same,

she smiled, simpering coquettish, arms akimbo,

as she whispered: “fucked and forgotten”.

She drank a glass of red wine,

then another,

as we talked.

I asked her about life and death,

she said she’d finally found peace.

She pause appropriately,

silent.

Stupidly, I felt compelled to fill what I mistook for a void:

“Current affairs?” I ventured.

“No thank you!” she exclaimed.

So,

we played a word-association game,

something a Freudian taught her,

intelligent fun.

Indeed.

On and on.

Late,

alas,

it had been a long day and night,

though stimulated,

tiredness hit and

I fell asleep.

Strange dreams inside the goldmine…

An hour or two later

I awoke and she was gone.

 

It wasn’t my intention to burn any bridges,

so as to say,

but I was determined to make my freedom count.

So,

on hold

(an artificial, imposed, grievous kind of stasis,

one which leads to aggravation, despair, degradation, disintegration),

I decided to take action.

I hung up the phone.

What’s more, I pulled the cable from the wall.

Gone…

Incommunicado.

And free,

free enough

to actually hear and focus on the thoughts inside my head,

complete sentences,

and sense,

yes, real, true sense,

innate wisdom,

the still small voice within,

a beautiful thing!