The Eye and the Mountain

    An Agnostic, an Atheist, a Christian, another Christian, and a Murderer were all dead. Let's call them Agatha, Alex, Christie, Christian, and Murdoch for short.
    Now why they were dead, when, and how, didn't so much matter anymore. The point is, they had all ended up at this crossroads right at the same time. A thick layer of dull red stratus clouds stretched off towards the horizon in all directions. The horizon itself was entirely flat except to the East, where an impossibly tall mountain broke the symmetry and pierced the clouds above. The ground was cracked clay, drier, and colder, than an Earthly tomb.
    The dusty road forked under their feet, and a wooden sign was clearly marked 'Hell' and 'Heaven', from left to right. To the left of the sign sat a wizened imp with a silky, grey beard, flanked by two sleeping harpies.
    Christie addressed it. “What am I doing here? What sin have I committed?”
    The imp replied, “All are judged equal by the Eye of Heaven. If that’s the place you seek, turn right.” He gestured a gnarled and lazy finger at the sign.
    Christian remarked angrily and flung out a finger at Murdoch. “If all are judged equally, how did I end up in the same place as HIM!”
    Murdoch was angry but nervous. “He said all are judged equal, not equally! Weren’t you listening?”
    The imp made no more reply, and all were silent as they stared at the sign. The road to the right ended in the tallest, most treacherous mountain in Creation. To the left, the road extended off beyond the horizon, through the desolate wastes.
    Alex, with tears of joy in his eyes, sprinted off towards the mountain without a word, nearly leaving his shadow behind.
    Finally, Agatha spoke. “Do we have to choose now? I mean…” Her questions went unarticulated, but the imp still answered, as if reciting a poem read too many times.
    “The roads are open to all, to come and go as they please.”
    Agatha gazed doubtfully at the imp, but finally shrugged and wandered off down the road to the left.
    Christie watched her go, squared her shoulders, and turned right.
    Christian and Murdoch were locked in a futile contest, the latter attempting to escape down the road to the right, the former ready to bar his way. "You shall not pass!" Christian was a young man, strong and stubborn with conviction. He spread his arms across the road, like a goalie.
    Murdoch was decrepit and sullen. "Oh, get off your horse, churchie! You heard that ugly monster. I've got just as much a right as you!"
    Christian stood firm, and spared but one glance for the imp, who was stroking the shoulder of the harpie whose head lay in his lap, her long fingernails twirling at his chest hair. "Not while I live, you don't!"
    "Hah!! That's a riot!" said Murdoch. He had found a rather sharp rock somewhere, which he smashed into Christian's temple. Christian's body collapsed and bled out into the cracked stone.
    A breath later, Christian stepped up to the crossroads again, and looked at the body and the blooded stone in Murdoch's hand. "Did…? Did you see that??" he yelled to the imp. "He KILLED me!" A harpie giggled and began to snore, radiating sin from every naked curve and bead of sweat.

    Meanwhile, Agatha was far to the West, the crossroads out of sight, but the mountain looming tall as ever behind her. Otherwise, the landscape remained barren and empty. "So…….am I in Hell, now? Or is it just a long walk?" she asked.
    With no visible change, in her surroundings or in herself, it could have been a single step or a thousand before she arrived at another wooden signpost. Disappointingly, it said only: "Welcome to Hell." She stood by it and looked around. "What? There's nothing here. God, this is boring." She sighed and glanced at the mountain behind her. "Well," she thought, "unless this is a test, and I'm not really there yet? Maybe a little farther." She set off to the West, oriented only by the mountain, eternally looming behind her.

    Meanwhile, Alex had arrived at the foot of The Mountain, not knowing how much time had passed, but only that The Mountain was as much bigger than he had thought it was, as he had thought it was bigger than any other mountain when he stood at the crossroads. The red clouds near the peak that had seemed so low were uncounted miles up the slope.
    Just as he began to despair, Christie appeared, jogging past him, and started up the slope.
    "If you can do it, I can!" he said.
    "We'll see!" she yelled back, already scaling the first cliff.
    "We will," he whispered to himself, and began to climb as well.

    Hunger was the first to strike, at a moment that he judged to be a few days into the climb. Looking down, and with some experimental finger-prodding, he determined that his belly button was actually touching his backbone. But conveniently, a tall tree, more of a convergence of thick vines, was at the top of the ridge. Though he lacked muscles, he was able to pull himself to the top. The fruits hanging from the branches were, after all, beehives, each home to a regiment of seasoned warriors who arrayed themselves in staggered ranks to sting him relentlessly. But though his skin was pricked a thousand times a thousand, he reached inside each hive, and devoured the honey within, the more satisfying for his effort.
    Afterwards, a mass of red welts but belly full, Alex began to climb to the next ridge; where a knife-fisted, dagger-toothed panther stalked the empty alleys of an abandoned hamlet.

    Agatha had turned back ages ago, still unsure she had made the right decision, but thankful that The Mountain could show her the way. And in fact, the dusty road had reappeared yesterday, or thereabouts, and led her to the intersection where they all began. The imp and his harpies were still there, all sleeping now. Christian and Murdoch were still there, as well, arguing. "I KNOW there is some sort of mistake, here!! But by God, who could mistake you, Filth that you are!" Christian said to Murdoch, spit flying from his lip.
    Murdoch gestured pointedly with his pointed rock. "That's what I'm TRYING to tell you! There can't be any mistake. So just let it go, and I'll mosy past and we'll forget this whole thing! Huh? Huh?"
    "Do you really, really think, I'm going to just let THIS go?!" Christian swept a hand over the many bodies littering the intersection, all quite identical to Christian, only most with some variety of severe head trauma.
    "Well, whatchya gonna do about it, huh?" Murdoch dropped his rock and spread his arms wide.
    "YYyyyyaaahhhhh!" screamed Christian. Agatha scratched her head and considered.

   
    Alex was closer to the clouds than once he had been. Days, perhaps years had passed, with as many ridges to mark them. Ridges of dense jungle filled with lying trees. Ridges of vibrant, eternal cities, always teetering on the literal precipice of collapse. Ridges of stone giants, ready to crush him beneath their feet. Fierce rainstorms and mudslides. Villages riddled with plague, and the cries of the needy. Brushfires. Deep, swift rivers of poisonous jellyfish. Twice, he had crossed paths with Christie, and myriad other climbers. Once, an intense man with a white mustache and a rifle, who told him to run and hide while he counted to fifty; chuckling and patting a sack of heads all the while. And Despair. Always, the edge of Despair.
   
    But now, he could actually feel the moisture of the red clouds on his cheeks. Behind, and down, was only a featureless brown spreading from The Mountain in all directions, a proper concept of distance impossible. Ahead, and up, 700 cobblestone steps terminated in an ornately carved gate, with only mist visible beyond it.
    Each step the size of a man, but to Alex, a small thing next to the heights he had climbed. Nothing at all.
    The carvings on the gate were faces, infinite faces of people. He didn't stop to examine them. On the other side, the path led up through the red mist. And then beyond.
    Beyond, it streched onward. And up. Above the clouds was no peak at all, but more of The Mountain, and more clouds (deep purple this time), as far as he had come or further. The edges of Despair nipped at his heels, but his heels were always moving, Onward and Upward.

   
    Meanwhile, Agatha stood at the crossroads, having watched folks come and go, watching Christian and Murdoch beat each other to death with rocks till she grew tired of it, waiting for the imp to wake up so she could ask him.
    Finally, he smacked his lips and came out of his slumber. A harpie stretched her slender arms around him, and he grumbled.
    "So…" said Agatha, "I don't get it."
    The imp cocked a bloodshot eye at her. "Hmmm?"
    She pointed at The Mountain. "Is Heaven at the top, or…?"
    The imp smiled and stroked his silvery beard.

Fistfight

The night was
full of bottles

What I'd imagined
drowning must be like
only with more labels
Black
gold and gold
and gold and silver
promise coronation:
King of the Drink.
drowning
protected from tomorrow
by death tonight

The closing of my faculties
interrupted with a shock
by the sober speed of drunken punches

in the night
lit only by torches
the people writhed together
rising and falling
unable to understand their own movement

No one knew why
the drunken fistfight at 1:30,
while we watched
from the gas station

I wanted to agree when he said how he abhorred violence, but there was a dark beauty in it, a fear of the rarely experienced, a shadow of our end, and I thought how Arendt said that death was the most apolitical thing, separating from the world of human affairs, a signifier that all pursuits became nothing in the face of the mortal being.
    I thought about standing in Dresden when it finally fell silent, feeling the wind ripple a torn shirt, feeling the disbelief, the disbelief is all, the disbelief of what is most real, like when O'brien says: Boom, down, it wasn't like in the movies, man, he fell like a pile of bricks, no ass over tea kettle.
    Not a movie, sure, but still I was wide-eyed like a child, cheeks stuffed with popcorn
a little glimpse of hell for the man born and raised in heaven
    the poxed hunchback found asleep on the country club golf course by a boy in a sweater and khaki pants; and only a strange kinship told the boy it was real, that he would see it someday, that nobody dies in heaven, we all go to hell first.

Flesh Golem

unequal parts
rain, bone, and meat
brought forth to sup
at the witch’s teat

chemical soup
evacuant sludge
given eyes
and mind to judge

whence came its
beastly form
from no source
but carnal storm

a god bless’d
or curs’d withal
nerves to caress
and chaste to fall

‘neath miasmic incites
of phantoms lost
does he pray return
and weigh the cost

of issue forth
from guileless wyrm
the seeds of a cyst
that’s bound to form
and list her way to life less lived
than beads of light in a fire pit

ever remorse her crude construction whose fault lies with similar slaves
why not detach her limbs and strip her veins
spread out in the air a vaporous wind a ghost of atomic gigantic proportion
sailing now thoughtless merely wrought by hurricane tortion picking up those of similar mind to rend all that is them and leave oneness behind
thegolemsaregoneinatideofcontusionsbutwhyshouldtheycaretheyrethemastersoffusion

glass eye

Every day for several
years

she took an iron to her
brain

until one day there was no
thought

but only
peace


she stared at the madhouse
window
and watched the rain
wash away the mudstains

until one day
the glass was clear
and she could see
the world again

She hugged the window.
The rain stopped.

the search for life

fortune finding monkeys seek out
the last great thrill in existence

whilst in his tower
the man of boredom
hugs his crystal ball
in anticipation

what is left to find
to know

does he have time?

do giant mushrooms grow across
a rainbowed landscape
pierced with jagged
mountain men?

what do they find
but nuked and paved
magnificence
and waxed penguins
hiding hangovers
behind dark glasses
on their way to work

filing in
filing out
of lanes
of traffic
?

something in the air
has killed them

and the streetcleaners
sweep the poor beasts
into the gutters

where they rot in the veined
rivers of feces
that lie beneath
the sterile
face of civilization

instantaneous

under a freezing blue sky
did I feel my fingers drift
of their own accord
into parts of the air
that I could never conceive
in my brain like an ancient
oak tree

while my mouth knew
only ignorant paralysis
umm
well
yeah
was the cadence spewing forth
from my blimplike head
which seemed to float
wistfully
over the crowds of people
who knew what they were doing

as it seemed to me
they writhed in eminently
familiar ways
which I would attempt to imitate
with arguable success
followed by
somnolent humor
and then a heartfelt confession
which spawned
whole colonies of laughter

with the only result
a creeping befuddlement
with all things that fall
beneath the autocratic bootheel
of reality

freewrite

There was a parrot on the HMS Gregarian who knew the coordinates of an old sunken ship from the days of pirates. It recited these numbers constantly, but no one knew what the numbers referred to. The parrot’s deceased owner had wanted to pass the information along, but generally couldn’t bring himself to talk to people. Thus, he spent weeks, months, reciting the same string of numbers until it was all the parrot would say.

Many of the sailors onboard had their own theories about what the numbers meant.

The treasure went unfound by any of them, though. And so it was only hundreds of years later when a team of archaeologists explored the wreck, and found a man from 50,000 years ago still alive down there, living in a large underwater cave, where he grew enough crops to keep the air fresh and provide him with food. The man had a small tobacco farm, and a pipe which he had fashioned out of bones from the skeletons of the expired crew. The man had apparently been aboard the ship when it went down, frozen in a block of ice. The ice melted after everyone else drowned, and this man found himself on the bottom of the ocean, but close enough to this underwater cave to swim up into it.

Ridiculous, why is he still alive after probably hundreds of years living in this cave? There could be some sort of unique property of a certain type of moss or algae that grows in the cave. There could be many things. But there aren’t.


The left-side tire blew out, sending the semi trailer careening, flipping off the road. Sammy jumped out just before the explosion, and found himself in the middle of the dessert, sitting on a cactus made of icing, chocolate flakes everywhere. And thousands upon thousands of ants swarming over the monstrous cake. He tried to fight them off, to save what he could, but there were too many. They ate it all up.

They ate his feet, too, and it was many years before he was able to fashion new ones. He never could get them quite working right, so he just attached giant springs to his legs. These were a disaster, and quickly got him killed.


He was a superhero whose only power was the ability to grow taller. But he could never grow smaller again afterwards, only taller, and taller, and taller. When new challenges presented themselves, his natural inclination was to just grow a bit more, until the problems seemed more manageable. Eventually, he became his own problem. He was too big to interact with others, then he was too big to even stay near others, for fear of crushing them. Eventually, he was too big to breathe, as there wasn’t enough atmosphere. He gasped his last, and everyone else on the planet died with him, as he sucked up the last of the oxygen on Earth.

Somewhere far away, a great bearded man watched it all through a telescope and shrugged, unable to intervene, only to watch history unfolding, and barely even comprehending the magnitude of the things he witnessed. That night, he disassembled the telescope, and went for a long swim in the bay. In the morning, he would do something different with his life.