Department of Infernal Regions

                The Department of the Apocalypse was bustling with bureaucracy as horned and winged clerks hustled behind giant stone service counters. The room flickered in an out of shadow cast by the torches placed along the red brick walls. Cal tugged at his dirty shirt collar and looked at his next in line number. 1,322,641 read his small ticket. He looked up at the next number to be called sign overhead which read, 3.

Cal looked through the extensive paperwork in his hands as he waited in line. He had his license, social security card, birth certificate, a photo ID, and a cable bill from his apartment, as well as all the forms he had spent completing at the “Comprehensive Customer Care” counter.  He made sure the papers were organized just as the large overhead sign directed those waiting in line to do.  He looked at the long line ahead of him. He’d been in line for three days.

                Cal moved his documents from his right side to his left and pushed the flap of skin from his scalp back to cover the part of his skull that was exposed. He could vaguely remember a large chunk of his apartment building falling toward him and then he was just in line, in this place, following the other herds of mangled people.   The woman in front of him in line was having a hard time with her documents and papers due to her missing fingers on both her hands.  He had tried to offer help but one of the “customer care techs” poked him with a giant pitchfork when he opened his mouth. It stung Cal in the ribs and he nearly collapsed, but he managed to hold onto his paperwork.  He looked back at the green faced “customer care tech” who motioned for silence with a bony finger to its lips.

                The fingerless woman didn’t turn around to see what was happening behind her. No one around Cal seemed to know what to do except make sure nothing happened to their paperwork. Cal wondered how this place had so many of his personal documents on file. When he seemed to arrive he was shuffled quickly to a giant filing room replete with rows of ten story filing cabinets. A zombie muttered at Cal and plopped the contents of Cal’s life in front of him and then pointed to the large sign overhead indicating all the documents needed to be put in chronological order from earliest to last, and to move to the left once that was done, and brains. It took Cal a whole day to put his life in order. Although he wasn’t even sure if it had been a day since there were no clocks and his iPhone was totally not working.

                His files were very thorough and included every moment of his sins. It had the first time he ogled a bare breast to the 4 million times he masturbated. He thought that number seemed a little high, but then he never really kept count. His file had everything in it and Cal was stunned by how accurate the information was. He found it hard to believe that the afterlife was so meticulous. If this was the afterlife.

                Cal shifted his weight and looked at his next in line number again, then looked up at the next number to be called sign, which still showed “3”.  He looked to his right and saw Julia Roberts holding her own head under the crook of her left arm while her right held onto her paperwork. Cal was a little star struck. He loved Julia Roberts and thought she was such a wonderful person. He couldn’t believe she was waiting in line so close to him. He wanted to say something to her but then thought that she probably didn’t want to be bothered. Plus he didn’t want to get poked again.

                A scratching noise emanated from a P.A. System speaker along the cavernous ceiling and the crackling of a record started. Cal ducked instinctively to shield himself from the noise.  Patsy Cline’s, “I Fall to Pieces”, started playing over the speakers. The song was mildly muffled but still recognizable. A subtle but audible groan moved through the long lines of people. The green faced customer care tech seemed to smile, but it was hard to tell due to their misshapen faces.

                Cal was glad there was some other sort of background noise instead of the freight train sounds he had grown accustomed to. He almost started tapping his toes to the beat but then realized that his toes seemed to be gone. He hadn’t actually noticed until that moment that the front edges of his shoes were sheered off along with his toes. Didn’t hurt a bit, he thought.

                Patsy’s song stopped. There was a pause. The needle scratched along the record and then she started singing again, the same song. Cal realized that the song would never end. She’d be falling to pieces for all eternity. Just like all of them in these lines.

                “Ding!” went the overhead number counter and the number 4 appeared. Cal looked back at his number, 1,322,641. He sighed. Julia Roberts’ head rolled in front of him and he looked to his right and saw her headless body fumbling around in the wavering shadows.  He carefully shoved her head with his toe-less foot back toward her flailing body. She didn’t even say thanks.  Cal sighed again. 

It Is Not My Circus

I’m not a magician,

so there’s no magic

happening.

I’m not a mind reader,

so I don’t know what

you’re thinking.

I’m not a juggler,

so I can only take care of

one thing at a time.

I’m not a Ring Master,

so I’ve no control over

what you do or say.

I’m not a lion tamer,

so I can’t tame your wildness

or disobedience with a whip.

I’m no trapeze artist,

so I won’t be walking a

narrow line with you.

I’m not a Calliope player,

so there’s no jaunty song

while you perform.

I’m no elephant,

because, well, I’m

not an elephant.

I am a clown however,

and I’ll make you laugh,

and smash a pie in your face.

Don’t you love the Circus?

As Heavy As Gravity

Are intelligence and love

incompatible?

I wonder because I can

rationalize, intellectualize,

and reason all about the theory

of love; but I don’t seem to know

what it is.

It bothers me, because I’ve broken

hearts, and I feel the guilt; an

obligation of guilt, for the destruction

I have wrought to those few hearts

that dared to love me.

I’ve felt the pain of losing love, of

watching it wither like fruit on the vine,

in the droughts of my affection.

I still can’t seem to know anything

about it though.

I understand human pair bonding,

I understand the brain chemistry,

I understand the social import,

I understand it in the most intellectual way,

but I don’t really know anything.

I believe that I want to be loved,

and that I want to give my love back,

but I’m not sure what that even means,

I don’t emotionally understand how to even begin to

be loved and reciprocate it.

I have a generalized sense of compassion for

people, I am brimming with understanding for

the complex emotional states people find themselves in,

I get that people desire connections,

but I don’t know what it means.

I’m coldly rational about love and I have

a hard time believing in it. Is love a myth?

Is love the story we tell ourselves when we choose

a mate in order to justify our breeding and

evolutionary desire to protect our tribe?

Is love real? Is love made? Is love the word I

use so I don’t have to explain myself further?

Is love an excuse for nature?

Is romantic love even attainable when embroiled

in the vacuum of rationalizing it?

I feel bad when I break a heart, but know

that it’s just an organ designed to pump

blood as part of an ingenious circulatory

system, but I still feel like I’ve damaged

it.

Is romantic love even a knowable thing?

Is it easier for some people than it is for me?

I can’t wrap my head around it and I think it’s

making me mad.  It’s battering me and

humiliating me.

Or am I humiliating myself in this ceaseless

quest for explanation about something so

unique and specific for millions of people and

through centuries of life?  Can I be smart enough

to love?

Or do I have to stop thinking and pretend to start

feeling and hope that if I fake it, I’ll make it?

It seems disingenuous, but do the ends justify

the means? Does anyone really know?

Or does love just happen, like gravity.

At least I sort of understand gravity.  

Metaphor Road

How about we go down that

road; the one that twists and

turns, dips and dives, crests and

drops.

The road near the precipice,

the ledge over the canyon,

the road by the abyss,

the one we never take.

“Shit, I take that road all the time,”

she said. She spit onto the hot

sidewalk and shooed a fly from

her forehead.

“I’m dangerous,” she said. She

tightened the hair bun on her head,

flexing her arms ever so slightly as she did.

“I’m a risk taker,” she said.

“I go off road all the time, dirt bikes,

ATV’s, hiking, paramilitary combat training,

zip-lining and rock climbing. I’m not scared,”

she said.

She had sun ravaged creases on her face,

heavily tanned from her rebellious adventures.

She had a Japanese letter tattooed on her neck,

“It means dragon,” she said.

That road I was referring to, it’s more

metaphorical than literal I explained.

I said it was about love and the perilous

journey it can be.

She spit again, onto the sizzling pavement,

“I don’t do metaphors,” she said.

She put on her leather vest and strolled to her

motorcycle. She started it and rode into the sunset. 

I Won't Forget

Every year, on this day,

I try to write something

I think will be poignant,

honest and help to

honor the heartache

that still lingers for so many.

As time marches on, the

memories of that awful day,

start to get hazy around the

edges. It’s not sepia toned however,

it’s still vibrantly colorful in it’s

horror and sadness.

And I know

I will never forget it.

Even when I’m a toothless old

man.

I’m sure I’ll be able recount every

detail of my 9/11 day, even in the depths of senility.

Seeing the second plane hit the tower

on TV as I ironed my pants for work, the

silence on the train as it pulled into

Union station, the pale faces in my

office, the sad hug I shared with a co-worker

whose birthday is today.

I’ll remember crouching next to

my boss’s desk in her office that

faced the Sears Tower and her telling

me that the office was closing and to

go home.  The fear in the voices

and tears on the cheeks as we watched

the tragedy unfold back in a bar in Union Station.

I remember a guy at the bar telling

me how we were now at war with some

other nation and me telling him that I hoped

to never see him on a battlefield and that this

peaceful meeting in this crowded bar

would be the only time we’d meet.

We shook hands.

I won’t forget the crowds waiting for

the trains, panicking when our train

was moved from one track to another,

and the mass rush to escape Downtown.

I’ll never forget the terrified faces of

the people rushing past me.

I will always remember the old woman,

slowly walking with a cane next to me

along the platform as people bustled around us

in abject fear, and her comment to me that

this was nothing new to her and she’d been

through it before.  I remember taking some

comfort in her dignified and calm demeanor in

the whirlwind of panic.

I remember the well dressed man, in a nice suit,

arm in a sling, crying within the crowd because

someone had bumped into his already injured shoulder

and the disdain I had for his selfish weeping. I looked

at him with such disgust as he cried about his

arm in light of the tragedy unfolding.

I remember boarding the packed train and calming those

around me as rumors of seven other planes allegedly

still in the air, telling them there were no other planes

in the sky. Not a single plane was flying, anywhere.

The nervous chatter of people not sure what to do,

how to act or what to say to each other.

When I got to my train stop, I got off and found my

mother had been on the same train, and we hugged

each other  on the platform and it was the most natural

thing in the world. I heard the passengers that saw us hug

“ooh” and “ahh”, likely hoping they would soon embrace

their loved ones.

We went home, watched buildings fall, saw lives end, all on

TV.  Everything we had become accustomed to stopped that

day. The things that seems so important,

were now terribly mundane.  I still feel the

shock and sadness of it all. It became part of who I

am and how I will forever view the world.

So when you see me, maybe sixty years from now,

when I’m in my hundreds, I’ll tell you all about it.

And I’ll make sure, even when I don’t know where

my shoes or teeth are, that I remember this day.  

Perspectives

“This looks like a pile of junk,” she said.

“What…,” I replied, “what do you mean?”

“Yeah, this is all just garbage, It’s

shoelaces and torn notebook paper,

rocks and bits of glass,” she said.

“Those are the shoelaces I wore when

I was on the track team in grammar school and

I came in third place in the big race. The coach

was so proud of me that he took me to get apple

pie after the meet. Those shoelaces are priceless,” I said.

“Well, they’re just ratty shoelaces to me,” she said.

“C’mon, these torn notebook pages, these are

what’s left of the first love note I ever got from

the girl who would become the role model for

every woman I would ever date and love,” I said.

“Just dirty bits of paper to me,” she said.

“These rocks I found in the summer of 1993

along Lake Geneva, when my friends and I

were the closest we ever were, and we skipped

them along the water, and put them in our pockets

to put on our dressers,” I said.

“Yeah, rocks. Great. Just rocks,” she said.

“What about these pieces of colored glass? Surely

you see their value,” I asked.

“Nope, just broken glass,” she said.

“These pieces of glass are from a stain glass window

and they showed me how beautiful the world could be if

you just looked at it a little differently than the

norm,” I said.

“Well, it doesn’t mean anything to me and

since it doesn’t mean anything to me,

it has no value. It’s petty junk,” she said.  

She left in a huff and I looked at

the items so important to me, and

I knew they meant nothing to her,

but there was still no reason for her

to call it petty junk.

I hope no one ever judges her things,

the things she has carefully saved in the

bubble wrap of memory, petty junk or garbage.

That would be too sad for her.  

Rummaging

I brought this trunk

with stuff to unpack.

There’s a bunch of things

in here that I need to

unload.

I’m just going to open this

large steamer trunk, right here

on your living room floor,

if you don’t mind. Of course

you don’t mind.

Let’s see; here’s my old

broken heart, a cracked

mirror, a tube a glue, that

hat I thought I lost the day

she left me.

Oooh; here’s that loyalty

card from the sub shop that closed,

I was one hole punch away from

that free sandwich. Here’s the

love tester, still broken I see.

Here’s an old tee-shirt from that

short lived garage band, “The Megladons”.

Here’s my ray gun, random mismatched

batteries, a magnifying glass, a Kit

Carson comic book.

A cheese grater, used effectively on that

old broken heart, her hair clip, a high school

love note, a doodle of a man weeping on a

park bench, study notes for The Old Man and

the Sea.

I think this is all worth something right?

I can put it on the table in your garage,

put price tags on it all? I think it’ll only add

to the glamour of your rummage sale, for sure.

It’s the stuff of life.