The Sands

 

                The sand twisted and curled through the desert air. Sam adjusted the handkerchief covering his mouth. He reset his sand goggles over his eyes. The desert sprawled before him. An impossible dead landscape, void of any signs of life. The Earth baked to a crisp under the tires of his desert Jeep. Sam knew where he was going but wasn’t entirely sure of the direction.

                 The road was long gone in the shifting and blowing sands. Eroded or covered by the infinite grinding of sand scouring the land. Sam reached for his GPS monitor on the front seat. He was still on-course to make it to the bunker. If anyone was still there to make it to.  The sun was at midday now. Four more hours through this parched desolation and he’d be there. He wondered if he might be the only one to make it out alive.

                 “Surely the others made it,” he thought. They had a two-day head start over him. He had to stay behind to make sure the viruses were well contained, and the facility was completely locked down. He didn’t want to be the last man, or the Omega Man, or any other classic sci-fi trope about the last survivor of a doomed world. He wanted others to be there. Other people to be with. To go on with. He didn’t think he could make it all alone.

                 The Jeep swerved on a mound of sand causing Sam to be thrown up from his seat. His seatbelt keeping him from flying out of the vehicle. “God damn it,” he shouted as he wrestled the steering wheel straight. His handkerchief fell down from around his nose as he hit the brakes. He came to a hard stop in the blowing sand. “That was no ordinary mound,” he thought to himself. He looked in the rearview mirror.

                 A flicker of metal shining in the bright desert sun caught his eye. Sam swallowed hard and pulled his handkerchief back up over his nose. He unbuckled the seat belt. He turned the Jeep off, hoping it would restart. He looked again in the rearview. The metal flickered again. Winking at him. He fixed his goggles and took a deep breath. He opened the Jeep’s driver’s side door and felt the heat and sand as he stepped out. The wind howled as the tiniest of granules peppered Sam’s body. They were so small, but he felt like he could feel every single grain.

                 Sam made his way to the mound of sand. He could see the small bit of metal protruding from the sand. He knew what it was without having to dig. It was the passenger side rearview mirror from the convoy. Sam bent down over it and tried to pull it from the sand. It was stuck. Sam knew it was still likely attached to the truck, which was now buried under the desert sands. He began brushing the sand away with his hands. The wind pushing the sand back almost as quickly as he could brush it away. He pushed the sand away from the side of the door revealing the University logo emblazoned on the side.

                 Panic started to creep into his mind. “Connie was on this truck,” he thought. He started digging faster, tossing clumps of darkening sand over his shoulders in a frenzy. The wind, swirling the sand above his head, twisting sand devils. He brushed the sand away from the passenger window. The cab was empty. There was no one inside. “Oh god,” he thought. “They made it out, but where…,” he wondered.

                 He stood up and scanned the barren desert, shielding his eyes from the Sun. No tracks, no footprints, no way to follow anyone who got out. He felt his heart breaking in his chest as he turned around and around, looking for any sign of anyone, of Connie.

                 “Two-day head start,” he said. He turned away from the wrecked truck and jogged back to his Jeep. He got in and luckily the engine started. “They made it. I know they made it,” he said. He stepped on the gas and Jeep roared forward over the sand.  He had to hurry.

 

 

 

 

Whiz Bang

 

Holy humming and

whizzing in my head,

whirring and clanging,

as the magnets did

what they do

around my brain.

 

An MRI,

two of them actually,

over two days,

to see what it is,

that is causing what it

is.

 

In a small tube,

like a packed cigarette,

huffed and puffed on

for a medical diagnosis

for the hemispheric facial

spasms I’ve had for a while.

 

It’s like a facial tic,

comes and goes,

it's often annoying,

sometimes it’s hardly

there at all,

but I notice it.

 

A twitch in my left cheek,

around my left eye,

across my left upper lip,

a hiccup of a motion,

making me blink,

making me annoyed.

 

I’m just trying to find out

what it might be,

it’s likely nothing but the artery

being too close to the nerve in my cheek,

and with every heartbeat,

the blood pulsing through my arteries,

triggers the nerve and viola,

a twitch.

 

There’s treatment for it

of course, nothing I like,

but a treatment, nonetheless.

Unfortunately the treatment isn’t

wine, women, and song.

But multiple injections

to the face, with Botox,

so yeah.

 

Wine,

Women,

and song,

haven’t really cured

much of anything come to

think about it.

 

Although it certainly beats

the humming and buzzing

and whirring of magnets,

electricity, and mechanics

of modern medicine.

 

At least I know where

to get a kiss.

When I need it.

 

 

 

Red Light

 

Red Light.

 

I like cardigan sweaters.

I just do.

They fit me for some reason,

I don’t know why I

identify with cardigan sweaters,

yet I get great

enjoyment from them.

 

Did I choose them based on

how I wished to be perceived as

the exemplar of my identity,

or did my pre-existing identity

choose cardigan sweaters?

 

Is our identity a product

of our choices,

or are our choices the

product of our identity?

 

Is how we wish to be seen in

the world just ego manifesting

or is it deeper, something that

simply makes us who we are

and what we like buried in our

DNA?

 

Is there some genetic memory

woven into what I presume is

my identity that has an affinity

for cardigan sweaters?

Was I always just a sweater guy?

Or is it simpler than that?

 

Maybe I just like being warm

on chilly afternoons.

But it’s Summertime, and

I shouldn’t worry about sweaters

so much.

 

The light turned green.

And I thought about something else.

Fire Dancing on a Pinhead

 

While Angles were

dancing on the head

of a pin, things

went and got a little

crazy down here.

 

It seems there’s only

so much punching at

the air I can do,

or so much keyboard

pounding I can muster.

 

The World put on

some insanity pants, a fruit headdress

and started an

apocalyptic cha-cha

to the rhythm of our own muttering.  

 

A haunting cadence of

voices, cold and muffled,

chanting some ancient gripes

in modern times, hoping

things will fix themselves.

 

We may have started this Fire

Mr. Billy Joel; we really may have,

been the bringers of our doom,

amidst our myopathy and self-involved

self-involvement.

 

So many fires,

so little rain,

so many opinions,

has so many people,

acting insane.

 

I’ll use this pin,

to post this message,

hoping not to disturb,

all the Angels Dancing,

to the same sad fiery beat.

 

 

Guilty as the Next

 

Junkies and pinheads,

roving the dirty, urine soaked

hallways of a shuttered

apartment buildings,

shouting and demanding

their needs be met.

 

Stealing and grifting

their way through the

night, to support their

habits, their lifestyle,

their unintended

consequences.

 

A policy of plague,

unleashed by other

policies of ignorance,

from policies of condemnation,

exclusion and inequity.

Shaking an empty cup,

looking for change.  

 

It’s very hard to care

for a society that doesn’t

care about itself.

Like an addict, bent on

self-destruction, regardless

of the help offered.

 

Another rung on the ladder

of society, needles still

sticking from dirty arms,

stepped on, in the climb

to be superior,

rather than be better.

 

I’m guilty as the next addict,

hooked on my comforts,

anxious without them,

irate when crossed-examined

about them. I offer nothing.

I leave a mess.

 

I am,

the junkie,

the pinhead,

and I am tired.

With needs to be met.