Staying Inside

Staying inside isn’t so novel,

I’ve been doing it for a long time

in my respectable hovel.

The same walls in my iris

when there was no virus.

The same bland and boring environ,

hardly something foreign.

The cracks, the peeling paint,

the dull light ever so quaint.

Nothing new in there.

But me.

Sitting.

Staring.

Watching the news.

Reading that book.

Working.

Doing my part as best I can,

to keep other’s shit from hitting the fan.

I keep to myself while lusty longing hovers

rapt in the memories of lost lovers.

Cruel imagination, keeping me alive.

I twist and turn on my worn-out sofa,

wishing for her sweet ambrosia,

to fill my nose, and to taste on my lips,

while staring down this odd apocalypse.

I am compelled to resist.

I sit.

Staring.

Reading.

Worrying about the news.

Working.

Sleeping.

Not much left to do but hope,

buy more quantities of hand soap.

I’ll pine for her body, mind and soul,

but I’ll stay put for a higher goal.

When we’re free to roam again.

The Quest of Sir Harold

                Harold stood at the edge of the rickety bridge over the ravine. The Wizard had just asked him the passage riddle and Harold had no idea what it meant. This quest. This stupid quest. Another in a long line of pedantic and useless quests. “Go find the Staff of Ra,” or, “Seek the magic chalice of the undead,” or, “pick up my laundry.” All useless quests. Harold studied the jagged ravine face, the thrashing river running across the ravine basin and sighed.

                “So brave knight, have you an answer to the riddle,” asked the Wizard as he stroked his long white beard.

                “I’m thinking,” said Harold. The frustration clearly evident in his out of patience voice.

                Harold sheathed his sword and sat on a near-by rock. He took off the heavy armor helmet and brushed his fingers through his thinning hair. He wondered if there was a quest he could undertake for some potion to cure his male patterned baldness. Probably not. Or if there was, he’d probably have to fight sixty demon dwarves and a hundred amazons through some god forsaken jungle. It probably wouldn’t work anyway. The alchemist told him that there wasn’t really anything he could do about it. Just keep your helmet on, is what the alchemist told him.  

                “Do you need me to repeat the riddle,” asked the Wizard.

               

                The Wizard was impatiently tapping his curly toed shoe on the dirt path leading to the bridge.

                “Oh my gods, would you give a guy a second. Geeze. I mean, you’re a damn bridge wizard. This is your job. Do you have something more important to do,” shouted Harold.

                “As a matter of fact, my wife is having a little surgical procedure today and I’d like to be there with her so if you don’t mind, I’d like to move this along. You’re the fourth knight I’ve seen today so I’d like to hurry this along,” said the Wizard.

                Harold groaned. He stood from the rock he was sitting on and put his helmet back on his head. He stretched his back and twisted from side to side.

                “I’m sorry man. I know this is a pain. I’m not exactly enjoying this whole thing either,” said Harold.

                “Right, I know,” said the Wizard, “I get it man. You’re on a quest for some mighty magical something or other and were promised riches and women or eternal life or some other thing, right?”

                “Actually, I was commanded to find this dumb Rock of Ages. I don’t even know what it’s for and I only get to keep my job if I find it. Otherwise, it’s back to shoveling manure,” said Harold.

                “Ouch, that’s harsh,” said the Wizard.

                “Yeah, it’s ridiculous. But I’ve been doing this questing thing for like, 20 years so I guess I’m pretty good at it so…,” said Harold. “What’s wrong with your wife? If that’s not too personal.”

                “You know, you’re the first person to ask me. So thank you.  She keeps turning into a feral pig at the full moon. There’s another Wizard in Prairie Glenn South who said he could cure her. Thanks,” said the Wizard.

                “Oh, I know Prairie Glenn South. That’s a good little hamlet. Good school,” said Harold.

                “I just hope our Wizard Guild covers it. It’s not a great package but you gotta do what you gotta do am I right,” asked the Wizard as he shrugged.

                “For sure,” said Harold.    

                The wind howled over the ravine. sounding like the roar of a lion, bellowing across some distant savanna. A misty rain had started to fall. it pinged and dinged off Harold’s armor.

                “Listen man, I’m stuck on this riddle. Like, I don’t get it at all,” said Harold, “Can’t you just make an exception this time and let me cross the damn bridge?”

                “Sorry. I wouldn’t be a bridge Wizard if I just did that,” said the Wizard.

                Harold nodded. He’d expected nothing less. Everybody had their jobs and they just had to do them it seemed.

                “Right. Right. I totally get it,” said Harold.

                “I can maybe give you a clue,” said the Wizard. He winked and gestured to his left with his head.

                Harold looked over towards the Wizard’s left. There was a large mural painted on the cavern side. It was of a Wizard holding a glowing crystal ball, riding a dragon over an exploding volcano with a scantily clad princess dangling from the dragon’s talon. Harold studied the mural. He thought that it would look awesome on the side of his wagon. But he still didn’t get the clue.

                “Sorry. I’m really not getting it. And this rain is not helping at all,” said Harold.

                The Wizard shook the accumulating wetness from his flowing purple robes. He rolled his eyes and motioned again with his head towards the mural.  Harold looked again and just didn’t see it. The Princess was pretty hot though. He wondered who painted it. He wouldn’t mind getting a few more for his own personal enjoyment.

                “Yeah, still not seeing it,” said Harold.

                “I don’t think I can give any more of an obvious clue man. I mean, come one. You said you’ve been doing this for 20 years this should be easy,” said the Wizard.

                “You’re right. It can be easy,” said Harold.

                Harold unsheathed his sword and stabbed the Wizard straight through his heart. The Wizard grabbed Harold’s shoulder and looked into Harold’s face with shock. Harold pulled his sword loose and then chopped the Wizard’s head clean from his shoulders.  The Wizard’s body fell backwards into the ravine without fanfare or consequence.

                “Damn Bridge Wizards,” muttered Harold.

                Harold returned his sword to its sheath and started across the bridge. He made it to the other side and continued on his way towards the Doom Pits of Blumanthia.  He wondered to himself the whole way, if the Wizard’s wife would ever recover from her feral pig issues.

They Said

Rushing in, out of breath;

“Sorry…sorry, (gasp), I know

it’s been a while… (gasp),

ugh… sorry… What have I missed,” I asked.

“Nothing,” they said.

“Nothing? I mean, I haven’t written

anything in like, weeks and you’re telling

me nothing has happened in that time,” I asked.

“Yeah. I mean, a virus is like, killing everyone,

and there’s like President stuff happening,

but yeah… nothing really,” they said.

“I guess that’s good. I suppose,” I said.  

“Yeah,” they said.

“So I sort of ran in here, like I was

late for my own funeral so I just thought

that, you know, I might have been missed or

was missing something is all. I guess,” I said.

“Yeah. No. We’re cool,” they said.

“Cool. Cooool…,” I said.

Raps fingers on edge of desk.

“So, anything I can do,” I asked.

“I dunno. You have any poetry or

stories to write,” they asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, “It’s been a

little bit, but I’m sure I can come up

with something interesting or profound.

Something whimsical or thoughtful.”

“Neat. So… go ahead,” they said.

“Right. No Problem…,” I said, “no

problem at all…”.

A quick nervous clearing of the throat

and slight cough.

“PLAGUE!!!” they screamed.

Off they ran.   

It's Problematic

I’m not in love with your attitude,

but I’m in love with your face.

I’m always striving for dignity,

except when I’m passed out on the floor.

I’m only hoping for the best,

and unprepared for the worst.

It’s Problematic.

I’m only in it for the laughs,

why don’t you take me seriously?

I’m just here for the fun,

buy levity is tiresome,

Let me hold that door,

you’re strong enough for us both.

It’s Problematic.

Hold me at night when I’m sad,

but please don’t touch me.

Share everything with me,

but please be quiet.

Show me how you like to live,

but can you hurry it up?

It’s Problematic.

I just want to love you,

why don’t you feel it too?

I want to do it all on my own,

but please show me the way.

Fix the things that make me ill,

but don’t trouble yourself.

It’s Problematic.

Let’s build a house and a life,

throw off the shackles of the world

and strife, get it to be the way we like,

take it on and damn them all,

we can do it if we try, I’m sure we can

break away.

It’s Problematic.

Well, I do have that job, you have your

work. Pay the bills and stock the shelves.

It’s only dreaming in a playful way,

It’s not the truth but it’s what I’ll say.

I’ll smile and sigh it’s okay,

even though it’s not.

It’s Problematic.

The Emporium of New Orleans

I stumbled in from off the

crazy Mardi Gras street,

covered in glitter, beads

and reeking of copious amounts

of booze. An old bell clanged

over my head as I entered.

“Welcome to the Emporium,” said

the old man behind the large

wooden counter.

“Sorry, I just needed to catch my

breath from all the craziness on the

streets. Too much crazy,” I said.

“That’s fine young man, fine,” said the

old man, “plenty of others have done

the exact same. Feel free to browse

while you regain your composure.”

He puffed on a large pipe as he leaned

against the large weathered counter.

“Say, what do you sell in here,” I asked.

“Oh, we’ve got it all. It’s an Emporium

after all,” said the old man.

He did not look up from the faded

newspaper on the counter.

“Everything, you say,” I asked.

“Mm-hm,” said the old man.

I scanned the various shelves,

cluttered with all kinds of curious

and odd collectibles. Antique dolls,

sepia toned framed photos, jars of

yellowed liquids, taxidermy owls,

rodents and squirrels. A giant

moose head on the wall, wearing

a Mardi Gras crown.

“Sure does look like everything,” I said.

I wiped some glitter from the corner of

my cheek. “But have you got anything

for this depression I’ve been going through,”

I asked, thinking myself quite the smarty.

“Sure we do, we’ve got it all. Just step right

back into our parlor there and

your depression will melt away

like chocolate on a hot fudge

Sundae.”

I gave the man a glance, askew.

“It’s true young man, we’ve got

it all,” smiled the old man.

“A parlor to cure my depression,

I’ve have to say, I have my doubts.”

I said.

“Sure, sure,” said the old man, “it’s

not too hard at all. Just step though

that doorway there, let the noise of

Mardi Gras fade behind you and in no

time at all, your depression will have

equally faded.”

“Just through these doors,” I asked.

“Just through that doorway young man,” he said.

He pointed with his pipe.

I adjusted the beads around my neck and

stepped through the doorway, leading down

a long corridor. I could no longer

hear the sounds of revelry on the street.

I wondered if this could be true, could this

unbearable sadness that’s been weighing me

down be lifted through this simple magical

New Orleans store, this Emporium.

I came to a door and gave it a knock,

there was no answer so I gave the knob

a turn.

The door opened up, into an alley, behind

the store. There was no parlor. The noise

of the citywide party echoed off the tall brick

walls in the alley.

I put my hands on my hips and looked back

at the door I have exited through. It shut

hard behind me. 

I started to laugh. The laughter swelled

up from my stomach and I held

my belly as I chuckled.

My chuckle became a deep laugh

as I burst out in an uncontrollable fit

of riotous cackling.    

There were hysterical tears weeping

from the corners of my eyes and

for once I felt like a true fool,

and not the fool I thought I was.

This made my chuckle even harder

until I was sitting on the cobbled alley

surface. Smiling.

I was joy for a moment.

I wasn’t sad.

I was just there, laughing in an alley,

and nothing seemed wrong

about any of it.

Cave Dancers

They dance around the fire,

clad in animal skins, loin cloths

and general stages of undress,

gyrating, and writhing in

uninhibited sensuality,

intent on ecstasy.

Their silhouette’s flicker on

the cave’s jagged and rough walls,

in the pulsating firelight and with

rhythmic cadence of the drums,

their bare feet stomping the dusty

ground with punctuated desire.

Through the spiraling smoke

wafting up through the night air,

their arms and legs tease with

smooth seduction, insisting on

attention and carnality. Begging

for curious caressing.

Their bodies ripe with excitement,

sweat, and the glitter of anticipation,

for the dance will have to end and

someone will have to be chosen,

taken from the hunt, to the recesses

of the cave.   

The fire will die and morning will

creep up over the ashes of the

burgeoning Spring rituals.

A champion selected, among so

many contenders, to join in body and

spirit with their selector, in the cave.

Exalted lovers, raised highest, above

all others, joined in the sacred rites,

graduated to the partnership of humanity,

blessed by the shaman to journey through

the wilderness of life, hand in hand,

and fear no indecency between them.

Traffic slowed and I hit the brakes,

“Sheesh...I’m lonely,” I thought.

Who will dance for me, select me,

and choose this path of mediocrity,

melodrama and profound nonsense?

I need to find a cave dancer.    

Image Credits

Creator: Owen Benson

Copyright: Copyright (c) Owen Benson 2016

Information extracted from IPTC Photo Metadata.

Sucks to your Ass-Mar

“Sucks to your ass-mar, Piggy.”

Is, I think, the most apt phrase

to describe how I’ve been feeling

as of late.  I added the Piggy part

as that is not in the original

Lord of the Flies quote. Just had to say it.

Piggy, the poor child, is cursed

with asthma and childhood weight

issues and is at the pointed end of

all the sharpest criticism from

his so called, “friends”.

Piggy is us.

His sad fat little face, turned upward

with polite defiance as the children

around him descend into savage

chaos and primitive tribalism.

Piggy wants to follow the rules

when no one else does.

Jack is the slick, smooth and

persuasive leader of the savage boys,

lithe and wiry, golden haired and

charming. I’ve always hated him.

He was the snobby shit type I still can’t

stand.  But he is also, us.

We are both the mob of savage

children and that sad fat boy,

marooned together on an island

trying to survive through either reason

or brute force. We vacillate between

the two, changing allegiances.

We try to make sense of our place

in it all. Are we the rule makers, the

rule breakers, the outlaws, the legislators

of our own destinies? Where do we fit,

are we Piggys or are we Jacks? Are we

both, constantly at odds until we weep?

Weeping at the feet of some adult,

an adult that is supposed to be us.

I’m not so sure anymore.  So that is why

I have to say it, and say it too often it seems

“Sucks to your ass-mar!”