More Searching for Meaning

 

                “So, that was it then,” asked Johnny. He looked up at the giant computer screen in front of his face, at the digital image of God who had just greeted Johnny and all the other dead.

                 “Please save your questions for the end of Orientation,” said the face on the giant screen, of whom Johnny was highly suspicious. Johnny was strapped into a roller coaster type harness and couldn’t really move.  He was able to bring his microphone up to his mouth.

                 “I’m sorry, I just can’t, like wait. We’ve been waiting a long time to get here I guess and I’m just instantly curious to know, if, you know…, all that life, all that living, pursuing, sex, working, loving, being sad, alone, joyful, loved, alone again, if that... if that was all there was,” asked Johnny.

                 “How did he get a microphone in here? Can someone see how he got his hands on that please,” said the image on the screen.

                 “Yeah, I actually had one in my hand when I died, so like, I just seemed to have it when I got here,” said Johnny.

                 “Okay, can we get technical support in here to get this microphone from this guy,” said the face on the screen. “Seriously, guys, we can’t have these kinds of things happening so often.”

                 “Hold on man, I’d like an answer,” said Johnny. Two winged figures descended from above the giant computer screen and appeared at Johnny’s sides. They took the microphone from him and then vanished.

                 “Aw, c’mon! Hey, give me that back! That’s mine. That’s from my last show. That’s important,” yelled Johnny. He had been singing on stage at The Risk Room with his long-time bandmates, The Rebel Revengers, when a bottle or a boot or a brick flew from the crowd and smashed him in the face. Then he was blinded by some bright light and could taste applesauce, then, he was in front of the giant screen face, who was welcoming him to heaven.

                 “Okay, okay, settle down,” said the screen voice, “Here’s the deal. Yes, all of you are dead. There’s not much else we can say about that. It’s just what it is. Some of you may have near-death experiences and be sent back, but most of you. You’re here for eternity. So, let’s get this orientation out of the way okay?”

                 There was a generalized agreeable sounding moan, but Johnny couldn’t see anyone else really, his head was being held in place, focused squarely on the giant computer screen face.

                 “Oy,” shouted Johnny, “No! I don’t agree to that at all buster! I lived an awesome rock and roll life, well mostly awesome, and I am not very happy with this predicament. I mean, come on, all that drug use didn’t kill me; the rehab, the relapses, more drugs, the unprotected sex didn’t make a mark but a boot to the head and Wham! Here I am in Valhalla. That’s shit. Total shit. What did it all mean you raggedy old deity?”

                 The voices of the other newly dead groaned. “C’mon buddy, let’s just get this over with,” and shouts of, “Shut your face idiot,” rang through the void.

                 “Nothing. It meant nothing. All your human struggles, meant nothing to me,” said the face on the screen. “I’m an omnipresent super being with a ceaseless lifespan stretching into the billions of your years, so no. Your lives meant nothing to me. Did it mean something to you?”

                 “Well, I mean, damn. I didn’t expect that. I thought you were some sort of loving God. Like, you were all about love and you loved humanity,” said Johnny.

                 “I love humanity like you love ants. I don’t go out of my way to protect you, but occasionally some get stepped on and then it’s like, oh my me. Then there’s the paperwork and the tears and the prayers and the whining which is like a mosquito zinging and buzzing in my ear, don’t even know why those were made,  and then I‘m like, Fine! Fine, build me a church, here’s some prophet, do with it as you will and leave me out of it,” said the face on the screen.

                 “What? You’re a dick,” said Johnny, “Like that’s a super dick thing to say. Like, I wouldn’t even say something like that to my 3^rd ex-wife, and she stabbed me in thigh once.”

                 “Okay, you’ve really gotten me off track here. I’m just going to move ahead with the orientation. So, now that you all are among the newly deceased, we have an extensive amenity program at the Heavenly spa and resort with access to all the boutiques and…,” said the giant computer face.

                 “Oy! Big face! Oy,” shouted Johnny, “Hey! What the hell!?! I’m not done with you!”

                 The face on the screen sighed.  Johnny’s seat began to vibrate. It launched up, or what Johnny perceived as up, with incredible velocity.   It travelled through the cosmos in a blink and Johnny saw himself looking in the very heart of the Universe and all creation. He couldn’t breathe. Until he felt something on his chest. A thumping. More thumping, harder. He felt like he was getting dizzy.

                 Johnny woke up in an ambulance. A bandage on his head, I.V.’s in his arm. A paramedic standing over him.

                 “We got him,” said the Paramedic, “we’ve got a pulse.” 

                 “Oh thank god,” said Johnny’s wife, Cassandra, as she rested her head against his face.

                 “Don’t thank that asshole,” said Johnny, “last time I ever die. Frigging rip off.”

Looking for Meaning on Thanksgiving

 

I don’t know what

Thanksgiving is, really.

It’s a Holiday.

For Americans.

Immigrants really.

 

Who came the New World,

to alter their lives and

the lives of everyone they

encountered.

Regardless of consequence.

 

Which I think we do,

still, to this day, all over the world,

in judgmental pogroms of

tribalism and collectivism,

each to our own detriment.

 

Home and abroad,

we push our ideals and beliefs

onto those that may not share them,

or even want to be a part of them,

yet we are relentless in our Manifest Destinies.

 

We push the borders of civility,

of moralism, of squeaky wheel sensitivity,

and badgering bullyish behavior,

wherever we seem to place our

Puritan buckled hat.   

 

I know Thanksgiving is about family,

a gathering of blood and non-blood relations,

to share a meal together and marvel in

our good fortunes individually and collectively;

and to make each other laugh.

 

Maybe conversations will be fiery,

hotter than the Turkey, saltier than

the beans, and tinged with enough

alcohol to illicit declarative statements

we’ll regret privately but never admit.

 

Maybe the true meaning of Thanksgiving

will reveal itself around a full table of laughter,

of love, in the quiet moments of peaceful collectivity,

in admiration of each other, without jealousy or

contempt, but with compassion and acceptance.

 

Thanksgiving might be about

the contemplation of each of the people

in our lives that have shown us the lessons

of peace and love that after all is said and done,

is the only consequence to be thankful for.

 

 

 

A Few Kind Words

 

I tell you about your beauty,

how you are a stunner, a gorgeous soul;

it’s not just a mindless waterfall

of compliments splashing on the rocks.

It’s all truth.

 

Earnest in my adoration,

clear in my praise,

honest in my admission,

and obviously lustily

longing for the same.

 

The eye of the beholder,

subjective as it is,

cannot deny how happy it makes me

to sugar you with heartfelt

pleasantries of excessive flirtations.

 

It is inappropriate.

It is not often said as

well as I would like,

but it is true,

a truth that burns my lips.

 

A stumblebum of the tongue,

prattling on about your

undeniable beauty while

constantly questioning my own

level of deserves.  

 

My enamored heart,

so taken with beauty,

is caged in ribs impervious,

it seems, to any reciprocal

expressions.

 

Eyes blinded by the finery

of physical perfection, coupled

with a full beating heart,

full of its own desires, wants,

and plans for the future.

 

Embarrassed by the flattery,

the beauty cowers in the dimness

of commonality, scared to provoke

any further feelings of untenable

desire.  

A New Place

 

The newest of sounds,

in the newest of places,

in unfamiliar creaks and

mysterious thuds.

 

A new place to call home,

to rest my head,

to put away the things

of troubled times.

 

A new canvass on which to

paint the very image of new

contentment, rather than the tired

Dorian Gray portrait of depression.

 

The relish of which I can now

traipse from room to room in unhindered

happiness, away from the noise and smells

of so many others, crammed in their own depressions.

 

Each noise is an adventure,

each morning a surprise,

each night an experiment,

each day something different.

 

A whole new place to

rest my tired head,

a space all of my own,

into a new stage of life I go.

 

The rush of a new floor underfoot,

the peace of a place in which

I am the director of destiny,

and unbeholden to any other whims.

 

Potentials present in every dream

of lazy summers in a yard hung hammock,

or cooling sitting in central cooled air,

or cooing coolly with a cool chickadee.

 

The newest of new,

all for me,

untapped, unseen,

in my new surrounds.

 

 

Happy Halloween!

 

On All Hallows Eve,

the blood will spill,

toes will curl and

screams for Candy will

punctuate the night.

 

Ghouls and monsters,

will harvest organs to

feast upon and Demons

will steal souls,

and maybe eat some candy corn.

 

An empty candy dish,

as horrific as the empty

eye sockets of shambling

zombie, in search of

delicious brains.

 

Halloween puns will

shock us, Shirley Temple of Doom

and Cereal Killers, One Night Stands,

and Nudists on Strike, will

haunt our perfect grammar dreams.

 

The sidewalks filled with

costumed horrors and

un-costumed terrors alike,

strolling about, seeking fulfillment

of their lust for sweets.

 

Nightmares spilled on

porches and steps,

up to doorways separating

the enchanted realms of realistic fantasy and

fantastical reality.

 

To be broken only by

a knocking spell and

the magic incantation of

“Trick or Treat”,

for something good to eat.

 

Happy Halloween!

May all your terrors be fun.

You’re Horrors genuine.

And the candy satisfying

the hole in your Boo-tiful soul.

 

The Wild Woods

 

The wild woods bristled

with ancient excitement,

as the trees settled into

their long silent slumber,

an Autumnal rest.

 

The roots, interconnected

across the forest floor,

sharing their slow dreams

of Springs and Summers

yet to come.

 

The trees skirted in

beautiful piles of orange,

yellows and burnt brown leaves,

in a ballroom of natural

delights.

 

The tree, bare,

stretching out knobby

tendrils towards the darkened

October sky. A teasing chill

blustering through the branches.   

 

The forest alive with color,

in the midst of hibernation,

electrifying imagination and

deathly allegories which humans are

so prone to entertain.

 

The trees only know,

in their secret language

what true horrors time

can cause. They know the

scent of impending terror.

 

An owl, hoots,

preparing for the night hunt,

in the empty limb of its treetop

abode, claws dug deep into the

bark.

 

A howling wind, rattling

the sleeping skeletons of the trees,

into the terrors of our own

limited imaginings and

pedantic paranoias.  

 

The woods,

wait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's Live!

 

The stairs creaked,

the floorboards groaned,

doors slammed,

windows rattled,

unknown footsteps in the attic.

 

Jumping at the gust of wind outside

as Autumn leaves rustled past in a swirling torrent

of Summer blasphemy.  

“Damn it,” Melvis shouts, as his nerves

are threadbare.

 

Flashlight beam quivering in

his shaking hand as he makes his

way through the old house.

He never should have bet those

other teenagers that he could spend

the night in the creepy Anderson place.

 

The decaying corpse of the famous

mansion, on the edge of town,

where old man Anderson killed his

family with a hatchet, as legend has it,

and hung them up in the wine cellar.

 

The house, amplifying his every footfall,

as he creeps through the house,

livestreaming on his phone,

trying to be cool, so his friends

don’t think he's afraid.

 

“Hey guys, it’s your boy, Melvis,” he says.

His voice, pretending to be brave, as he turns

the corner into the former music room,

where a rotting piano sits, ready for a

ghostly concerto to play.

 

A thud in the dark corner,

the dark, impossibly dark,

had there ever been such darkness,

“Yo, that’s really dark ya’ll,” he says,

as his livestream followers start

losing interest and start watching something else.

 

“Noooo,” screams Melvis, dropping top his knees.

But it’s too late.

No one cares. No one is watching.

The Horror.

The.

Horror.