Monday, December 21, 2015

from "Gottlieb is Burning"

Jesse S. Mitchell

And knowing
The secret ruination of everything, the moving, the shaking, the minor key always playing, the down strum, the upstroke, the heart pounding silences in the centers of the days.  The tick tock, the behavior downstream, the updraft, the impeccable mess, the random dancing of the tongue lashing flickers of the flames, the eyes darting back and forth.
And knowing
That there is oxygen in this air, still oxygen enough to breathe and  oxygen enough to burn.  The noble gases, the sideways glances, the awkward passes, the minutes, soft and fragile, of glass.  Time that shatters and scatters and can never be lived again, ameliorate the rag-tugging miseries, gin-soaked as all the sounds everywhere forever swell and crash, the pitch as wild as any ocean.  We remember. We remember the tide, the rush, the life in the shallow pools.
And knowing
Beyond movement and movement, a cascading plunge of total stillness, the crystal immersion, dispersal, gone.  But back where we belong, we can’t even touch flesh to flesh without dust and metal, and metal just all steel and iron, and comes to nothing but rust and when the rust rusts away, nothing but more dust.  Handfuls of barely audible sound in each fist, pumping for volume, drying out the well, drying out the land, wastes, wastes and rocks.          

Thursday, December 10, 2015

A Society of Rough Hewn Stones

Jesse S. Mitchell

Hominids & Homophones
We could all start by building new gods
     And all around, war & the empty sounds of war.
We could all begin by renaming the noise of thunder (the flash of lightning)
     And in the whirlwind, bending, & the motionless movement of blending
We could all start by feeling brand new deep green grass beneath our feet.
     And the endings of the world & all the beginnings of all the crippling endings of the world
We could all start by new occupation, the health of hands.
      And avocation & the great new novelty of original sinning.
We could all start by no more abstractions or no tyranny no more forever
      And drifting away build something strong & never crumble apart forever again.            

Monday, December 7, 2015


Jesse S. Mitchell

The mosquitoes are buzzing, the fire breathing dragons, some blood lust on the lips,
the signal is flickering, codeeating the static.
And all the monster heads, legionnaires, that chatter away Enochian, the language of angels, while the flames rise high.
The double domed head of St. Paul’s mushroomed erection eruption coming up from beneath the city street mud. Because disaster is destruction and destruction is double entendre.  We euphemistically stare.
The long pre-Cambrian  spider legs, spindly suspended for minutes and minutes, frozen in shiver in the cold of the corner.
And while all the dust settles the moonburned ash collects into hours, momentarily, summarily, forever and forever because bullets are morphine, acetylene the torches that weld the war-flesh-aphrodisiac all webbed together.            

Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Bryn Mawr Students discuss Architecture, and the Ain Soph (from an upcoming collection 'Kingdom Machine')

Jesse S. Mitchell

 It’s the isotope Megiddo, a little burr in our cell walls, makes us the apocalyptic sort
Also gives us eyesight
usually confused for spiritual insight.
But you look up and you get a little glint in your eyes, everything is so gold and so bright.
And things get so easily blurred,  all sorts of lights and halos of light, ringlets.
And you look up
And you look up into the sky and it is like an eagle is the sun,
A big ole bird filled with avian light,
Two big wings, one for morning
And one for night.
And we mistake the dark under shadow of its passing flight
 for something other than a collections of stars and nonwaking hours
So everything is dream, nothing but dust gathered in the seams.
Everything is sleep.

I lived my life, one dumb animal amongst a hundred million other dumb animals. They never noticed me.

So reads the post script of every once living story.

Now let us make careful count of every star in the sky, so to register completely our dwindling, our irrelevance.
I have the taste on my lips.
Let us go, every one of us, over the top of mountains, above the pits of hell, so to comprehend the pitch of the descend.
The fall.
Right before our eyes.
In these cautious ways, warily aware, we may make of ourselves something responsive, weave a fabric around us
Contemplation of the hollowness, the vacuumness, the Ain Sophness, the nightness, the tiny prick of light in the hyperactive darkness, the pinpoint of significance superimposed over the awful comfortable insignificance.  It is our observation of it, the wavering glow staring backwards at our wavering glow, a blurred brightness in the deep. 
It is the deep, the big blue deep after all, and the unfathomable will put its cold cephalopod arms around you and drown you down or else you will learn to swim but even still you will eventually sink.  That’s just how this ocean world moves.
In this world they keep rows and rows of old Georgian houses, crumbling grey facades.  In this world they keep lines and lines of perfectly engineered streets, sidewalks and alleyways.  In this world they keep vernaculars and trolley cars that climb the steep sides of  mountain Earth.  They keep aeroplanes and helicopters high in the thin air, they keep cold air conditioning units blowing in the blistering heat of Sonoran Deserts.  In this world they keep alive in the long tentacle arms of municipal sprawls.  In this world they keep awake at night inundated in resource consuming light.
And everywhere you look, you can see the dinosaurs, the bodies and the bones.  The mastodons, the mammoths, the ice age relics, the fossilized remains, stalk and stem.  Little grimy trilobites from off some dead ocean floor, all dusty dry now.
so let us make a careful count.
Always awake.

Thursday, November 12, 2015

A Thousand Cuts

Jesse S. Mitchell

There is probably still a Maoist insurgency in Jharkhand.
Rising global temperatures are still probably reducing the world’s green forests to desert by the thousands of acres a day.
There is probably some fatal accident on some Colorado highway, big rig jack knifed, diesel spewing everywhere.
There is probably insurmountable sufferings in every corner of every land.
There is probably someone in Croydon still living some impossible dream.
There is probably no end to it all. 

Saturday, October 10, 2015

Dieu de Assassiner (from the Fomorian)

Jesse S. Mitchell

Dieu de Assassiner
On the High line near Gansevoort street I dreamt I saw the black Madonna of Czestochowa appear to me in the rippled dark bark of a tree stump.  I pretended to believe in miracles.
Death Avenue.
There was thick multitudes of birds in the air and in the tree canopies and whole wide expansive tribes of men and beast a’ throng on the boulevard.  I pretended to care about strangers.
Chelsea Historic.
Little clouds of steam that roll under my feet, the buzz of taxis stalled in the street.  Minidress ghosts flutter and appear in the breeze, reflect in the passing panes of glass.  I pretended to believe in god.
West 23rd.
We all wish the stars would come out.  We all wish the sun would drop away.  The sky is too bright and the glare is too much.  We all wish together.  A desire in unison.  I pretended to believe in convergence.
Chelsea Park.
Our skin just gets thicker and thicker and our senses dull dull dull, black-eye the moon, bloody the sun, the sunset, the sunset red.  Until you can’t sleep anymore, burning up from stars and from want of stars and from what of burning.  Roll over.  Pull the curtains.  Dreaming.  

Monday, October 5, 2015

as hieroglyphic as the last (a section from Regnum Machina)

Jesse S. Mitchell

And it isn’t that I am afraid the sky is empty.  Afraid that there are no gods behind the sun and moon, that no angels or demons hide behind the curtain-night lighting and snuffing out the candle-stars of the broad firmament, that the mechanical whirlings, the pulley ropes and sawdust bags, are not manned and meted out, ecclesiastically.
But instead I am worried that all of it is illusionary.  That everything of it is nothing but chemicals and gas, all rising and descending based on weight and density and relative gravities and all just reflecting and distorting light back to my eyes based on angles and exposure to sunlight and starlight, wavering off into cynical night.
No sky at all, not empty, not filled, just gone.

Plato says we are all just staring madly at the works of shadows upon walls.
The continued plausibility of which is dependent on the skill of those who fan the fires.

And wide-mouthed winds howl through the trees and feed further the flicker flames
And make the distorted-shades dance even stranger still
And the more bizarre and more bizarre until the senses are never to be trusted but except for the thick chill all over the skin and the wailing noise that traps the ears.
The eyes.  The eyes.  Are all but lost orbits prismed in by every kind of dishonesty, they pull the mind this way and that way and control the lust of the groping hands but never settle any desire, any doubting doubting doubting…

The shadows on the walls.

And every word that leaves the lips as hieroglyphic as the last, hard and geometric, finding their ways difficult along the curved elliptical lines of comprehension.  Some code.  Some translation that is thought, taken to heart, understood, standing back waiting, approaching the magic that is the communication between two diverse oceans, each lapping at the others shores.  Trouble.  Trying.  A word in edgeways before dying, the breath so dry and labored, every step and every utterance a mystery. Souls. Peeling.  Things. Feeling.  Odd sensations brought about through long enough lives to begin to cobble together sentences out of lost or certainly misplaced words along the way.  Grunts. Moans.  Sighs.  Sighs. A whole life seething in sighs, that the calm is wretched and mistrusted, probably a seedstone of hurricane.  Hum.  Sing.  Sugarcane typhoon.  Nothing else to make much sense.  Nothing more coming through, static, ambiguous the reception.  The ménage a trois that plays silently on the muted television set as memento mori and the housecats curls themselves effortlessly around the houseplants and the blinds were never opened this morning, so there is a dreary cool.
And few shadows on the walls.
It is the hobgoblins in the hemoglobin, the flushes to the cheeks that remember for us that we remain human after all, a swollen tongue and epileptic, a shaken tree with shallow roots.  The kind of thing that soon finds itself out of ground, pushed up and storm-shattered among all the wreckage that makes up history, but to be a ruin or part of a ruin is to be forever if not necessary.  We cut our teeth on that.  Amen.

(a first section of this poem is included in Altpoetics End of Summer Edition 2015 part 1.

Thursday, October 1, 2015

(intro) to Medea's Videos Pieds-Noir

Jesse S. Mitchell

These are the cemeteries, filled with bodies, all the spirit-nil bodies.
(This is where we keep them).
These are the libraries, the buildings, the houses, filled with books, word-naught books, dead books, stories.
(This is where we keep them).
And these are the stories, bodies, filled with the deceased, letters spent all diseased,  the baffling dead.
(This is where we keep them).
And these are the sandy, dirty sandy shores and banks that we let our oceans wash upon. Carry us.
(This is where we keep them).

Medea's Videos available here

Saturday, September 5, 2015

And about the birds in the air (an excerpt from The Hikikomori of Edwin Singer).

Jesse S. Mitchell

from the Hikikomori Of Edwin Singer, included in the book Sri Hinterlands available here
from Oneiros Books

Nothing but the sounds of birds.
Nothing but the buzzing of the bees.

The glimmer glint of rebel-light, like steel in the sun.

The love of collapsing buildings
    And wayward planets that can support no life.
Escaping over sturdy fences into fields so close to barrenness
    That they are called barren, and you can see their barrenness
They are bare-exposed in their nakedness
Worthless except for the space.
The space that they inhabit.

But that is revolutionary
Living in full lux of time.
And when it is Sao Paulo or Sarajevo when we die
Vacant, all cauldron-eyed deep and hollow,
Nothing but a bunch of husk.
And me, as much as you, an uninvited guest,
I will say, the world has begun to turn without us.
Has begun to turn without us.

About the birds in the air…
Horseflies in a cluster on the screen. These are savage times.  It makes me wonder how there are so many of them, woven together, in insectual bunches, their little black legs twisted in with the vinyl string mesh of the storm door window.  It is a marvel to me that anything so small and soft and hopeless survives.  The secret is in their power of flight, or in their numbers, maybe their tenacity…
They usually only congregate like this before a storm.  They get all worked up together and swarm around in clouds.  And they bite.  Suck blood from cattle and horses and people.  Vampiric.
Something about the change in barometric pressure or the humidity, incites them, drives them to this unholy madness.
The air before a storm is particularly sharp, very dynamic and I find that I myself am drawn to it.  I like to go out into it, walk around.  Feel the dark grey change of mist overhead, feel the deep dampening of the air around me, immersed.
It is really the approach that is the magic.  For a while anything could happen, the sky could become anything, electricity everywhere, there is potential.  There is an energetic kind of potential.  And potential is the best thing ever.  The most alive thing ever.
A real thing.
And then the storm finally breaks, tears open that long grey sheet of heaven and bursts out.  The rain starts to fall, stinging and delicate at first., but it tires quickly and soon the long lethargic drops begin to splatter and drip over everything and all is set and all the questions answered.  This is the way things are going to be…and we all sink a little bit further down into the forgetful mud.
The horseflies scatter.
And then an end comes to even that, and the bugs and flies flutter around, all funeral dirges and picking up the pieces.  But soon even all this woefulness ceases and the old moods return and cicadas chant out their mating hum and crickets and spiders nervously rub their legs.
The air gets thin again, lean and empty and clear as glass.  When all the blue finally fades back in, the birds return and begin circling and streaking, each depending on the breed and temperament.  
The sounds of the street begin to pop back out, more prominent now after the low droning hiss of rain.  The air conditioner kicks on, makes a clank in the vents and sends up the cold.  It isn’t really all that hot yet but the A/C unit is old and easily confused by the changes in humidity and evaporation.  A girl rides by on a bicycle, a slow repetitive squeak. Her hair, Scandinavian-straight, picks up the wind a bit as she passes a creeping police car and turns the corner.  She turns onto the road that leads to the western part of town, where they keep the industrial and commercial places. The few factories, a couple of mostly empty professional complexes, the stores, the green behind the community college where they are setting up an outside pavilion for a Tuesday Weld film fest, and finally the lake.  The lake is almost totally round.  And large.  And it was almost always glass-still.  Nothing disturbs the surface.
The lake was also the spot where the last aboriginal peoples of this area stood some land for the final time and were then summarily slaughtered.  Gunned down and left to rot.  That blood is still there, as particularly iron rich soil that supports some of the tallest and sweetest water flowers and grasses anywhere.
The lake is now  a popular local week-end and holiday recreational area.  They have picnic shelters and camper hook-ups and extremely filthy trash cans chained to iron poles stuck in the ground, as if they were in some danger of being taken.
The girl is most likely heading there.
It is depressing the way summer returns to the day after a storm.  It is a kind of boring-heaviness, a weight, a obnoxious mass, a crammed-wet-paper-bag-full kind of weight. A nuclear radiating kind of warm weight.  It is warm but a false warm.  Everything is too bright.  Everything is trying too hard.  But we’ll get over it.
I wish I could write a book with a photo of Simone de Beauvoir on the cover.  I have no such book in mind.  I don’t even know what it could be about, could be about anything really, I just want to write something that would justify the use of such imagery.
I look out the door for some sign of the horseflies.  I watch a few cars roll down the street.  Trees move slightly.  People getting their mail.  I lose focus.
These are the hot blasts of civilization that come creeping into my mind.  Totally unprovoked, I swear.  Uninvited.  Unwelcome.  And the biggest part of everyone of my days is spent running around this house and this life in general, sealing up all the cracks and patching all the holes.  But there is always that little draft.  I must avoid it.
Here is my place in time.  How depressing.  So here I stand, my arms by my side, trapped by time, by gravity, by circumstances beyond my control, by science, by wild random science.  By events.  Best to get used to it.  Best to put the paper down and switch off the television.  Wait it out.
I am a hurricane.  A hurricane is defined by the Oxford Dictionary of English as ‘a strong violent wind of with at least level 12 Beaufort scale force’ and the word comes from the Taino word for their god of the storms, Hurakan.  But that’s me, a swirling mass of appendages, mad tentacles of anxiety drunk numb fingers and toes, a clumsy destructive mess.  With an extremely calm core.  Not a thing moves, total stillness.
I am also a misanthrope.  I do not like people.  I think what I dislike most about them is their laziness.  I don’t mean physical laziness, I don’t care how many bales you tote, or hours in your day, I don’t give a shit about so-called ’work’.  I mean, our all over laziness.  How we allow the awfulness of this world to persist and even increase.  How we still perpetuate evil and violence on each other.  How we continue to allow some to go without and how we permit so many to die.  All before our very eyes.
If I ever state this, I usually hear the old line ’but we don’t know any better. ’  But we do.  Have you ever  read a book, watched a film, studied religion, mythology?  We know exactly how to be.  The human story is beautiful.  It is rich and warm and so full of mercy and advancement, it draws even the iron tear.  There is such a promise, such a possibility of what our future could be, as to be so wonderful that it reduce any legend of heaven or hell a dull glint lost in the overgrown weeds.  The end.  We could be so much, it courses through our blood, it invades our imaginations (obliviously) , we breathe its air…but we won’t do it.
But we won’t do it.
And we will blame it on something else.
And we will avoid it and we won’t even talk about it and we will try to never ever think about it
And we certainly won’t look at it or deal with it.
But me either.  I’m not better. I’m no better.
Robert Heinlein said that ‘Sin lies only in the harming of others unnecessarily and all other sins are invented nonsense’.  Yes.  I agree with that.  But we won’t even follow just that one rule.  We cannot stop ourselves.  All we really need do, is never intentionally or  needlessly harm another living thing and we would be golden.  Humankind I could love you again.  I could live side by side with you again.  I could write your stories again.  I would grant you any reputation you wished.  Because we all want reputations.  Saviors. Heroes.  Don’t speak ill of the dead.  Dictators holding whole herds of scholars, dacha bound and restless, with cold gun pressed to warm throat, all to rewrite a little history.  Who is a liberator?  Who is an oppressor?  No one goes to the grave a villain.
Just don’t kill.  Just don’t maim.  Don’t torture.  And don’t let it happen.  Let us move on.  Move us on.  Be happy.  Let everyone born on your watch go to the grave in their natural time and in one piece.  And I will grant you any reputation you desire.  Go out under the stars and breathe your saintly hymns to the moon.  Into churches or alleyways or caves or temples and do your things, I do not care.
But I’m no better of course, of course of course, of course I’m no better either.
I’m no better.
I need to get myself together.
Walk into the other room, turn the computer on, pull open all the curtains. Let a lot of sunlight in.  oddly enough as reclusive as I am, I cannot stand the blinds drawn. I must have the sun. Electric lights are hideous yellow and they buzz.  I can hear the noise everywhere.  I feel it.  Echoing around inside my bony porous skull-head.  It is unnerving.  It reminds me of my cadaverous nature.  I am just a dead body tossed on earth alone for long enough for me to realize it on my own.
I sit down to type.  I wait.  I think in my mind of my characters.  I visualize them.  I put them in situations and I wait.  I wait for them to react, to respond and when they do, I smile because their reply pleases me.  But then it does not.  Because it is not real.  They have done what I wished them to do and not what they would have done.  It is not honest.
My universe is filled with deep thinking individuals in so far as their deep thoughts could only be as deep as mine, with all my limitations but then again, within my world, my thoughts are the deepest thoughts that can be thought.  Yes, they are conscientious, profound beings.  And they are hardly never wrong.  They kill me.
You may say ’why bother?  What from Swann’s Way to Infinite Jest, there is nothing left to say in Modern literature.’  You many say that, and I might even agree.  But I don’t think we are still in the ‘Modern’, ‘post-Modern’, ‘Contemporary’ days.  That all ready happened and our out right refusal to move on is one of the biggest causes our recent malfunctions.
    And then come those moments of perfect stillness.  Too introspective, pushing the brain too far. And our eyes go empty blank and it pours over you like water threatening to drown.  But you don’t, you hover on the verge of breathlessness and compulsion.  Compulsion to gasp for air.  We realize we are alive, we are life, this is life…
And we seem insignificant and we seem sad and we seem lost.  But we get over it, as is our nature, our nature is to survive, to surmount.  We get over it and we move to the next phase, pure delirium.  We shake overtaken with joy and we realize we are alive, we are life, all of this is life and everything is beautiful and wonderful no matter who you are or what you believe.  And there is where the real madness lies, because as it is beautiful and grand, it is also so fleeting and it is so quick and  the rapture pulls away from you, and you find yourself unable to stand it, the quick obliteration and the fading of all the light.
My fingers in front of me, all flesh and bone.  They tremble.  They shake.
It is dangerous to think of characters this way.
And we go rampaging towards an end.
And we go rampaging…
The birds swoop between the power lines outside the house and go streaming up over the neighbor’s roof.
And the horseflies buzz hover in mid-air with the blood lust on their lips.  

Wednesday, September 2, 2015


Jesse S. Mitchell

Nothing but a reoccurring dream, a mouth full of steam, the whole end of the world, the collapsing walls, soft, behind her.  The thin skin, frail, around the Earth, cosmic dry and cracking tattered in the margins leaking water and hot air, the undeniable pressure, the unbearable pressure.  Standing in the rain, seething, still breathing.  Her train-depot-core(not heart) waiting to beat, waiting for lights to glare through the aperture, the tunnel tear of the universe shimmering so near, waiting for the platform rumbling, the tumbling trumbling noise. Completely mammalian nothing mechanical, an embodiment of hysteria, a ten-thousand voice quivering timbre shout.
Ayahuasca burning, fire around her eyes, like Saint-Saens, Danse Macabre, bonewhite the moon.
Not all the things humans do on the surface of this planet make sense, or add up to anything.  Some of the things are so very confusing.  And this human was an expert at chaos, our lady of the pandemonium.  She had caught the ever present eye of the whole universe, completely, some time before.  Not all souls abounding are ignored.  In between the pages of cruelty and tragedy, astronomy, something transcendental and the story unfolds and is appreciated.  Not that she ever knew.  Skeptically, she even accepts the possibility of rainless days, totally alone.  Climbing relentlessly over the hard pebbled face of this mountainside, the boulderous waste of hard stone life.  And she has been climbing long, a longtime but not forever  and by the time she reached the altitude, high enough to get noticed, she was already deeply scarred.  A red ribbon of thick imperfectly healed skin chocking round the front radius of her throat, a random assault on the street, from which she was saved by that the tepidness and lack of skill on the part of the monsters of this world.  But not entirely.  The cut was too shallow but the wound was deep.
She is tall. A Patagonian giant with wild pampas grass shooting out of her head, black and thick, a braided cloud.  Scissor legs, sharp bones, tired through and through, cutting their way around the paper thin atmosphere, cured concrete and black mass marble at her feet.  Big eyes but shallow eyes, dilute and hesitant, wavering and rippling, weary eyes from rushing after, looking over, peering through transom windows, checking around corners and in the peep holes of doors.  She rubs them constantly with the bony backs of her hands.
Waiting.  She imagines a bloody rush, a last minute, final hectic fit of violence to end it all, to close the casket down.  Throw herself head long into the path of a racing train, the drum beating, syncopated pulse blasting in her ears, boom, the big explosion.  But she loses interest.  Deep down inside she is too lazy, too stretched out, too masochistic to let herself off so easily.  It is the breathless miserable lingering that remains.  Upward.  She climbs. Upward.
But purely avian inside when she lets it all quiet down.  The eyeless ghosts that pass back and worth around her  body, stoic, the knifeless razors of ugly crowded depots, all the ricketing and tickering.  The dangerous desperation of suffocation.  But when she closes off her senses, totally sensationless, blind and deaf, blank, black, and numb, she becomes all avian, all angel, all eagle and around her grow out the thickest wings, hollow boned and fully feathered.  The warmth and softness, and under these surreal vans she can barely feel coming up the slightest breeze, warm, thermal updrafts.  She knows if she can catch them. She can glide, float away.  No more climbing.  No more labor.  No more cutting.  No more bleeding.  The curses all lifted, just like her, up into the spiraling air.
And all the wars be over, the whole damned world below, warless, deathless, effortless.  And as she spins high above it all, never-ever returning, watching the perfect blue thing move around in the smaller and smaller circles, because she will never land, going higher and higher.  She would go so far out, if she did open her eyes back, she would be seeing into the future.  The days to come.
Her feet hurt.  The pain ricochets from toe to heel to ankle and lightning flashes up the back of her legs, shaking the ligaments and trembling calf bones.  Thighs aching, hips sore, back breaking, the flood of feeling anchoring firmly back into reality.  Frenzy all around, mad din, pushing and shoving and commuting, bleating and daring and darting.
But that is the hurricane and it is death defying and it is maddening but it is only filled with soulless bodies, empty flesh, no power.  Instead most of everything all around is monotony.  She has to fight that, she has to push against it to save her life.  Be a dervish.  Be a wildly excitable atom.  Be heat.  Dip her spear in Chinese Gordon’s blood in Khartoum. Her weak nervous system the infidels.
She can feel the approach.  She can feel the rattle of dead wood and frozen steel, numb but shivering under her blistered feet.  The delay and waiting, the abscess of tedium quivering to eruption.  And then she could hear the chugging sound.  The quiet that spread over the throbbing crowd, the unbearable pressure, the silent blanket, the reoccurring nightmare, the morning ritual.  She could see the ugly wedge shaped faceless mass careening and then slowing.
Open the doors.  The airs exchange.  The outside natural and humid air fights its way into the carriages and the inside parched and inelegant stuff rushes out in hisses.  The result is a gigantic empathic mist that envelops.  A fine esoteric haze.  A vapor that surrounds her as she boards the train and with every further step inside, she loses more and more of her mind until the awful beast struggles and jumps to life again and begins rolling steadily down the tracks.
As the lights and signs go whipping by the small stained windows and everything becomes a bewitching blur, she starts to see a thousand little twinkles of quaking light all around her.  It feels weightless below her.  She feels lifted up, high up, something purely bird-like.  The steel train cars that she inhibits sway and swerve, squirming serpentine.  She puts her hand on the wall for support.  Everyone else is gone.  Disappeared.  A great giant snake snatched off the cold rocky surface of a rock, clutched in the scaly warm talons of a busting upward eagle, a daze of light and a cyclonic fire of wind around her.  And she doesn’t hurt.  And nothing on her is sore.  All the sameness is evaporated, the ennui lifted like a scrim.  She kicks off her shoes and she imagines they fall forever through a superheated atmosphere.
And she smiles.
And that is how the Eagle saw the end of the world in Veracruz.

Friday, July 17, 2015

Slumber (an excerpt from 'Medea's Videos')

Jesse S. Mitchell

the following is an excerpt from the novel, Medea's Videos.  It is available for purchase from Oneiros books here Medea's Videos

She lets her heavy eyelids smother over her big sore eyes.  And her mind goes, palisades and pineland wastes and punk rock pictographs.  Past Passaic, past Passaic, past Passaic, beyond the Styx, beyond the Lethe, to dreaming dream oblivion.  Just try to make it all work.  The most mysterious of all mysteries, may we all have hallucinary dreams, descriptions of love or fantasy, depictions of exorcism or orgasm or something alike but in-between, something narcotic, neurotic, narcoleptic.
And then she is in an empty field, a giant sky.  A sky so grey not even fire could scorch it black, so grey lightning couldn’t even flash it bright.  So grey.  She moves her eyes.
And then it all rolls away.
And the green grass, turning crude yellow at the tips, covering over everything at her feet, was suddenly illuminated.
And the tall red grass next to her, rusted through with late season maroon and crimson, swayed.  She put her hand in it, touched the tops of it as she walked slowly through the field, over a small hill, toward the big red barn as it became more and more visible.  A flock of small black birds bust into the air, starlings.  The ripple rustle of their wings, the deep shadow they cast over the ground.
Can’t think too much.
No words forming in the mind.
She began to feel a bit sick, dizzy.  Couldn’t keep her feet.  Felt unstable.  Tumbling.
Her eyes opened.  She was lying sweaty on her bed.  Ran her hands over her face.  Sat up in bed.  Still unaccustomed to, but becoming more so everyday, to the violence of tearing between two realities, just by opening or closing your eyes.  Jarring.
Heaves herself off the bed, stumbles, feet of dead brick, slowly to the bathroom.  Showers. So much steam.  Lights a cigarette and watches the smoke mix with the evaporating moisture, the humid air.  Wipes off the mirror and stares at her face, pulls on her eyes, eyelids, cheeks, cigarette perched on her lips.  Combs her hair back and up.  Grabs an oversized white t-shirt off a teetering pile near the door and yanks it over her head.  The words on the shirt ‘Black Flag’ appear backward in the mirror but she can still read them. When she notices that fact her mind turns for a moment to philosophy, physics, same as with anyone else who happens upon the phenomenon.  But as with everyone else, she quickly forgets.  She tugs on a pair of dark indigo jeans, flicks her cigarette in the sink.  Turns the water on to wash the ash down the drain.
Walks into the other room, picks her jacket up off the floor, puts her arms through carefully.  Snubs out the butt and tosses it in an old coffee can.  Grabs an iPod off the counter, twists the headphones, wires, around it slips in a pocket.  Takes a small camera off the shelf and puts it in another pocket.  Pack of cigarettes, lights, keys.  Next to the refrigerator, she slides her back and brings out a pint bottle of vodka, she drops it in a hidden inside pocket.
Opens her door to the outside world.  Pauses for a moment, shudders, a kind of prayer on her lips, just don’t be terrible today, just don’t be cruel, don’t be awful, shakes her head and closes the door hard.
Out on the streets, it is all zombie-eyed dawn, glassy, glazed over staring down the barrel of a gun, all bloodshot throbbing veins around the horizon.  Loud, screeching, bleating noise, deafening, throwing punches at the sky, a hundred thousand million people with scissor legs cutting, slicing, daring someone to do their worst.  Belligerent.  Ugly.    
The syncopated caffeinated rhythm. The merciless pulse.   That vindictive speed.  It will get you.  It will get you.
She jams her earbuds in her ears, moves them, repositions them.  Her ears get irritated, flushed.  “Passing Complexion” plays, Steve Albini’s electric chainsaw buzz.
She dodges as many bodies as she can.  Dancing through the thick warm tide of pedestrians, waves, crescendos, arpeggios.  Too much distance between anywhere she is and where she means to be.  She can feel the sun trickling down from out the stingy sky, clogged this morning with clouds and long fascist wisps of dark atmosphere.  Another warm day.  Another killer day.  
And in the middle of this wasteland, in the midst of all of this indifference decay, a peak, a mountain top.  A sanctuary.
A square Plexiglas booth.
A bus stop.  With a long composite plastic bench.  The bench is empty except for one blonde head, slumped down, peering into a book lazily cracked in one hand.  A big thick manila folder resting on her lap.
Medea walks into the booth and sits down, rips the earbuds out of her ears, grimaces at the slight sting. Turns off the iPod and shoves it in her pocket.
Lindsay looks up from her book and smiles.
“Get the part?”
“Fuck no.”
“Why not?  Did you listen to the others?”
“Did you read well?”
“Yeah.  The best.  I was the best for the part.  I know it.”
“These things happen.”
“You got the band posters done?”  Medea reaches down and taps the folder.
“Yeah.  Last night.  Taking them over to get them approved right now.  If they like them, then it is a go.  Get a little bit of money out of the deal and we get to go to a free show.”
Medea nods.
“What did you do last night?”
“Ended up getting too stoned, passed out at some point.  Living the dream.”
They sat together looking forward at nothing for a few seconds, silence, there weren’t even any sounds leaking in from the city.  Nothing.  A perfect vacuum of noise.
“I think I dreamed I was in some underwater world, filled with Roman ruins and shit, picking up bits of gold and treasure.  At some point I had to fight with mermaids…or something.”
“How very Wagnerian.”
Medea took the pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and slammed against her palm a few times, pulled the cellophane strip away and opened the box, yanked out the foil and tossed it on the ground.  She watched float away on the breeze for a few minutes and finally in fell and rolled next to an old dilapidated trash can.
“Oh! You are such a litterbug.”
“Yeah, all us Nihilists are.  The planet can take care of itself.”
She puts a cigarette in her mouth and lights it.  She leans forward and rests her elbows on her knees.  She takes a drag and fills the booth with smoke.
“So, you coming by tonight?”
“Yeah.  I’ll be there.  I have my thing.”
Lindsay interrupts her, “What thing?”
Medea waves her left hand at her, trying to blow her off, “My thing, you know.  I’ll be there after that around six, I guess.”
Lindsay nods, “Cool, we can finish watching ‘The Planet Earth’ box set.”
“Urrghh!” Medea sits up and sloughs in the seat, “No, I can’t stand it.  We have to watch something else.”
Lindsay laughs a bit.
“Every time we watch that, I spend the next two days hearing David Attenborough narrate everything I see.”  She sits straight up and with a fake upper class British accent, “The homeless American Vietnam vet does the MOST remarkable thing, in his shopping cart filled with jugs of urine, he keeps an entire change of clothes and two full brown paper bags of loose chicken bones.  A master of organization, he can accumulate great masses of strange and bizarre trinkets and talismans.”
Lindsay laughs.
“It’s too much, man.  I cannot take another night of nature documentaries . Do you want me to bring something myself?  I can run back by my place and get something good, I swear.”
Still laughing a bit, “Sure.  Sure.  That’s fine.”
As the words leave her lips, a bus begins to chug to stop and the folding door creeks open.  Air brakes breathe out in a gust.
“That’s me. See you later, okay.”
Lindsay stands up and collects her book and folder and a bag at her feet, under her shoulder.
Medea nods and slumps forward again, smoking.
As soon as Lindsay walks on the bus and down the aisle to her seat or nonexistence, one or the other, Medea reaches inside her jacket and twists the lid off her pint bottle, eases it out of pocket and takes a hard slug.  Caps it back up and stands up and smoothes down her clothes.  And leaves the bus stop booth and continues her way through the streets toward her destination.

Saturday, June 13, 2015

Laramidia or The Last Soliloquy Of Hoarse Angeles (unfinished)

Jesse S. Mitchell

this story is presented here in an unfinished form.  I may at some point finish it.  I am not sure how I feel about it.  

1. Alan Smithee

It was ten thousand years ago in Echo Park that we first came upon the solid grey frankness dead of this overturned planet.  This overchurned world.  This whirlwind of ghosts.  And this was in the longest deepest old times, the plague days, when all the uprooting began, the dreary grey, the upsetting shaking.  The teetering quaking.
Great Grant from off-Farflung, from Boneslick-liquid like the ocean, nothing but sand, West Texas-desert, came shrieking in on the breeze, brought to me the dharma of marijuana, taught me how to read it. The long and dark sky.  The populated night.  A place to be.  We said amen.  The innumerable winds.  The king resplendent.  
And that was mind-rattling, window breaking for a while, empty out the house, until the mudslides shut down whole neighborhoods, split open deep wounded ground spit the fire into the skies.  We worried collectively about the heavens.  The health.  The welfare of the very gods that had formed us, cracking and crackling clay in their feeble hands.  We were dropped.  We were fallen.  Cold.  Some communal heresy.  We drifted like the sea, Magellan straight onto morning, rounding the horn and Suezing the canal.  Loosing our grip.
And whole bodies began their disappearing.  Souls and spirits with them, vanishing.  The religious wailed.  But without rapture or joy but with the sloughed off skin of disease, boil laden palms, the hands ached, the eyes strained.
We had to take in his brother.  Roommates gone in a whiff, a wisp. And he came with a copy of Post Office and random Bukowski and we piled the books in every corner.  Beat deep, deep cut, like sharp knives and razor blades.  Stay alive. Stay alive.  I dare you.
Living inside of bottles of Jameson and Morgan, peering out like through stained-glass.
And everything was beautiful
And holy
And wonderful.
Take up hands.  Collect alms.  Begging bowls.  Oh how the sky could fall, fall apart and burst open, seams split, let out the rain, the storms.  Pass it on.  Life.
God bless Hollywood Hills.  Can always find our way from there, no matter what madness was happening, whatever villainy perpetrated, fabricated.  Landmark. Landfill.  Flash flood.  Flesh burn.  Port-wine-stain. Birthmark.
You had to come out some way.  Find your way.
We visited a house in Gardena.  Old torn copies of People magazine gathered, strewn across the floor, and in the corners, in the dust and spider webs and leshii bones, where there was always just nothing before.
We resettled here.  Let roots come out and tap the soil, get into the water there.
Where there was always just nothing before.
I came to this life like an unfurling spool of cheap film, a tidal pool of poor resolution.  Dark spots blotting out my way.  The view warped.  I felt the stirring under my feet, at the sad sick roiling of a de-orbiting sphere, a busting bubble, I felt with understanding, with nausea, but comfortable nausea.  Everything was end-over-end and coming to an over-over-end, or else something else so much like it, a difference could not be discerned.  The mood was awful but in some places it was magnificent.  Brilliant.  Finally, something real.
It all came fluttering in.
Drop water
Like streaks of ugly rain.
And we all continue along.
So proud.
But not changing.
And we three, we stayed in the four walls, the eight walls, the many multifaceted walls of modern construction, remaining indoors as often as possible and simply dreamed.  Slept and dreamed.
The things that never end.
And we listened vainly through the windows (nearly shattering) to the cutpurse guttural moans of  desperate men, the belly cutting, blood drenched, nearly zombie-crushed, frozen over.  The eyes gone so far blind, that blindness becomes a kind of loud loud diluted pitiful vision.  Hallucination. Prophecy.  
Visceral yearning.
Revelation.  What we are all waiting for… crazy, imagining.  Nothing left but facts, awful awful facts, tangible things empirical.  We sin and cry and sin and cry, unable to find a way to touch down into anything else.
Beulah land, here in paradise.  Amen.
And behind the old storm curtains, the typhoons raged backstage prepared, wardrobe and make-up.  The veils waited to be torn.  The top to go up.  Promises kept.  Holy matrimony.
And we walked.  Outdoors.  And we walked out of doors only slightly, only sometimes, up and down the short stretches of road from homestead and trough, little daytime eatery named Jack’s where Grant claimed to have witnessed, with blood-shot eyes, overcast in the wavering air, so humid, the ghost of Ramon Novarro.
Or old president Vargas but only when he was feeling political.
And that was the sack of Troy.
“Angels are nothing but leftovers, walking cuts of beef.  Necromanced  beyond any hope of return or towards any turn of romance. Not a decent thought in their heads.”
The brothers would argue on and on in beat up, ragged upholstered booths.  Like stale coffee and clouds of smoke.
“So shiver down to your moral bones, fluttering your same old thinking, this is what we get for carrying blood in our veins, the ability and the willingness, to see through any possible distraction.  Our gift.”
And then before long, before too many days passed, cracked yellow, down the horizon, behind the hills, Grant was gone.  Grant was no more.  Victims congregated in piles like dust in bins of dust.  And refuse was refused and reused and brother and I stood in howling rain one day on a new mown lawn and looked over our soggy feet at tombstones like sand in our eyes, like jagged pop-up teeth.  We knew we were in the jaws too, in the mouth, the trap shutting down.  
We don’t need any more Pietas.
Save us.
So, save us.
And now, it is for certain soothsaying moments, I live for, brief.  When I can clearly see the future ‘til the ends of all times, the shorelines and banks, the collapses, suicides by asps, the breakdowns in the middle, the rebuilding.  The chilling.  The cold and the heat.  The bouncing around like rubber.  The underneath it all.  The nuts and bolts, oh robotically, and it makes me feel alive.
And I feel alive.
And I dare you…
Dare you
Not to live when life shines it verve-rays, sun shining, on you.  A sunny day.  Crack your face on a smile.  Breathe.
I dare you.
And then it was just me and brother. And the house no smaller.  No smaller still.

2. Clemency

And nature does its alchemy.  The old old chemistry, artistry.  Sanguine.  Turns the sky, bottom first and bleeding up, sangria.  The torturous pressure, how little the Earth really cares for us and our fragile crystal minds, our brittle states, calls forth to mind all the awful blood rushes to the head, adrenaline, all the blood letting, sacrifices, the fears.  The feigning and the frightening.
Fish bowl anxiety.
Fish-eyed goggling.  Glaring.
The smell of piss is ubiquitous.
  We will never get out of this. The lost twilight of man, the apex ape, the arcane whittler, the primate dilated, aperture rising, let the colors fade.  Let the light come in, shine on the cresting, the setting sun.  a pinch on the cheek, a growing in spite of demise, the great grand evolutionary dilapidation.
Wherever we are going, we are going without hesitation.  Brisk.  The wind at our backs.  Dead and groaning.  Godhood, godhead conferred like maidenhead broken.  Priceless.  This is discovery.  Painful.
Flies in great hairy fleshy masses, appear everywhere, all the time anymore, attach themselves upside down to sticky ceilings, sticky walls, buzzing. Annoying as the sound is, it is relieving.  So much life, so much sound drenched life, still hanging, still hanging on.  Magnetically.  Swatting at the detached ones makes my spine shudder, killing so violently such  brave little insects seems straight paganism, awful wickedness.  I let them live.  Ignorant they remain to the dangers that abound.  Bliss.  But painful bliss still, indeed.
Tem diddle diddle.  Temmm diddle diddle. Ieieieieieeeeeee!
Sirens blare outside.  Crescendoing and decrescendoing as the pick-up vehicle oozes up and down the streets, turns corners, trolleys off, never completely stops.  Sharp electrical buzzing bites in the margins, the tazers to keep back the desperate hungry who mean to ransack the cold pockets of cold bodies tossed coldly on cold steel and carted off to some cold hole.
“I feel happy,” brother calls out in a high pitched faux accent from the room behind me.  Quoting movies.  He laughs.  He finds humor in the most sickening displays.
And then, the slick black homogenizing glare of silence.  Not deafening, for deafening you need deafening, you need noise, but quivering, self-possessed.  Like the solid blue glow of a television passively waiting, afraid of daring to…  the blank-eyed stare, cut cold, skull socket bare.  A void, a tangible void.  Hedonistic in expansion,  a driving depravity, a spike through the mind.  It never gives up.  Suffering never lets up.  It is through our ceaseless struggles that we make a voice, a sound, transistor cracking, tubes popping.  Without injury we would be so quiet, so very very quiet, not a bubble of breath hiding in our throats, peace would make us stiff, still, numb, colorless and dead.  High weeds waiting to catch, to catch fire and burn away, burn away, making room, so deadly-serene and complacent, a wad of worthless paper blown away by the tiniest wind. Straight to trash, straight to hell, straight to forgotten-Hades.  Gone.  So, let it be hurt.  Sometimes, let it be hurt.  But just never let it be nothing.  Most of us truly desire a quick descent to Hell, to lessen our monotone days caught in the gossamer string of purgatory rot, but our minds, our minds, our minds rock back and forth on themselves so dramatically, hard to tell what we do, where we go.  So confused.  
The thunder-cannons rock the sky. Shakes the windows, translucent.  Everything laden. Moist.  Everything a film, a sticky film, a collection of parts, all torn away and thrown away, deconstructed, devalued.
A beast.  And a language that makes the whole world lag, the atrocious too-much-weight of every word causing conversation to sag, cheap fabric, wrapped around the body, like a shroud, like anonymity.  A disease. A pox.  A curse all over this place, a disguise.  A mask for the devil.  Damn the devil.  Bedevil the devil.  A mask for me.
Whatever Krishna-Christ, sacred fire, purifying dust, holy spirit that ever held sway here
Searching the bottoms of riverbeds, Rheingold hordes, the tippy tops of clouds to find that old resurrecting, reincarnating dew, that old force-feeding manna, got habits we do, old old addictions.  Things are rough all over.  
So, pray with your little breaths left. Pray for our browbeaten comrades, all our so-on-and-on victims, future selves all squandered, everyone in the interior countries with no way to the seas, no ways to get frees.  The covered-in-blood waiting, the slowly drifting, the Tutsi-souled, the Jewish-Ghettoed, the Cheyenne-ghosted.  This dead world, toasted.
I turn back and look at brother.  He is reading a book, ’The Wasp Factory’.
“It disturbs me how often I see you rereading that.”
“What?  This?  I like this book.”
“Yeah.  I know.”
Cradle to grave, a little stringy beam of light traveling so fast, so fast, light speed, escapes the eye, doesn’t even make a rustle in the tall grasses. It scurries away.  A blasted blinking.  A blasted damned blinking.
And it makes no sense.  No sense. A total money-all-spent absurdity.  A dried out husk-lump circus freak show of revolving sound and passing time, chapped lips, chapped hands, sticky fingers.  Things that never work out and unrequited loves, desires, gains, near-misses.
And it is up to you, all alone, to make any kind of significance of the mess.  You, you all alone, and for you only, and of you only.  This is existentialism.  Meat and potatoes existentialism.  All I know is what I have words for.  Of what I cannot express, I must stay quiet.  Because it is my words that give weight to my thoughts, because I think them in my words, expressions, symbols of my psyche.
So, language, pictures, melodies, guns, all dangerous.  Bombs, knives, paint splatters, empirical thought, smiles, all dangerous.
I need a place all to myself.
And let me dream.  Not think all day. But dreaming is the same as thinking but while I’m sleeping and lost all control, earthquaking vagrancy, light-blinding glare, spirit-shifting blur, lost all control, let me relinquish, let me loosen all grip.  Madness, wicked madness, shiny wicked dreaming madness, that is what I am asking for.
Brother flipping and fidgeting on the couch, reading, he stands up and walks to the window, watches the nighttime cherry glow dread lights come to life.  A sadistic movie quoting parrot, stomps his feet like concrete every move he makes.  Odd smile on his face.
“There is a girl in the garden.” he says, doing his best Nick Frost.  I didn’t know if I should take him seriously, but too afflicted with the charred-all-over bored curiosity.
There she was, as I looked out, the thin glass, over his shoulder, under the half-lightning struck tree.  Half blackened and peeling, other half green and sprouting, she lay under the deep green canopy, sleeping.  I  imagined dreaming.  Not young.  But not old.  Not grown.  Not older than eighteen.  Fifteen,  a good estimate.
I turned the backdoor knob and pulled open the door and walked into the backyard and awoke her.  Dark brown hair.  Face tired.  Dark eyes, dark around her eyes.  Dusty jeans.  But well taken care of.  But she was alone.  All of hers were gone, I could tell.  She looked up at me and I put my hand on her shoulder and took her hand and helped her up.
I had never felt so lonely.
From some viral exchange of touching the skin of her hand.  I was shocked to my bones with a domestic sadness, I was not aware of being possible in what had become over time, an extremely callous world.
And then there were three.

3. Paloma Máquina, un sobreviviente

Esperando en la madrugada

A tengu. A Buddha. A rosary.  Some tears.  The clouds roll away.
Little stones.  Starshine.  Warped.
It is by our own reckoning that we live our lives this way and only our lives, and by our own reckoning, they move, day by day, silently fading away.  It is by our own understanding of time and by the slow destruction of it, the passing, the moments expiring. It is by our own perceptions that we die.  There is nothing more to fear.
And joven Paloma sits at our table, art deco smeared dirty kitchen table, maquina Paloma bastante.
And brother hermano feo, grinning stands behind her, leaning against the refrigerator.
And nothing changes nothing.
Sometimes we awake from dreams.
But nothing changes nothing.
The great muddle, the great soggy sludge pit closing in around us.  We could all feel it, sitting there, waiting.  Loads of silence.  We could feel the gravity.  The maelstrom.  The weight.   An apocalyptic aphrodisiac, the moaning and groaning for spiraling out of control, a certain Mars infliction to the Aphrodite screaming.  Love is what love does and silence is what silence doesn’t and madness is what comes between and wanting is what wanting begins.  And here comes the end of all the whole world, can feel it in our bodies, shaking, shivering, excitement, terror, biting the lips, wondering.
And the drifting off words drifting out of drifting up mouths, broken gums, bleeding, like swift rivers against the banks of tributating brooks, contributing to the floods, held back by fallen branches, social mores, stayed by graying boulders and tiny little rocks that pile up like falling from the sky.  But here comes the inundation, the deluge, the breaking, tearing.
Slipping, teasing, words stumbling together in huge mumbles as murky and monotone as the muddy stars that begin to show themselves, slowly emerging in the stretched out thin firmament above.  Too little electric blood in the veins of the fire monster, urban, to pollute the nebulas away.  Only enough now for the ghastly, ghastly, the yellow glow of low wattage incandescent and the dirty thick spectrum of muted television sets.
And vain whole stanzas of expressions going undetected, couplets heroic as cold as cold steel, sharp as elbows, hard as knees to the face, thrown up.  And in the outside in the dark rattling darkness, rattling their dingy sabers, stained, through the heaps of dirt and dirty dust, soldiers patrolling like Spanish fascists, legionnaires marching, beating down the streets.  Holding up the chain link curfew, chainsaw sharp and steady.
I am trying to sit perfectly still.  Trying to let this young girl feel safe.  She hasn’t spoken a word beyond her name but by the way she moves, or refuses to move, in her chair, the way she conducts herself, I can tell a lot.
She is scared.  She is not naïve.  Not a naïve bone left in her body, and that is unsettling to me.  She pulls her hair back out of her face and puts in a low pony tail.
And the doldrums won’t turn your boat around, and you just sit, stuck-still, soaking in the stale.  The passionate alliteration of passive association, of big busting boredom.
“God! How I used look forward to the future.”  She blurted.  Suddenly.
I waited.  Please. Go on.
And we all paused, paused for each other’s eyes to continue on, to fill the room with words, to drive out the coffin air, the smell of death, everything so fusty, so sour.  Waited for her cracked pale lips to stir the space that so closely surrounded us.
The old oak in the backyard creaked.  Its limbs swayed.
Dragon slayers and actors and other purveyors of political power. Cultural giants.  What monsters?  The sea changing weights.  The occasional warriors, the mighty yawps, the pitiful yelps, the head-over-heels ecclesiasticals.    Circus strongmen, carnival sideshow shows.
No one
No one had anything like that to say.
Hermano asked, “Where you comin’ from?”
She looked back at him for a split second and turned back around, fiddling with her fingers, “Westlake”.
“Really?”  shot from my mouth, excitement.  She nodded. “I’m from Echo Park.”
She didn’t look up.
My tone returned to sober, “So, is it gone too?”
She nodded again, “And Silver lake.  And Los Felix.”
I sat up straight in my chair, rubbed my face with my hands.  Nodded.  Sad news.
“But Atwater and Elysian,” she choked a bit, trying to keep the tears from manifesting, “They are still standing but they are awful places, like infierno,  demonic, flames shooting up into the sky, gas burning, all asesinato y violacion.”
A loud booming off in the distance.  Slightly shakes the house.  I look at brother, “Sounds like they are testing the cannons at Seal Beach again.”
He nods.
And then the tears come.  Inundation.
“Whoa, whoa, it is okay.  They are just noise guns or something, some kind of sonic shit to drive people away, nothing lethal.  We are safe here.  We are right where we need to be.”
She folds her arms on the table and drops her torrential face into the nest.  I reach across the table and put my hand on her hand.
“Hey, really.  It’s okay.”
Brother tries to put his hand on her back, shoulder.  She shudders and shakes off his touch.  He moves back to leaning on the fridge.  I look up at him quickly.  He shrugs.

4. The Numerous Forms of the Verb Be, as in Biology

The tendon scraping, teeth cutting, clicking, ticking of the clock. Time passes.  Brain cells deteriorate and die, what water they held, fades away, evaporates.  Light bulb startled-mad and rusted over from the heat intensive, insensitive  from lack of moisture.  The dry-rot hold on sanity is less and less salient, less relevant.  
Whole mercurial unstable cortexes of mind, gorged-rushed with fallopian veins, throbbing, coursing with arterial notions, thoughts so explosive and dangerous, pressed against the plastic walls, vascular, the hemorrhages and embolisms, wound-bruises, scars and deep scratches, deep down on the mental sheen.  Blemishes and stains.
Blackness and dull, lusterless.
But bleakness is a bleak word and it is a bleak world,
It is a bleak age,
And we are a bleak people…
Too little time left for elaborate pauses.
Too little
Too little energy left for collaborate causes.
Clear the air.
A ceiling fan spins, whirls around slowly, as mutually dead and packed to bursting with dread.  I lock robotic eyes with it.  Feel the breeze on my skin slightly.  Humid.  It is humid.  Static electric, pulsating, fuzzes your hair, curls it.  Makes your skin slimy-slick with sweat, clothes clinging to your back.  
Reruns of Star Trek on the muted TV set.
Paloma sleeping all curled up fetal-safe on the couch along the wall.  I have been up all night.  Sitting in the only other chair in the room.  Not necessarily watching her but I didn’t feel comfortable leaving her alone in the room alone, all by herself.  I can never sleep anyway.  Insomnia as defense mechanism.  I have an apparatus for a soul, a Rube Goldberg device, that makes a complex mockery of my senses, my drives, drives them into the ground, useless.  An unwarranted, unwilling shellac of morality.  I can go days without eating, drinking, sleeping, needing, wanting.
But I hate dreams.
But I hate hate dreams.
I can only now, and just barely, make any peace with reality.
I can’t…
I cannot bare fantasy.
Paloma rolls over, shuffles in her sleep.
Brother is alone in the back bedroom.  A silent nihilism, that is where I leave him.  I don’t care what he is up to, not a spark of curiosity, but I hope he is sleeping.  Eventually, he will be up and out the door, foolish, foolhardy, craven, looking for anything, horse, booze, pot.  He likes to kill his mind completely away.  I think it is suicide.  Suicide is the intoxicant.  Right?  Like if something happens when he is away, it does and then he is gone, and if not, he is home and high again and maybe he will never come down.
Lonely days anymore.  Shuffling through the pockets of the dead.  Rattling bones.  Upturning graves.  Pillage, that is what we have come to…
I light a cigarette.   Draw the smoke in hard, so hard, that I can feel it burning.  Dilating the pulmonary capillaries, searing them, shrinking them and then bursting them open.  Hot ash and grime.
I think it is suicide.
Going to all fall away, fall away into the ocean.
Now what is gone is gone forever.
And forever
And retreat is our present fetish.  Evacuation, disassociation, hard disassociation, whole clumps of time and space descending into chasm-groaning voids, scarrish ugly tissue gaps, no life, no light, no returning sounds, no ping back, ever-growing, ever-widening disaster without echo, without resonance, no ricochet.  Dead falls every injury, without meaning or suspension.
Just violence, disease, rumbling along the ground quarrels, the fault lines exposed, the stress points bare, destruction and dismemberment, hard dismemberment.
There is this virus.
This virus.  And it is spreading.  It is deadly.  Deadly fatal.  No cure.  No possible cure because not sure, no one is sure, what it exactly effects, what it does.  It might not even be viral.  It might not even be a disease.  But people die from it.  And it is a contagious thing.  A plight.  It gets in the blood, turns it grey, literally, that is one sure physiological sign/symptom.  It doesn’t cause blindness, deafness, numbness of the extremities, doesn’t effect the senses at all, but the sensibilities.  Causes no pain, in fact, it appears to interfere with the registering of any pain or unpleasant reaction.  It doesn’t cause devolution necessarily, but primitive behavior is part of it, but no caveman or animal beast of the field ever acted out the way these  afflicted suffers do, these awful criminal fiends.
But some are immune.  Some never… never need worry about it, they will live, providing they can avoid the orgy-swine-wretchedness of the slop outside their doors.  Most are leaving.  If you are alive and have half a mind left about you, you are leaving, moving, moving, trying to outrun it, outdistance it.  Wait it out.  It isn’t everybody.  It isn’t random. The immunity is selective, even more confusing.  It is the kid from high school you used to know, the smart one, the one that could do math equations in his head.  It is the girl you used to date who was a classically trained pianist, she was good, probably professional now.  It is engineers, doctors, the big brains.  It is eloquent sons of bitches and well-built statuesque souls.  But still not just them, that isn’t enough, it is that type but more, the  living saints, the kindest, most humane.  The best. No irony at all.  They are immune.
But if you are average in any way, cold, selfish, you will catch it, lose your mind, your moral bearings (whatever ones you had), your will to live, and like a craven wraith you will descend and decline and stooping over a rotten torn apart world, you will savage whatever goodness you tumble upon, and scavenge and cannibalize, a bone picker, a blood drinker, a pale rapist/monster of total stupid mindless lust and hunger.  And then you will die.
And no one will cry.  And no one will mourn you.  And you will fade away.  No explanations.
And all the while, most of California is destitution, and all over rot, disintegrating, mudslides and earthquakes.  The disasters are hand in hand.  The sky is cracked.  The sky is falling.  In whole shattered crystalline shards.  Cutting down the bleeding sides of earth, flooding and crashing over the mountains and valleys and sunrises with thick purple blood. The world is ending.
No idea what is going on anywhere else.
Just assumptions.
But let’s not dwell on the apocalypse.
Let us dwell on life.  While we can.  And try to ignore the sirens outside the door.  The siren calls, the shrieking siren screams.  The cracking wood and ripped down barricades.  Amen.  Let the light shine.  And if I could, what I would do, and if I could, what I would build, where I would go.  
But there is more to life than delusion, than hesitation, than denial.  The spine-clutching gasping-for-air wishing, hallucinating, the superstition-doused dreaming, heaven-waiting.  More more and more.
And here we are, sitting in the shadow jaws of some great wolf, morsels of food, saliva-drenched between two teeth, clinging, glued together with anxiety and mislaid trust.  Here comes the next bite.  The next frightening bite, or the gulp, or the shallow, here comes the next end.
And only then do we remember those old constant costs of high lofty goals and low lowly means.  Guillotine the bastards.
Up against the wall.
There is no wall.
Killing off humans to put humans in charge.  We are the wall.  We are the bullet.  We are the gun, the blood, the disease.  
All the old fashioned, “No maneuvering, nothing elaborate.  Just cold steel, passion, and pay-pay-patriotism”s.  everything is General Hoche.  Everything is reign of terror.  And everything is holy.  Food on the table.  Wood in the shed.  Everything divine.  Unbesmirched.  Strong as fire.  Pure as chastity, as smoke.  Stiff as oak.  Firm as iron, as bracing cold.
“The so called ‘angel pox’…
The television’s sound buzzes on.  The news has started.  I look behind me.  Brother is leaning on the wall pointing the remote at the screen.  I look back to the set.
…also known as  ‘Los santos y los demonios de al enfermedad’ by the largely Hispanic population who inhabit the central L.A. epicenter…

“Been out?”  I look back over my shoulder.
Brother nods.
“Well?  What is it like today?”
“Another beautiful day in the neighborhood.”  A strange sad chuckle.

“…continues to spread, fires blaze in Santa Monica and Cold Canyon…swallowed in…and sink holes…”



Brother switches off the television.   As soon as he does a thick rumbling erupts beneath us.  He puts out both of his hands and grips at the walls.  I almost fall out of my chair.  The sofa under Paloma bucks and shakes but she doesn’t wake.  The rattling keeps going and going, quivering and trembling.  Stops.
“What was that?”
“Here?  Already?”
Brother nods, “Yeah.  We need to get at least as far as Brea by tonight.”
“I have a way.”
“What way?”
“Wake up your schoolgirl.  Let’s go.”
Put my hand down slowly on Paloma’s shoulder.  Soft.  No sudden, nothing sudden.  What a nightmare.  A nightmare world.  Lose your mind, let it go, it is easier.  But no, keep it here, together.  Slightly move her.  A slight shake.  She rustles a bit.  Her eyes open.  Gradually.  The lids raise like weak rocks crumbling a bit at a time, incrementally, judging each sight, each light independently.  Wisdom.  She sits up quickly though. A shot.  Defensively.
The brain and body working in tandem. Survival.
“Get up.”
“We have to go.  Grab what you can”
We followed Hermano outside.  Cautiously.  Watching every movement from every direction.  We moved to the side of the house to a truck.  A shiny red truck, high off the ground. Brother threw some bags and things in the back and opened the driver’s side door and climbed in.
“Get in,”  he laughed back at us.
We opened the passenger’s side door.  Paloma was uneasy.
“Whose car is this?”
“Not a car, baby, it’s a truck.”
I pushed her a little to get in and she slid along the seat.
“You stole a truck?”
“I acquired a truck.  Nobody left to ‘steal’ it from, bro.”
And we pulled out of the driveway and went out onto the freeway like water, like water fleeing  higher ground, seeking the ocean, a tributary, a river pulsing down though the city.  The city streets like waves.  Like waves.
Like waves to Brea.

5. Brea, CA

And when our storming waves came crashing down on the cement shores of Brea, everything was lemon-yellow jaundice.  Overflowing with poison, backed up in the streets, toxin, the sky was a froth of clouds, nothing stirred, no release.  There were no bodies.  There were no people.  The well-to-do had left.  Gone.  Rats had flung themselves off the ships and into the painfully dusty desert harbors that surround.  Trying to avoid.  Trying to outrun and escape the inevitable.  But maybe not so inevitable, lord knows what money can buy, with all the excitement beside, the world is not so different.  Money can surely still buy sainthood somewhere.  Some place, these gilded souls probably still exist, still swagger, still live and breathe.
But not here.  Here, trees rustle over our heads as we climb out of the stopped truck, not even parked, just stopped, frozen, halted in the middle of a well-defined, well-financed streets.  Stores and strip malls with big watery eyes staring blankly back.  Traffic lights a wan, weak blinking.  Cyclopic glare, automated flickering.  
Paloma staring. Slowly craning her neck to take in every possible angle as she exited the truck. Her eyes red, raw, as red and raw as suspicion, as red and raw as hesitation.  Like the dawn beginning to come up, as calm as a haunt and as still as daybreak.
I opened my eyes big as well and took in everything.  Two tall swaying palm trees,  a fancy little three-tiered fountain, a short plaza, dark sliding-glass automatic doors.  Cold iron.  Hot sand.  Busted glass.
It is hard not to have memories.  Memories of human life, existence, the Crystal Palace, World’s Fairs, World Wars, immunizations, newspapers, space races.  It is hard to not get caught deep in the midst of that deluge, the way it consumes your mind.  Everything everywhere you look, ruins, headless statues, noseless Sphinxes, no secrets, Acropolises, just ugly old broken spines, just ugly old musty Doric columns stretched to heaven and now…and now threatening to fall.          
I look over the tops of the decapitated buildings, limestone, jimson dust waste funneling in the brisk busy air, I let my eyes go blurry and scan the high above clouds.  Armbone skinny thin, the horizon, naked, like the back of a knife.  The back edge of a very sharp and quick knife cutting, slicing into the sky.  And whatever light there is, and there is and it is diffused and obscure, is bleeding out of that very cut.  The wound purple, the blood light shine arterial.  Gold and grey and ultraviolet. Gleaming, streaming, silent, and strangely cold.
Strangely cold.  Cold. Cold.   And a wash comes over me, buckles me over inside, a deep sick sadness, a cocoon that surrounds.  The longer I think the deeper and thicker it gets.  It is hard to see through, a viscous liquid, a heavy fog.  I just want to stand still.  I just don’t want to move at all, or let a random thought invade my mind, nothing but complete silence and peace.  But that isn’t real.  It isn’t even really me.  It is getting stronger and stronger, harder and harder to shake.  It is disease.  Pure disease.  And I know eventually, I will die from it.   No matter how far I get.  No matter how hard I try.  The tide keeps rushing up on me.
But mostly, I am not sad.
This world…
This world is no enviable place to remain.
It is a web.  A great big spider web, easier and easier to get caught and tangled in, easier and easier to ignore and disregard.  More and more deadly and carnivorous with every passing thought, second, glance.
There is nearly nothing to do.
Brother slaps his hands against thighs, knocks the dust off, big swirling clouds plume up around him.  Makes him cough.  He squints his eyes.  His face a touch twisted, confused, holding hard to something, steely.  His arms dangle ashamed next to his body.  We are all three so skinny, so threadlike.
And then there was sunlight.
And it was radiant.
Up, the great gash in the air had opened, and you could see directly into heaven.  Deep inside the wound, visible, de sol, the sun had come out.
All of our existentialist appendages, exhausted, our senses, wasted, all philosophical inquiry was delayed.
Only living.
But nothing about life can make you live.  You just do or you just don’t.  That is truer now than ever.
But that is just that, no fire for speculation, no fuel for contemplation.
But the sun was out and it was bright and it was warm.  And it cast long black shadows in front of us.  Long, serpentine things, waving before us and slowly ivy-climbing the Santa Fe style façade of the shipping center.  They flickered like flame on the sandy concrete as we moved, grew as we walked, likely turning everything to ash behind us, as it felt very much, we were the ember.
You have to imagine things differently.  You have to see the whole world differently when everything begins to crumble down.  And first you must see it all new in your mind, and then your eyes.  Spirit first.  Blood and tissues later.  Get it right, where it all starts anyway.  Suss it out.  Construct it.
And we are talking whole galaxies, whole histories.  A lot of energy.
Like, you have to see your whole life as a bubble.  A thin gauzy film wrapped around you almost as tight as it can be, a shroud, an embryonic sack, a skin.  A single fragile random thing, a boiling bubble raising up off the effervescent foam of all the motion churning. A thing that happens but only happens because all these other things are happening but none of that sea of energy could be happening if your thing hadn’t happened.  It is electrics. Fanatics.  Gesticulation.  Theatrics.
You have to notice the boil you are in, the fizz, but you have to also perceive the raising up, the drifting off.  Float away.
And now here we are, the fiery forward edge of blazing heat, so much seething, a delight to just simmer, whatever hell it is to always be burning.  Here we are, all wrapped up in this bubble heaving up through the air, like dryness, like dryness is death, lack of moisture, of fluidity is torture, so much movement, evaporation towards the sun.
Our shadows walking up the front of the deserted shopping mall.  Dark glass doors, mostly shattered, broken through, you could clearly see the blood.  Some still stood.  The ones that still stood could be moved and we opened them.  Stood at the opening for a few minutes.  The breeze coming out was cool.  The yawning open door was a chasm, an awful degenerate perforation, a pit, a spear-wound into the side of all the world.  We were reculant to go inside.  
But we went, we went like a seeping, as infection enters an open wound.  Slowly.  Stealing around the red edges, creeping in, burn-rushing around the corners, down the empty corridors.  Our eyes big.  Everywhere demon-sounds fluttered in the vast broad spaces, electricity-dead and echo-chambered, a soft breeze tunnel.  Bone-crunch hard rubbish under foot, all kinds of cast off, papers, cups, glass, viscera.  Banners still hung in the high rafters.  Trees in indoor containers still grew, unruly.  Birds nested in every nook and cranny, long desert snakes slither, dangerous, everywhere dangerous.  Mislaid steps and topple down, come crashing hard on the floor, your body bruised, or cut, watching our every move.
Never enough light.  Never enough room.  Labyrinthine.  Dungeon-faced terror, confusion, breathless, time- rending, flesh-scalding, eye-blackening.
Brother put his hands over his face.  He stopped in his tracks.  I stopped behind him, put my arm out to stop Paloma safely after me.  I watched him carefully.  He lowered his head.  I could tell he was getting very sick.  He shook his head and rubbed his hands over his face, roughly.  Stood back up, straight, began walking again.
“Anybody got a flashlight?” over his shoulder as we walked.
I shook my head, “Nothing, I got nothing.”
“Be a lot cooler if ya did.”
I nodded.  Looked over both shoulders warily.  So morbid.  In every angle, in every corner, something dead or dying, or a plastic symbol of something dead or dying, something from a bit before, something that should still be living, something alive and well,  but all gone now.  Morbid.  Morbid.  Moribund.   The wind coming through the cracked and broken windows sounded deep, low bass brass, some symphonic gutteral grumble.
And we never dared to look down.  Not too much.  What the fire hadn’t burnt and what the feral creatures hadn’t gnawed or taken away still remained.  Remains, still remained.  And to keep the spirit up is essential.   Can’t let anything get inside of you, tear away at you, can’t let anything slow you down, weaken.  If…
In a big ‘t’ intersection, the corridors all met, a center point, a lingering nexus.  We stopped.  And to our left was the vivid storefront of an abandoned arcade, we inched our way toward it, shuffling our feet.  We dared not go into the cave of it but stayed along the doorway, sat down whatever we had in our hands.  I took off the grey flannel jacket I was wearing and folded it neatly, sat it on the floor.
“There, sit on that,”  I said to Paloma and she slowly lowered herself down onto it.  I cleared a space with my feet and sat down next to her.  Brother scanned around and walked to the right of us, to a small boutique shop, jewelry or something.  It was elaborately decorated.  Without a word he reached up over the store doors, jumped up a bit and grabbed a strand of rope lights and pulled them down in a loud and frustrated yank.  They hit the floor in a loud crashing pool.  He ripped a certain intact section off the rest of the length, he struggled.
Paloma and I watched him.  No idea what he was up to.  He handed me the string he had wrenched free,
“Clear out the lights.”
I shook the rope and little LED bulbs came falling out, broken and otherwise, tiny filaments and wires, dust.  Brother looked around, hands on his sides.  He was looking for a maintenance closet, a door, anything.  He saw something up the way and started off toward it to check it out.  Satisfied, he returned and took the long plastic tube out of my hands,
“Stay here.”
I nodded.
Paloma looked over at me.  Her face was tired.  Crimson.  Saggy.      
“I think he is looking for a generator, a gas generator.  You know, to siphon from,”  I say to her.
She just looks at me.  Intent on the side of my face.  Scanning me all over.  Uncomfortable.
“It is weird for it to be so quiet here, huh?” casually
She continues to stare over my face, trying to read me, looking for signs of disease or abuse most likely.
Suddenly she speaks, “Have you always lived in Los Angeles?”
“Yep.” I nod, “born here, both of my parents are native too.  My Mother was from Tehrangeles.”
“So, you are Persian?”
“Yep, half,” nodding again.
“And your dad?”
“Hm, oh, yeah, native born too.  He lived all over though, all kinds of working class neighborhoods. His family, my family, came here after World War Two. From the south, the deep south, they had been sharecroppers before they moved. Slaves even before that, and before that, West Africans of some sort, I suppose, Yorubas or Fons or Ashantis… I don’t know.”
“Quite the combination.”
“Yep, only in America.  That’s what’s good about America, odd combinations, like barbeque chicken pizza and cool ranch chipotle anything.”
She seemed more at ease.  She stopped studying my face for danger.
A little left-hand tilt, a bit of the fuzz that hits the eye around the periphery, like a blurry photogaph.  Because that is what it all is anyway, an out-of-focus snapshot of a moment unfolding.
“You should try to rest.  You should try to get some sleep.”
Paloma agrees, she nods at me, and begins to stretch herself out on my jacket and puts her head against the faux stucco plaster wall. She closes her eyes, slowly, the lids close up tight and shut out all the light.
Brother came back, swaying, so cavalier.  Careless gait, a grin on his face, he had a red container in his left hand, you could smell the gasoline wafting up off of it.  In his right hand he had grungy bottle, he was drinking from it, probably whiskey, probably some kind of hard liquor he had found, pick up, along the way. He put the gas down at my feet, walked across the corridor, looking over his shoulder the whole time.  He sat down in the hallway across from me, under a tall tropical flowering tree in a fake plastic terra cotta container.  He took out a cigarette and lit it, took a swill from his bottle.  Pointed to Paloma with the cigerette smoldering in his fingers and said, “We can leave as soon as she is up.  I got some more gas.  We are gonna have to find some other place.”
I nodded.  There was no way we could stay here.  No way we could stay in Brea for long.
I watched as Hermano closed his eyes and began to sleep as well.  I took the still burning cigerette out of his hand and took a quick drag and stomped it out.
There was no way to stay put in Brea.

6. The Fireballs

You will regret it if you go.
You will regret it if you stay.
You will regret the wasted life.
You will regret the saved life.
If you live
If you die,
The result is always the same. Human nature.
And that, that is the essence of Khrushchev’s secret speech, boys and girls.  And so, we begin to de-Stalinize the world, life.
But we will regret it soon enough and swing back, try to recapture it all, the magic gone, the days spent, nothing left but warm soot and little embers, still biting.  But we build with that and then tired of it, we devastate with that, and we seek out another fire.  Razing, burning, raging to the ground.
Human nature covered in ashes
And sackcloth.
Above us, solid sapphire blue-pure fascination, so still a sea the sky unundulating in the heavens.  
 And everywhere we looked, brown grains of sand, gleaming gold in the yellow sun, stretching up to meet it, that frozen ocean.  The lines wavering where the two continents met, heat hallucination, crashing land masses, volcanic.
And in the tremendously big silence we drove on, only the chug of the truck engine and the small whine of rubber tires on badly neglected roads.
On both sides of us, nature, cactus flowers and dust devils, iron-red stained old railroad beds, Gila monsters panted. The air stayed close, no breeze, so thick and heavy.

Brother drove with his left hand and smoked with his right, some times drank with either.       

Thursday, June 11, 2015

act 1, Damnation

Jesse S. Mitchell

the play this act is excerpted from is available in paperback along with 2 and half others here
Sea Snakes (Hydrophiinae): three and half plays for reading 

Act 1 scene one

Completely empty stage.  Dark reddish-orange glow/light over head.  Sitting alone in the middle of the stage, a young woman, one leg folded under her and the other splayed out in front. A dark red suit jacket or uniform jacket laying crumpled on her lap.  She has long hair but in her right hand she has a short bladed knife and she is grabbing whole handful of her hair in her left hand and cutting it off in chunks and tossing it down next to her. She should be on the verge of tears but not appear pitiful.  She is not to seem like a victim.  She isn’t one.

 Lelija:  “Not a sound in the whole world.  Complete silence.  Nothing but light.  I swear in the total stillness like this I can hear them, the spirits and the voices that inhabit this earth, I can feel them, vibrating and reverberating around me.  I can feel them on my skin.  I can see them in my mind, the ghosts that dwell everywhere, using my eyes, using my mouth, speaking my words, possessing me.  (pause)  With the intensity, with the focus of a million candle flames, glowing only for one purpose, not to illuminate, glowing only to burn but struggling to find the fuel, too much air, too much earth, too much water, and so expiring, extinguishing into a single strand of smoky steam pulled to heaven by the desire to fill it, to fill it and to burn some more.  But what if it loses its way?  What if the desire is not strong enough?  What if the burning does not satisfy?  What returns deflected, dejected back to here as a slow rolling fog, downward?  Voices?  Some essence?  Well I know it is here.  I can feel it…everywhere.  And I can hear what it says to me, what it means for me to understand.  (pause) Like witches, witches everywhere, priests and poets and creatures meant to speak to these creations, these cast off and ruined creations, these waif-thin things meant to drive the imagination…but to me, to me, they are all so real, without need of trance or emissary.  But this is not a sin.  To not need assistance to find one’s grief or guilt is no transgression.  In fact it is because of this dry land that we suffer, this parched land, this desert land.  We cannot sustain it, so it will not sustain us.  It is because we so require the arts of intermediaries and their supplications to bring to us the rain.  But these tears are mine, these pains are mine, these ghosts…are mine.  Or maybe it is the cruel seams of heaven that hold back the burgeoning floods of rain and other things and when it does finally come it only comes in torrents, as destructive as any drought.  Excess or famine, destruction.  (pause) But every storm matters, every gust of wind breaks loose something new, every deluge washes something pure upon the shore, every rush of blood fuels new thoughts or passions.  I am never too cold to be a proper part of this life and I hope never to be.  Every day, a new disaster, every disaster a new reason.    (Pause)
We are unruly.  We are vain.  We are venomous and vicious.  We are wicked, we weak people of this wondrous earth.  And perhaps we too quickly ascribe importance to irrelevant things.  Perhaps we see moral order where only chaos exists, borders and grey areas where only mountains rise and rivers swell. Anamorphic monsters, we put words in the inanimate mouths of stoic stone cleft from solid rock.  
But this is all delirium, it is reality and reality is nothing but delirium and dreaming.  When I sleep, I have visions and those visions too become real to me and everything near me seems a reality.  I would swear to it.  If while I sleep I encounter some ghost or otherwise apparition, my skin senses fright, hairs standing on end,  my eyes perceive it, its gauzy form.  Or any other physical sensation, at the time of my hallucination, it is sincere entirely to me.  If I dream of a fight, if a hand reaches out and grips hard my jaw, I feel its squeeze.  If someone spits in my eye, I feel it wet.  
But I have no reason in all the world to believe any of it is true.  And it shakes me to my core, not the nightmare of it but the ease…the ease I lapse into believing it.  How easily the mind is deceived.  It brings out a thousand million questions.  What is real?  What am I?  Violence?  Am I violence?  Violence to the system, to the waking world?  I have committed violence, acts of ferocity.  Is that me?  This is blood I still feel all over my skin, this much I am sure. Am I running?  Am I hiding?  Am I afraid now?  And if so, of what?  I am the greatest monster I have encountered, dreaming or waking.  Am I ashamed?  And if so, of what?  I meant to do the things I did, have done, believed them to be necessary…perhaps not purely good but necessary.  Does an essentially evil act carry with it the same obligatory shame or something random, something senseless?  Is there a turn of justice for the acts of a benevolent savage? (pause)  Is it justice I am attempting to hide from or is it simply retaliation?  Does it matter?  Is any of it real?  Is this just dream, just dream and delirium? (pause) Treason. (pause) (quietly, looking down) Have I been deceived? Even by myself?
And now I expect answers.  (She finishes cutting all of her hair off, leaving it short and uneven.  She stands up and begins inching toward the left, knife still in her hand)  Like a snake, open mouthed, poised, skin tight, at my heel, eager.  One more careless step forward and it will strike.  This is how we all imagine the secrets of life to be revealed to us and with the same apprehension.  One swift uncoiling of tensed muscles, like lightning from heaven, and into the blood, a life-changing serum.  Fight it off, if you can.  Knowledge, of good and evil.
(She picks up speed, lets the knife slip down in her palm until she is just barely holding it, dangling it.  Without taking her eyes off the audience she walks quickly, almost runs off the stage to the left.)

End scene one.

Scene two

Empty warehouse interior.  Dark with only soft white footlights and along the back of the stage a tall stack (anywhere from as few as six to eight or as many as twenty-four or more) of old-fashioned television sets all playing the same video loop of fires, volcanic eruption and flow, sparking lighters, automobile crashes and subsequent fire.  To the slight left of the stage a heavy dark wood table with four folding chairs around it.  Sitting in three of the chairs three men in dark red uniform or suit jackets.  Two blonde named Dain and Andrius on the sides and a third with darker hair named Jurgis sitting in the middle but leaning back in the chair, legs crossed, profile to the audience.  Dain plays with a knife and carves on the top of the table.  Jurgis smokes. Lelija walks onto the stage in the midst of their conversation and makes her way through the seated men to the back of the table and sits in the unoccupied chair (hers should be slightly taller than the others).  She faces the audience.  The three men are talking as she walks in and they continue without notice to her.

Only Andrius, Dain and Jurgis on stage.

Andrius: “Did you hear the news this morning?”

Dain: (without looking up from carving on the table) “From out west?”

Andrius: “Yeah, some Nevada state trooper found the passport.”

Dain: “Relax.”

Andrius: “I told you to get rid of that passport.”

Dain: (looking up and casually pointing the knife towards Andrius) “No.  You told me to put the passport with the car.  And I said that would be monumentally stupid, if they find the car then they will find the passport…(He shrugs and goes back to carving the table.) …and then they would have almost everything.

Andrius: (looking off to the left, visibly nervous, speaking quietly) Jesus Christ, if they find out we have been to Syria…(louder and looking back at Dain) If they find out we got help from the Syrians, they will crucify us.  We will go to prison for the rest of our lives.”

Dain: “They would kill us.  But they don’t know.”

 Andrius:  (raising his voice) “They have the passport now.”

Dain: (smirking, waving his hand.) “Relax.  They don’t even know who we are.  They have no reason to even imagine we exist.”
Lelija enters and walks slowly to her seat.

Jurgis: (taking a drag off his cigarette and looking at Lelija as she walks by) “What did you do to your hair?”

Lelija looks back at him for a second, doesn’t answer, sits down, looks around.

Jurgis: (with a conciliatory and calm tone.) “Listen, they don’t have anything.  Relax.  They haven’t found Miller’s car and if they don’t find the car, they got nothing.  It’s fine.  (He stubs out the  cigarette on the table top and flicks the butt away.)

Andrius:  (looking at Dain.) “What did you do with the car by the way?”

Dain: “I got rid of it.  I wrecked it. It’s gone. Forever.  (Makes an explosion motion with his left hand and looks hard at Andrius) Boom!”

Lelija sits straight back in her chair, puts her hands on her knees and looks over the others at the table and speaks out toward the audience.  The others do not appear to notice her speaking.

Lelija: “And then when we were spiders on the web, moving carefully, spindly, without cohesion on this sticky trap, waiting, daring to act, we should have been leaping to the task with no apprehension.  And now, here where we should be so still, so quiet, we are flies buzzing frantic, too close to the gluey strands we ourselves have strung.  Some trap, this humanity, to feel things, to be compelled to act, to act from human compulsion and then to fear from human trepidation, tension, consequence.  All of it natural, leads you to destruction, gives you away by reaction, perfectly natural reaction. Some great vale, some great moment, some great fog separates what we do from what actually happens in this world.    But our fast heartbeats and flush faces give us away.  We can keep no secrets.  This is no universe for secrets. (pause) This universe is small.  And the part of this universe that I inhabited when I  (puts her hand to her chest) was small was tinier still and filled to its brim with stories, creatures, all the wild imaginings of mankind, demons and devils.  The devil.  My world was rife with the devil.  He was everywhere, hiding in cracks and crevices, in far nooks and crannies, around every corner, lying in wait to ensnare you.  He would trap you and ruin you, corrupt you, change the way you saw the whole of reality, take you to hell…in increments, in increments of sin and ruination.   That was the kind of monster he was, all the old people would tell you.  I can still hear the warnings in my ears.  The certain crisp fear of all modernity.  I can see their faces.  Glazed-over eyes staring at a world spinning too quickly away from them…and towards the devil.  And now I have seen that world staring back, the same glazed-over terrified eyes, not spinning fast enough…away from the devil.  And still everyone is frightened.

Dain and Andrius continue their conversation.

 Andrius: dubiously  “You blew it up, is that what you are saying?”

Dain: proud  “I blew it up.  That is what I am saying.”

Andrius: “And the pieces?  Where are they?”

Dain: Shrugging “What pieces?  I blew them up too.  Gone.”

Andrius:  “Stupid, there had to be pieces, fragments, ash, things like this.”

Dain:  Smiling slightly “They are all gone too or impossible to find.”  He takes out a cigarette and lights it
Andrius: Shaking his head  “Why?”

Dain: “Because when I blew up the car I sent it off a ledge, off the road, down a cliff into very deep ravines.  Gone.”  He makes a car flying off a cliff motion with his right hand flat and an explosion sound.

Andrius: Annoyed  “Like a Hollywood movie?”

Dain: Very large smile.  “Yeah. Like a Hollywood movie.”

Andrius:  Concerned, leaving the discussion about the car behind.  “Those others should not have been killed.  This is a problem.”

Dain: Smoking  “Fuck them.  They worked for that pig.”

Andrius: “They were just people and they had nothing to do with this.”

Dain: “They didn’t have to be there, it is not like they were (leaning in) completely innocent or anything.”

Jurgis: Suddenly  “Of course they were innocent.  We should have waited.”

Andrius: Turning toward Jurgis, also abandoning this discussion  “How are we getting out of here?”

Jurgis: Calm “Bus and then into Mexico…

Dain: Interrupting “Cuba?”

Jurgis: “No Cuba.  Separately on buses.  Each of us, finds our own way, Lelija first… and we meet up in Tampico.  From Mexico a plane to somewhere east of the Potsdamer Platz and then we wait…

Andrius: Also interrupting “And then to Vilnius.”

Jurgis: “And then to Vilnius.”

Lelija stands up but stays in front of her chair and continues speaking over/through the others toward the audience.   The others do not notice.

Lelija: “We will see how far we get.  Now comes the great face to face moments.  Not face to face with each other or with that reckless spinning world but face to face with ourselves, safely on the outside of butchery, safely disengaged from the sorcery (pause) but not really because now we are more tangled in the witchcraft than ever before, weaving too close to the web, disaster.  More in the eye of the hurricane than the storm has passed, more under a lying calm than out the other side.  (pause) These great wrestling moments, bit by bit, second by second, we pick an instant frozen in time and we stare long at it, we grapple it, we pull hard on it, clutch it, we pick a flash split second and we beat ourselves to the ground with it, black and blue, we beat ourselves to death with it, drowning in it.  So now, now that we are clear from all the dangerous danger, we will see how far we get.

End scene two

Scene Three

Empty stage except an outdoor type of heavy wooden or concrete bus top bench.  Low lights, yellow.  Light blue at the top of the back wall of stage descending to darker blue to almost purple, like dusk.  A well-dressed old man reading a newspaper sitting on the far left side of the bench, waiting.  Lelija walks on stage slowly carrying her dark red jacket in her hand, appears to look around over her shoulders slightly, subtly but suspiciously, walks to the bench and looks at it for a second of two before sitting down uneasily, flinging the coat down in a crumple between them.  The old man looks up from the newspaper and at her, smiles.  She smiles back.  The old man back to his paper and Lelija faces toward the audience.  Rubs her hands on her pant legs, nervously.  Leans forward and looks to the left and the right, searching vigorously the road in front of them for traffic.   The old man noticing her nervousness, peeps up at her from time to time from over the top of his paper.

Lelija begins speaking quietly.  Again seemingly unnoticed by the old man next to her.

Lelija: “The air all around is small or tight or else I have so little room in my lungs for oxygen.  I breathe nothing but treason, I breathe treason and I breathe sacrilege.  And the breeze is cold and something pure is retreating against the wind, tragic, sour to the touch, acidic. It is smoky, hazy, hard to see.  This is a sheer mist, complete for obscuring.  Something of a utopia is burning somewhere and here I am, shivering.”

The old man begins speaking barely before Lelija stops talking.  He doesn’t put the paper down and stays slightly hidden behind it.

Old Man: “Colloquiis ad seipsum. Soliloquism.”

Lelija: With a start, turning to face him  “Excuse me?”

Old Man: Slight laugh “Sorry, intrapersonal communication.  Talking to yourself.  The practice you were just engaged in”

Lelija: “I do that (pause) when I’m nervous.”  Turns back toward the audience.

Old Man: Rustling the newspaper pages “Then you must be nearly hoarse these days.”

Lelija: “Why is that?”

Old Man: “Hmm?  Oh, well because there is so much to be nervous about and for…my, just these headlines here.  The whole world is coming apart isn’t it?”

Lelija: “I really wouldn’t know.”

Old Man: “Hmm.  Your accent?  Polish?  My father was Polish, from Poland that is.”

Lelija: With a quick, slight shake of her head. “No, I am not Polish.”

Old Man: Shrugs “That is just as well.  My father was an awful man, lazy, drunkard, coarse…but we loved him.  He had a fine sense of humor and really that’s what matters.”

Lelija: “Is it?”

Old Man: “Far as I can tell.  He used to tell me about grand, great Poland.”

Lelija:  “Great Poland?”

Old Man: “Sure.”  He lowers his newspaper and motions with his hand across the sky subtly.  “Why, did you know that once the Polish nation was an empire and it stretched from the Baltic Sea all the way down to the Black, from Silesia to Minsk?”

Lelija: “But that wasn’t Poland alone.”

Old  Man: “No, no you are correct, they had some help from the Ukrainians and Lithuanians and whatever else…anyone but the Russians.”  Suspiciously  “Right?”

Lelija: Looking toward the old man again, just as suspiciously and slowly  “Right.”

Old Man: “But the story was always tragic too because by the late nineteenth century it was all gone, the empire, the nation, Poland even.  New empire moved in and that was that.”

Lelija: With an edge  “I don’t believe in empires.”

Old Man: With a chuckle  “Believe in them or not, they exist and will continue to, but I suppose you mean you don’t support empires and neither do I…in fact I would say most no one does but emperors.   But here we are, you and I, no empire here, a republic, hmm?”

Lelija: Still with an edge  “I don’t believe in States…” trailing off “…support States.”

Old Man: Good naturedly  “Again, no does but Senators and Prime Ministers.  I also believe in liberty and I can tell you are political.  So was I once, when I had the strength still in these veins for such things.  Hmm…” Raising his eyes “I hate oppression, evil and all forms of wrongdoing but”  lowering his eyes and raising his newspaper, looking sideways over the top of the pages  “I cannot love violence, blood shed.”

Lelija: Facing the audience but leaning forward, head down, speaking quietly “It gets hard to tell if we are even human beings…premonitions…or if we are just some animal, fooling ourselves, bathos, it is difficult to understand reality.  All of our failings.”

Old Man: Quickly, again almost interrupting  “It isn’t so hard to tell.”  He lowers his newspaper, folds it slightly on his lap.  Lelija turns her head toward him.  “Look, if I put my hand out, flat, palm up” he holds out his hand extended arm in front of his face and peers at it “and imagine that something was there, sitting there, perched, a bird, an insect, look with me, imagine, let’s say a butterfly.”  He stares hard at an imaginary butterfly  “Now what is that butterfly?”

Lelija: Skeptical  “Imaginary.”

Old Man: Sighing  “Yes, yes but if it was really there, what does a butterfly make you think of?  Youth?  Spring?  Flowers?”

Lelija: Quickly  “Innocence.”

Old Man: Brightly  “Yes!  Good, innocence, me too, I see that too.  Beautiful creatures.  But all those things actually have nothing to do with this little lepidoptera.  It is just an insect, albeit an invented one.  In this case”  he squints his eyes as he looks towards the middle of his palm  “it’s blue.    Really it is just a bug, tiny thin little creepy legs scratching, fluttery wings powered purple.” He turns to look at Lelija “Is it moths or butterflies with the incandescent powder on the wings?”  Before she can speak, he answers his own question . “I am going to say butterflies because I like the image.  A bug though, nothing more, a thorax and abdomen filled with organs and bugs guts and weird sticky fluids.  But we, you and I, we see a hundred-thousand words and thoughts in this funny little creature, like youth and rebirth and…innocence.  Odd.  (pause)  Odder still is the theory put forward by more advanced and modern science” He puts out his other palm and touches it to his already extended hand as if to let the perched insect off the one and on to the other, he raises his newly extended palm a bit higher and shifts his eyes to it. Lelija follows his hand.  “that there is no butterfly there at all…but just my…your…our perception of it.  In fact there is nothing in this world but fields and collections of atoms in static waves crisscrossing each other, and all we observe are the boundaries we put around certain clumps of these atoms.  Our minds make shapes out of the mass of gelatinous reality.  That is magic.”

Lelija: Confused  “How is that magic?”

Old Man: “Oh, because it is pure conjuration, pure prestidigitation.  Making something out of nothing at all, or at least making order out of chaos.  Making a thing, a simple thing that means so much, such a symbol.  It tells me that I won’t find anything in this world but me.  Shadows of me.  My shapes, what I contain.”

Lelija sighs.  The old man picks his newspaper up and looks over the top of it at her, pretends to read.

 Old Man: “But then again, I read these stories in the paper and they aren’t me, they are not things I tend to think of inhabiting my person.  Such violence.  Despicable things.  Like this attack…have you heard about this?  This attack on some politician?  Some congressman or Secretary of something or another.  Hmm, killed him and a few of his employees” he looks intently over the paper to see if Lelija is paying attention to what he is saying; she is  “and most of his family.”

Lelija: Startled, but soon recollecting her composure  “His family?”

Old Man: He nods “Um Hmm. Most of them.”

Lelija: Quietly “That’s awful.”

Old Man: Deliberately “Yes it is.”


Old Man: “And I see that the police have found some pieces from an automobile that they believe was used in the attack, that is what it says here.  That with the passport and whatever else they probably have, they will start to put the whole thing together I imagine.  Don’t need prestidigitation for that.”

Lelija looks at the side of the Old Man’s face, a quick study to see if she may recognize him, becoming nervous.  Moves her eyes.  Shuffles in seat a bit and leans forward, looking up and down the street in front of them.

Lelija: “No.”

She stands up, grabs her jacket off the bench, her back to the audience.

Lelija: Nervous “It has been nice…talking…I umm I need…to…”

Old Man: “Yes.”

She walks quickly off the stage, the direction she came on. The old man puts his paper down and watches her leave.

End scene three
End Act 1