apotheosis

IV.

fonzie had just returned from some menial errand--one of his uncle's thinly-veiled attempts to keep the innocent busy. he entered the shop and immediately saw the woman standing at the counter, more or less being talked at by his uncle. she was lovely, he thought. right away, he could see she was a familiar spirit. she displayed the same sort of deferential disposition when interacting with his uncle. the same deferential gestures. in short, he was in love.
"fonzie," uncle said, "get over here, there's someone i want you to meet." fonzie obeyed. he looked down at his worn and weathered boots, never daring to make eye-contact or break the calculation of this action. he knew if he did, it would be over. she would be gone. he would be forced, then, to see, to know, to become aware of her disinterest. he risked it anyway.
"this is miss traum," uncle said. the woman did not appear to be off-put by his self-effacing nature, in fact, she seemed similarly stricken. this came as a shock to fonzie. in all his years, he'd yet to encounter a member of the opposite sex who did not immediately act repulsed at the mere sight of him. he had learned not to look them in the eyes. it only confirmed his long-held notion that he was a creep--a displaced sideshow attraction--a spectacle in real-life. but miss traum was different. he could tell. he didn't know how. or why. but he had a hunch.
"miss traum, fonzie, works uptown. she's a dancer. you like dancin' don't you, fonz?"
fonzie looked up and then quickly back down at his feet. he knew, somehow, that his uncle was being insincere.
"it's a pleasure to meet you, miss traum," fonzie managed.
"you know, if i didn't know any better, i'd say he's taken a particular liking to you, miss traum," uncle said. "you like her, fonz?"
fonzie blushed. he ignored the question. it only infuriated him. he hated being talked down to, especially when he knew that it was happening. he felt helpless. unable to combat his uncle--the words failing him.
"i gotta go now, uncle. chickens is ready be fed. bye miss traum."
"bye fonzie. i hope to see you around," she said.
he had left the situation abruptly, he knew, but he could barely contain himself. not only was she nothing like the others, but she had actually gone so far as to talk to him--to not dismiss him immediately or even after their brief exchange. suddenly, fonzie felt a surge of something like adrenaline coursing through his brain. he had lied to his uncle. his real motivation for leaving the scene was not to feed the chickens--they wouldn't need fed for another hour--but to escape the unbearable and foreign sensation rising up inside of him. he had never before come this far with a stranger, one whom he was genuinely interested in anyway. he wanted nothing more than to hold onto this one. he decided then that he would do whatever it took to make that a reality, even if it meant evading the issue altogether. he was aware of the delicate nature, the fine line he was forced to walk in order to preserve this bout of fortune and that's what scared him most--the realization that now he was expected to perform, to impress. it was a feeling altogether unfamiliar to him--equal parts invigorating and burdensome. but that was part of the excitement.
he hid behind his uncle's pick-up truck parked outside of the store, within safe watching-distance of all the action and saw his uncle leave the store accompanying miss traum to her vehicle. they were discussing something, though their voices were muffled--inaudible. whatever it was, miss traum seemed hesitant. fonzie knew his uncle well and knew that he could be persistent, that he could make anyone do anything simply because he was the way that he was and that he had been born, it seemed, equipped with the ability--a talent, you might say--to dominate.
miss traum got in her car and left, but not before uncle had walked back, a smug smile, that of a lunatic, fixed so firmly on his bulldog-face.

dumb-old

II.
they are sitting at a picnic table, the red and white checkered tablecloth caked in birdshit and failing obscenely to conceal its natural form--like a fat girl in hot pants and a belly shirt. uncle, he says, what's lover's leap?
lover's leap? uncle says. lover's leap is a thing which they used to call these high places, natural formations in the earth, these high cliffs which would inspire stupid star-crossed teenagers like romaine and julietta to leap to their deaths in the name of love.
what do you mean in the name of love? he asked.
what do you mean what do i mean? i couldn't expect an idiot like you to understand something like the name of love. you can't even piss straight let alone grasp these high-minded concepts of things. how do you expect me to explain something as complicated as lover's leap to you for?
he went on selectively nibbling at his carrots and other veggies.
i'll tell you. it's not like you hear about in things. lover's leap is all storybook, fonzie. and not in a good way. it's a bad and terrible thing. it's a suicide-thing. and suicide is murder. that's a sin. no matter how sexed-up and love-lorn you're feeling.
he paused for a second, raising the soiled napkin to the carnivorous debris all about his mouth.
you understand what i'm saying to you, right? it's a sin, fonzie. a sin. and sins is wrong. because that's what the bible tells us so. you understand me?
yes, uncle, he said. i understand sins is wrong. but i like the idea of lover's leap all the same.
uncle laughed.
well, you know something. that's ok. cause you're too dumb and worthless yourself to ever get an opportunity to consider something like lover's leap for real. you understand me, fonzie? you're too stupid and ugly, you wouldn't know what to do with a girl if you got one. she says jump and you stay-put and there she goes a-plummeting to her death. you want that on your conscience, fonzie? you want that on your mind come judgement day?
no.
imagine how stupid you're gonna feel when here comes God and he's reading back to you how you couldn't even think to jump to your death when you're supposed to on account of you being so dumb and ugly and that poor soul wasting her life in your name.
in the name of love?
no. not in the name of love. in the moron-name of fonzie. imagine someone throwing it all to piss for a dumb-old name like fonzie.
he looked up, visibly hurt and somewhat confused.
forget it, uncle snapped. eat your taters.

vanishing persons

I.
he leads her on a walk, early morning, through the fog and stops at a stream. she is looking fondly into his mogoloid-eyes. he senses her undying devotion and wonders what is that makes animals so seemingly human. it's uncanny, he thinks, though he doesn't know the word for it. she has no name. he calls her betsy. betsy the cow, like in a book.
their relationship is strictly platonic, let's establish that right off the bat. no funny business about it.
she's not eating today. maybe she knows. her soul is mostly hypothetical. a projection. this is how he'll remember her. each one, he remembers differently. but it always feels the same.
later, he is sitting at the table, betsy reconfigured on his plate. her memory is staring straight back at him, right in the eyes. her memory and her meat. uncle is blood-stained. he picks up the machete.
and this is how i did it, he says.
thwack. he makes the sound. a crude replication.
he imagines an explosive firework-display of blood and carnage. uncle laughing, red in the teeth. his apron smattered in grease and pulp. in every direction, blood splatters.
this is how i did it, he says. well, boy--ain't you gonna eat?

glib and garrulous

it happens to you then and you realize its devastation
in a while yet, i'll block it out--involuntarily
i'll no longer remember the initial sting--the unexpected
she'd been saying it for years and now it's finally happening
change through conflict
i'd like to think it's all a dream
wouldn't that be something?
but, no, this is happening
for better or worse
i hope she finds happiness
i know she's thought about this for a very long time
weighed the consequences of her actions
at least to some extent
i wonder, not if, but how it affects her
that he is no longer eating or sleeping or fucking her and what kinds of
crazy thoughts go swirling around in their respective heads
during that superannuated process
is it love-making? is it sex? does it change from day to day?
i don't know. i don't want to know.
but it's important that i look at this candidly--without restraint
it's important that i look at it from a vantage point
of objectivity
if that's a vantage point at all
i want to feel this--full-on
like a semi-on-semi collision
a nasty freak wave of tried and trite and tired
emotions
this happens all the time
you are not an isolated case
but that's how it feels
there is no grand scheme of things
when you're entire world gets
thrown for a loop and turned in on itself
of course, it's not my problem
but i want to help i want to provide counsel and console him
and tell him what he needs to hear
but then i have my reservations
and he, his own
i don't want to care but i do so i want to feel it absolutely
i want to vanish
in the middle of the night
like a voice in the fog
and reappear on christmas island
or antarctica
and one day wash ashore on the flannan isles
my soul spread so thin and particular to the occasional
being the author of his corpse
wherever it turns up someday, maybe

munchkin diaspora

the last of the little men
is gone

the organ

ever since she was a little girl, she dreamed of becoming a performer. she liked that she had the ability to make people laugh or cry--as if by some strange or occult superpower. and it was through her art, her chosen path as an organist, that she was able to exploit this gift.
she liked playing alone--the freedom it allowed her to improvise, to risk making a mistake without having to face the consequences, the cringing mouths and furrowed brows of a congregation which depended upon the ostensible and expected ease with which she played--the grace which she exuded naturally while playing a traditional simple or well-rehearsed piece of music.
when she was alone, the music was permitted to flow freely, directly from her mind and into her fingers. from there, it would reverberate off the walls of the auditorium and immediately, like an obedient child, come coursing back into her mind, as if bound to return to that source which birthed it and into its very conception breathed life.
she liked the capacity she had to translate or synthesize vague or vivid sensations into orchestrated noise. when she was alone, this was her joy and her escape.
the church provided her with an instrument. they gave her a key so that she could come in at all hours of the day or night and practice. they even provided housing for her, in exchange for services every wednesday night and sunday. she had no particular conviction either way when it came to matters of religion or faith or theology and felt a bit guilty exploiting the church's goodwill, but this was the life she wanted to live, the life she chose, and her happiness was supreme.
she played many funerals. weddings, too. most of her work involved jukeboxing a set list designed by the party concerned. usually, this meant the same five songs per traditional service. people, she found out, were unoriginal and generally held a play-it-safe mentality when it came to important events in their lives.
she dreaded each event but, in the moment, being well-rehearsed as she was, soaked it up, with all eyes upon her, swayed by the unconscious assault of enhanced emotions via musical accompaniment. she liked that she was able to so immediately see the results of her playing in the tear-soaked eyes of the congregation, whether it was for a wedding or funeral or sunday morning service--the immovable half-smile, genuine, with eyes-crinkled, that stemmed from her playing--the physical act of pushing down keys in a particular order, from her mind and into the minds of the congregation--that strange form of telepathy, the language of the sensational. and all happening right before her eyes. she could see the graph in her mind, crudely drawn arrows, people reduced to points marked A and B, performer and audience, indistinguishable save for their clearly-defined relationship within this model.

....more to come.

dr. mengele, pt. 1

when i was younger, satan used to appear at my bedside nearly every night. of course, he couldn't be there every night, he said, because my soul mattered so little to him, but he made an effort, in part due to the rapport we struck up, to be there as much as possible. often we'd go on journeys, flitting about via teleportation, to places i never thought imaginable and he'd show me things--sights i'd never seen. it was a magical time in my life. but there was always a barrier of dissension in our relationship--a source of irritation for me, being so young and stubborn--as satan was always going on and on about wanting my soul. he promised that my life here on earth would be filled with happiness if i'd only forfeit this one trifling facet of my being. i, of course, knew from the stories my mother told me that this was forbidden. she warned me about satan. and i always listened. but i couldn't help feeling some sort of sympathy for the guy. he looked like death, to be perfectly honest, and went out of his way to entertain me on a regular basis. it was a great friendship, in my opinion. but a one-way street all the same. i had nothing to offer satan--nothing i could give freely or wanted to give up freely, save for my time and energy--time, of course, i could have been sleeping, getting adequate rest before school.
eventually, it got to be a burden--this constant horsing around every night. i'd go to the schoolhouse spent and lethargic, my eyes dragging to the floor. it was a nightmare--the daytime, anyway. but at night, i couldn't help it. the possibilities were seemingly endless. satan always had some new scheme or fit of inspiration up his sleeve. one day, we'd journey back and time and hide in the bushes as dinosaurs brawled like savages right before our very eyes. the next, he'd take me to the future where, despite conventional foresight, people never rode around in flying cars or ceased making wars in the name of God and selfishness. it was quite a stroke of good fortune to be selected, by satan himself, to see all these wondrous sights and experience all these things.
of course, as all things go, it got old after a while. i grew tired of the constant assault of new stimuli and voiced this to satan. he knelt at my bedside pleadingly and implored me to join him for just one more adventure. i agreed, though reluctantly, and we set about in typical fashion.

tbc...