#46: I Passed The Past In A Race One Day (Endorphins)

(Prefessential Interjection)

Okay, So Say We Can Preface It,
That We All Got Our Own Deficit.
And Even If We're Addressin' It,
Though Usually Under Cover . . .
We Do Our Best At Guessin' It,
Knowing Our Future's Expressin' It . . .
And We're Just Pawns In His Chessin' Set,
Our Moves, We've Yet To Discover!

It was a miserable day in early July
when I decided it was time that I
do something to keep my body spry,
and then commenced to joggin'.

I started slow, a mile or two,
but everyday the distance grew,
and before too long, I fairly flew
through miles of hounds a-doggin'.

And I approached that marathon pace,
And there began to recog-nace
that this is much more than a race . . .
a place to note the noggin'.

And that's the way it all began,
the recollections, while I ran,
of fleeting years and fleeing men,
hopped-up and wholely-hoggin'.

Step after step, I pursued the chase,
through past of wholly witless waste,
with just a tincture of good taste,
lost 'mid leaps-and-froggin'.

Five years . . . and maybe more
had broken o'er somatic shore.
My aching lungs and limbs implore . . .
it's only demagoggin'!?

Now I've paid the price with pain,
and you can save the muscle strain . . .
just peruse this epop-ain
and get hip to hog-heaven.

I gained the wisdom of my shoes,
and swear that I have paid my dues . . .
with metered gate and bated muse . . .
and a bit of epiloguin'!

It wasn't long beyond that day,
already rued in previous play,
when I uprooted and ran away,
tryin' to 'scape the fool's foray
that had my mind a-foggin'.

Some were quick to blame the wine,
and some said it was lesz-benign,
while others called me fescennine,
discounting my traveloggin'.

But it was more than girls and god
and fermented grapes of western sod
that boiled inside my foolish bod,
stewed the brew for groggin'.

I bitched and twitched, and purely itched,
but inertially, I was bewitched.
I could not get myself unhitched.
I would not fight, but could not switch.
Hadn't I found my own fair niche?
And begun to buy my own fair pitch . . .
that dug, for me, a dainty ditch . . .
and left me monologgin'?!

Still, it was, the last day came.
The players were done, and so was the game,
and I escaped with all my finest shame . . .
set to knot my noggin'.

So, I mustered up sincere "goodbye,"
and bid a-dues to western sky,
and sprouted wings, to eastward fly,
new-born and polliwoggin'.

And to this day, as I run the miles,
while I wile away my wiles
of fermented figments, rotted, reviled,
while pates be pettifoggin' . . .

I oft recall that breakaway,
when I finally got up the guts to say,
"Fuck this shit! Have a good day,"
to start my brain uncloggin'.

It's all new now, the time and place
and due, in part, to my foot-trace,
my brain has got some breathing space
for cerebral catalogin'.

One foot goes before the another,
to carry dreams we'd rather smother,
fathers' futures, and fates of brothers,
in dire need of floggin'.

Yet, further on now we will trod,
courtin' the devil, and countin' on god,
runnin' tough turf, while roughly shod,
lost in psychic proggin'.

And it took months, and maybe longer,
for me to make this dim ding donger . . .
cap-webs cleared from Captain Konger,
ready for demystagoggin'.

But the job is finally over and done,
and the final song can now be sung.
We've already seen some fun and pun,
and pain as perusal's paragon,
for hearty fights, hard-fought and won,
for hopeful visions, all homespun,
for death, defeat and the hailing dun,
for mistake, heartbreak and skeleton . . .
in closets for comparison.
They will all come back, barring none,
as sworn in this prolegomenon . . .
we must consider every one,
and only then we rest our buns
in the knowledge that the race is run,
that we've checked each phenomenon,
and shot holes with gray-matter guns,
through all our pre-concept-or-shun,
we rest assured the slide's begun . . .
so grab your new toboggan!

Epic-log to Preface:
I never knew that a run might bring me
to a state and mind, and even sting me,
but once I passed that ol' tenth mile,
I began to scream, and through a smile,
I told the sky to king me!

#47: Backstage Mass (Idolatry)

And Now A Personal No-it
To Those Who Choose To Dough-et
Upon The God-Like Po-ets
Who Don't Know Shit, And Show It!
Or:
A Little Fart-4 Down Seventy-Six.

Fan, fan . . . I'm your man,
larger than life when I began,
an agent-hatched charlatan,
proud to play your Peter Pan.
I need you on my caravan,
'cause the more you think of who I am,
the less you'll see that you, too, can
learn a trick and grow it.

It's a midnight ride for all revered
'til fame's sonlight has fully seared
all the saints and those they reared,
the children who are paired and peered,
who follow fads, both faked and feared,
who always rode, and never steered,
and behind the guitar grenadier,
who hates the stadium's loving stare . . .
those fainting in the highest tier,
drunk because they got so near,
the gods remember the fans are dear,
and they also serve, who sit and cheer!

Load To Greatsland:

His heart thumbed over the final page
while he sat and took a shit with rage,
"Why can't they see that center stage
is just a well-lit, barless cage?"
And then, Elvis checked outta here!

#48: Guise Who Proselytize (Skepticism)

(Sighn Post 4)

And Way On Past The Dotted Lines,
Out Beyond The Speeding Fines,
And All The No-Gear-Shifty Grinds,
That Make One's Learning Tough,
Still, We're Slapped Between The Minds
With Messages Of Several Kinds . . .
Printed On Some Highway Sighns . . .
And Hell, For All Their Weird Designs,
We Had To Read The Stuff . . .

Even When We Were Hungry.

"Dear traveler, and this will be brief,
and you can breathe with some relief,
and it won't cause you any grief . . .
it's but a roadway post,
promoting modest disbelief
of Injuns bragging on their chief,
with arrows missing from their sheaf,
and fires hot to roast.
Any group lost on the reef
will fail to ask him, 'Where's the beef?' . . .
when promised life with new-turned leaf . . .
the loudest is the most . . .
And so, he comes on like a thief,
but loud and strong, and just as eef
his poopy didn't even weef
of rotting, moldy toast.

Eye Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee:

A tasty meal don't mean a clean kitchen.
Listen to your tummy, and stop your bitchin'!"

#49: Second Fiddle In The First Band (Family)

Yo, Doctor, Lawyer, And Fireman . . .
Yo, Race's Winner, And Also Ran . . .
Genuine Article, Or Charlatan . . .
Before You Seek A Righteous End,
Touch The Place Where You Began!

Jo grabbed a card from under the clutter
lying around our feet.
He held it up for me to see
one stop we couldn't cheat.

"Family," I read it to myself,
and then I said out loud,
"Oh boy, Jo, this'll be somethin'
sure to please the crowd."

Jo-Mima raised his eyebrows,
and looked at me and grinned,
"I don't even want to know
the shit we're gettin' in."

I'd say this flight's impressions left
some reason for concern.
Troublesome symbols were evident
everywhere we turned.

The Chariot slowed, and came to rest.
One image stayed in view . . .
a crucifix shaped of dollar bills
sat, wet, with morning dew.

When Jo and I stepped out to greet
our usual landing site,
the familiarity of the scene
left both of us up tight.

"There's something recognizable here . . ."
Jo's words would not arrive . . .
and then he shouted, "I know this place,
Yellow Springs . . . number five."

We walked on down from off the tee,
headed for number one.
Our shoes left tracks in the dewy grass
beneath the morning sun.

I was thinking that it must be May . . .
Summer would make me sneeze.
And, in the fall, the smell of football'd
be hangin' in the breeze.

The parking lot was graveled like
way back in sixty-six.
The putting green was crowded with
some putter-wielding hicks.

I guess Jo saw me start to yell.
I saw him start to duck,
but we were saved by the blaring horn,
honked by a passing truck.

Then we saw the taxi cab,
with driver pretty wired,
careening into the parking lot,
his sign lit-up "Now Hired."

"Are you the guys from outta State
that I'm supposed to meet?
Let's go, man. I'm in a hurry, now!
Come on and grab a seat."

As we closed our doors, he peeled away.
We fish-tailed to the road.
In his mirror I saw him squinting,
and swerve to miss a toad.

"Hey, asshole! You know how to drive?"
I yelled up at the front.
His response was weird and thoughtful,
and anything but blunt:

"Hey, c'mon man, did you not see
that toad I almost hit??
That guy's some whole knot's brother.
I mean, just think of it . . .

There is a creek with a bunch of toads
sittin' around a leaf.
What if Brother don't make it home?
Imagine all the grief.

I see a spot . . . it's empty now,
where Brother should have been,
but a cab of vagabond killers
just took him from his kin."

"Are you nuts?" Jo started blurting,
"As if a frog would know.
You've been watching too much of that
'All In The Puddle' show."

Jo and I began to laugh,
picturing in our minds,
Arch and Meathead arguing like
red-neck amphibians.

"So, I guess you guys ain't heard
of Run B Long Done."
As a matter of fact, we hadn't, but
it didn't sound like fun!

"It teaches us when one is born,
he's given to a place,
bound with cords of heart and soul
that never will unlace.

Turn your back on your family, man,
disgrace, deny, deceive . . .
love them lots, or hate 'em, but
you're never gonna leave.

And they might blame you for mistakes,
and let their anger show . . .
but they, too, will be bound to you,
and cannot let you go.

It's all wrapped up in the magic word.
You know about the Word?"
That cabbie-preacher's day was made
when he learned we hadn't heard!

"Okay, so what's this Longer Dong,
or whatever is your deal?"
I love to yell at people when
they start to sound unreal.

And Jo was troubling whether or not,
the words of Christendom
could have anything at all to do
with this crazy dude's agendum.

The cabbie talked, oblivious, as
we passed Ohio Street.
Not wanting to break the spell, I sat
real quiet, in my seat.

"It's a yearning for someplace," he said,
and kept on with a stare . . .
"a desire for forever, and,
a need for what is there.

One syllable means existence, while
another means to stay.
And when they come together, then,
they give us cause to pray.

It's ownership and privation,
all wrapped up in one.
As proprietor and possession,
we're all Run B Long Done."

#50: If It Fits - Where It! (Home)

You've Seen The Oak And Smelled The Rose,
And Watched The Dying Stage Their Shows . . .
Awaited Heaven, 'Til Hell Hath Froze.
There Isn't Much You've Missed.
But, No Matter How It Comes And Goes,
The Sleeping Wake, And Waking Doze,
And All Eternal Decompose,
You Ain't Seen Naught Like This!

We approached a drive, eventually,
that led to a big facade.
It represented, architecturally,
all structures known to God.

There were two or three split levels, and
two-stories, and a ranch.
Brick and stone and wood were mixed
in a homey avalanche.

There was a place to lube your car . . .
a pen for cows and sheep.
An arcade of a thousand games
spread out behind the heap.

"This place would take a couple of weeks
for us to fully roam,"
Jo surveyed the whole collage
of places we called "home."

There was the creek and farmhouse,
and all the building shapes . . .
and Jo said, "This place looks like most
all our youth's landscapes."

We walked inside to check it out,
and waded through each room.
Each memory of every address
was there, somehow, entombed.

Every chamber, stair and hallway
was piled from floor to roof,
with decor out of every house
to which my family moved.

There was Modern and French Provincial,
with Colonial added in,
and thrown against a backdrop of
Mediterranean.

Antiques abounded, along with kitsch,
stacked in all the rooms . . .
souvenirs from nowhere special
piled up with fine heirlooms.

Jo and I were taking turns
with pieces of the past.
He found a stack of forty-fives.
I scoped a cedar chest.

For a while we felt contented to
be looking through old stuff . . .
with close to half the feeling that
these things had been enough.

The stubs of concert tickets, and
the keys to my old cars
could all be rediscovered, packed
in boxes, cans and jars.

We saw a door that led out back.
I followed Jo on through.
The room was dark . . . we couldn't see
the things we bumped into.

Jo found a switch, and hit the light,
and there, before us, lay
the weapons of every family game
we'd ever chanced to play.

There were balls of all descriptions . . .
bowling, to foot and base . . .
paddles and sticks sat lonely for
a warrior's fresh embrace.

Horseshoes, Frisbees, and a hundred decks
of various kinds of cards
lay with countless board-games, and,
croquet for pools and yards.

And then I spied behind some cues
what looked like posterboard.
It was faded, but we still could read
where players had been scored.

At least a dozen events and games
were listed 'cross the top . . .
with twenty names down the margin,
in colored Marks-A-Lot.

"Boy, this brings back memories,"
Jo pointed to "Ping-Pong."
"Hey, this says I didn't play.
That's got to be all wrong!"

I was about to laugh and comment, but,
I stopped to feel the shake
of what I thought right then to be
Ohio Street's earthquake.

Jo and I had certainly learned
through this Dionysian dance,
that nothing we had experienced
happened just by chance.

Before we left that room to wind
our way back to the street,
we added up the scores to find
John May was in the lead.

For a minute we were reabsorbed
in boxes full of junk,
when Jo-Mima found the corner where
they put the memory trunk.

Both Jo and I, together, stilled
our private inner laughs,
as we started fumbling through the stacks
of family photographs.

And after a couple of celluloids,
I guess we got the hint.
"We aren't here to remember," I said,
"but rather to repent."

Shots of laughter, shots of love,
and shots of funny shit,
filled the pictures, while each one had
a hole in the heart of it.

"Hey, I remember this very shot,"
Jo handed me the pic . . .
we were playing billiards, but
John May sure knew the trick.

"So, why is everybody there,
but you and I are gone?
It's like somebody's makin' look
like we might not belong."

I grabbed a pile of boxes and tried
to keep from falling down,
as another quake rattled the house,
from roof to underground.

And I'd just looked at a picture of
the family on a beach,
but those same holes then made me feel
lost and out of reach.

"Well I don't get it," I said to Jo.
"Even the photos, grunged,
with dust from back to baby times
are showing us expunged.

"It's weird," Jo added, "about these shots.
All the family throng
is exactly where they're s'posed to be,
but where do we belong?"

That's when I thought we'd bought it.
Plaster started to crack.
We stumbled toward the door that we
just hoped would get us back.

The chandeliers were swinging,
and stuff bounced off the floor.
I grabbed a knob, turned and pushed,
and half fell through the door.

There, rumbling, and all revved up,
was not our taxi, but
our Concept Carriage, and Jo said, "Hey,
I think I figured what . . .

exactly might be happening here . . .
'Belong's' the magic word.
We've said it a couple of times, and then
we've felt the shaking Earth.

And more than that, I think that now
I can kind-of see
the message from that nut-ball of
a philo-cum-cabbie.

We came and found and recognized
not just domiciles,
but houses that were far apart
by lots of time and miles.

And when we found those boxes filled
with all those photographs,
we saw our folks and siblings,
lovers and better-halfs . . .

grandmas and grandpas, uncles and aunts,
the extended family . . .
but every picture had a hole
right where we should be.

It's not the shelters nor the toys,
nor rooms of furnishings . . .
that make us feel that we belong.
We don't belong to things.

Things will change as crazy as
this jigsaw-puzzled den . . .
but home is really any place
we find our families in."

I thought I caught a parting glimpse
of cabbie and his toad . . .
but the roaring of the Buggy said
it's time to hit the road.

#51: Brace Of Operations (The House)

Say What You Will, And Will What You Can,
But Woe To The Child . . . Woman Or Man,
'Twould Strive To Be Whole, Forgetting The Clan . . .
And All Those Who Shared The Nest.
The Sophisticate . . . The Barbarian . . .
Emily Post, Or The Kubla Khan . . .
Were Littered, Whelped, And Thus Began
The Seed To Germ The Rest.

We sat down in our Conundrum Coach,
mumbling, bumbling blokes,
but before we shuffled the maps at all,
the dashboard flashed, "The Folks!"

Without a map, without a card,
our Buggy revved and flew.
We whirled away without a sign . . .
and, yes, without a clue.

The whirring stopped, and from our hill,
Jo said, "This is dumb."
Then I looked up to see the house
we'd just departed from.

So, even when our Carriage door
popped open, we sat still,
thinking we had failed to guide
that steer-less Phil-Mobile.

But then I noticed that the house,
though seemingly the same,
was slightly different in color and style,
though identical in frame.

"I don't know how to look at this,"
I said to my co-pilot,
"I think our Car is stopping here.
It's gotten pretty quiet."

Then I got out and headed across
our hilltop to the door
that I remembered stumbling out
a moment or two before.

Now Jo was right behind me, and,
I acted like the guide,
cupping my hands around my ears
at music from inside.

We opened the door to find the place
empty, from wall to wall,
except for a record playing on
a stereo in the hall.

#52: Sire De-Sire (Fatherhood)

Young Prophets Keep Crying,
Young Believers Keep Buying,
Young Sportsmen Keep Trying,
Young Soldiers Keep Dying!
Or:
From The Moment Of His Very First Waddle,
The Boy Must Stretch To Fit The Model!

We searched the house to find it bare
of all domestic trace,
right down to the missing ashes,
gone from the fireplace.

We heard the stereo's music from
all points around the grounds.
Whatever we were meant to find
was held within those sounds.

I guess we leaned against the wall
for better than an hour,
until the songs repeated, though
not to lose their power.

A hairy voice cried cradled cats . . .
a silver spoon and moon,
and someone's best intentions for
getting together soon.

Then a request for the family car . . .
a real desire to please,
but not the time to talk that much,
once he had the keys.

Then some cat-daddy started to scratch
'bout time to slow and halt . . .
". . . take it easy, you're still young . . ."
and that is all your fault.

All the times that some cat sang,
and all the times he cried,
I guess he kept the things he knew
all locked up inside.

Something about the same old story, and
the moment you can speak,
you're ordered to simply listen,
or the elder cats will freak.

A dainty dan, a brother of two,
sang of an only child,
a cabinet maker's only son,
so all alone and wild.

There were 'thank yous' for the music,
and times when he was tough . . .
and some self-castigation for
not thanking him enough.

And then a brown and agile child
sang out apology
for words that stuck inside his heart
as much as memory.

In anguish, he would cry out loud,
regretting sins of youth,
especially when the flowering child
takes razor to his roots.

Is the anger of one's growing up
always so intense
that poets find such easy fame
in emotion's recompense?

And why is it that all young men
must answer to their dads?
What loan is it, co-signed in youth,
comes due for all these lads?

I did not say these words out loud,
though thinking was intense.
A thunderous clap then shook the ground
with the Voice's entry, "Gents!"

Now stained with grass, Jo-Mima dived
head first into the lawn.
I spoke as meekly as I could, "Uh . . .
we thought that you were gone."

"Important questions have their way
of waking me somehow . . .
besides, you guys should be so much
further on by now.

Now, this Father thing . . . it's no big deal . . .
it's souls and blood and genes.
You remember what you found a word
like 'family' really means.

Unfortunately, mortals are wont throughout
their tragic temporal range,
to trade life's real significance for
an emotional exchange.

The Father becomes, without a script,
the guide for some new life,
in every scene not already staged
for a spotlight on his wife.

The Son cries out for meaning, and
so cleverly disguised
as anger, spite and vengeance,
still forcefully denies . . .

the values, habits, fears and loves
that wind up, ultimately . . .
the very thread and fabric for
the quilt of family.

When insults seem more hammered than
any lessons' nails,
the Father turns his back in shame . . .
it's always he who fails.

By the time the Son shares more with friends
than drinking lots of beers,
he's left with nothing but regret
for cursed, younger years.

And the Father sees the fears he's known
mask an arrogant face . . .
and though he cannot guide one step,
has compassion for the pace.

The Son comes home, forgiven for
his ever being young.
The Father frets his battles lost,
and even some he's won.

And when the Son is pretty sure
he knows his way around,
he finds a girl and marries, and
he starts to settle down.

And rejoicing on that day, when to
the Son a Son is born,
the Father hides his knowing grin . . .
his Son will wake one morn . . .

to find the Prince has heaved all night . . .
a stinking, wino putz . . .
pronouncing to the new son-dad,
'I hate your fucking guts'."

"So you're saying it's just a cycle,
shared by every male . . .
first biting the hand that feeds you,
then bitten in the tail?"

"Don't blame me, it's just the way
you humans live it out.
Actually, there's a great deal more
to what it's all about.

Beyond genetics and behavior . . .
Piaget and Skinner,
the imprint of the Father's soul
determines saint or sinner.

The heir is more than blood and genes,
and may not, either, be.
The Father's most important gift
is strong philosophy . . .

an ethic of work and sacrifice,
a respect for fellow man . . .
to love and teach the children,
to instill a sense of 'can' . . .

to help him see his mind as key,
to unlock any bars . . .
to expose the ruses of false gods,
and introduce the stars . . .

to example pride of doing your best,
and sense of 'job well done' . . .
These are the most important things
a Father gives his Son."

The Voice was silent. I looked at Jo,
as music from inside
rose to lift us to our feet,
and pushed us toward our ride.

#53: The Boat Was Doc'd - The Berth Was Locked (Motherhood)

You Might Say That It's Propitious,
Judicious And Even Obstetritious.
Some Hate Anything Officious,
And Even Branded It Malicious . . .
The Very Thought . . . Men Doing Dishes.

But Regardless How You Judge, Or Rate Your
Mom, She's Blessed And Cursed With Nature!

You can imagine how strange it felt,
when for a third straight time
we powered through oblivion to land
upon the same old dime.

Again the windshield cleared, and we
looked at the very barn
which we'd experienced twice before . . .
Jo sighed deeply, "Darn!

Why can't we get away from here?
What else is there to learn?
Emotions cannot forever take
this heartful-hurt sojourn."

While Jo was ever so lightly in
a modest complaining mood,
I watched the front of the house begin
shedding all of its wood.

In seconds I watched the splintering walls
start to break and bend . . .
like mechanical arms from the building,
they started to extend.

They stretched the distance of the yard,
and came around our car.
In horror, both of us jumped away,
but didn't get too far.

The new walls quickly closed on us,
and sealed off all retreat.
We found the seemingly weakest point
was tougher than concrete.

We yelled and screamed, and did what we
could think to do to crease
the impenetrable partition standing now,
preventing our release.

The oddest characteristic of
that prison-forming wall
was just how soft it was to touch . . .
without a budge at all.

With clearly no mood to hurt us,
it did not move to crush.
My worry was we'd suffocate
from an overdose of plush.

Once in a while they'd vibrate with
some bludgeon from outside.
Still, we screamed our insults and,
desire for freedom's ride.

The sky was clear, without a cloud,
but we thought we could trace
rain drops streaking down the wall
like tears across a face.

"What the hell?" I looked at Jo,
angry, but feeling safe.
"What word will get us out of here . . .
are we sentenced to this State?"

"Bo, maybe I'm just getting tired,
but I'm ready to give in.
This mother hasn't moved an inch,
despite how bad we've been!"

Well, okay, so these tales are old,
and the Reader foresees it so . . .
but we were surprised when the wall right then,
parted, and let us go.

The Carriage started right up again . . .
and melting from its track,
the wall, like a movie in reverse,
shrank the whole way back.

We already had some experience of
this strange and crazy house,
and other adventures had taught us well . . .
gift horses have scary mouths.

Into the Buggy we jumped in hopes
of escaping with due speed.
The windshield blurred, and I turned to see
a hose detach and bleed.

"Well," Jo said, as we whirled our way
into the vast unknown,
"I trust you have some concept as
to what we've just been shown."

"Well, I must admit, that I've cooked up
a sort-of recipe,
for what we've seen . . . half-baked or not,
I guess it's kind-of a theory . . .

In the first place, speaking for myself,
after we cleared the yard,
my elation at being free gave way
to being a little scared.

I won't make symboled references
to how that prison room
might also, easily, be compared
to something like a womb . . .

that locked us in, but also kept
some hurtful stuff away.
While we just stood there cursing for
our ego's freedom day.

No, I really get the feeling that
it meant us only good.
I really think that might have been
the State of Motherhood."

"You boys are finally coming around,"
we heard the Voice break in.
"I'm impressed you figured something out.
Your brilliance has no end!

Yes, Motherhood is a most complex
philosophical thing,
with a hundred contradictory wants,
and each, its own heart string.

Of course, she wants your happiness,
though granting it restricts,
her ability to protect you from
the hurt that life inflicts.

Her passion for your safety might
become imprisoning . . .
she pushes you to confidence,
before you test a wing.

She wants you to be hard enough
to never hurt from pain,
but for the world to see that your
compassion does not wane.

She wants you to be clever, but,
so not to put off friends.
She expects your individualism
to call for no defense.

As master of the amorous arts,
attain the world's repute,
while abstinence and self-respect,
must be absolute.

She boasts your tireless service, but
she'd like you waited on.
She routes your team as long as you're
the celebrated one.

She wants you to be hard as nails,
but gentle to the end . . .
to enjoy the wildest freedoms, while
you exercise no sin.

She wants you to shine gloriously,
but maybe not too bright
that enemies may covet you,
and seek to pick a fight.

She wakes each day, burdened with love
that can't do any other
than cause the loved to rue its cell . . .
this, the curse of Mother.

And while you're screaming for release,
and angered by love's toll,
understand that she's the one
sentenced without parole . . .

where you mature and find a mate,
new days and paths to cross,
only death commutes her term
of anguish at your loss.

There's only one exception that
can help you when you pack . . .
a younger sibling staying home
to help take up the slack."

Then somehow, we knew the Voice
had taken its due leave.
We just sat still and let the Car
choose which way to weave.

As we rode on, we heard the sound,
though unheard heretofore,
a radio in the Buggy's dash
performed the State's encore . . .

much worse than country music noise,
no voice could more abuse . . .
"I've got the already-hatched . . .
and-I-can't-get-back-inside blues . . ."

#54: A Man's Fandangle Is A Matter Of Angle (POS)

O, You Of Ego, So Unsteady,
Funny, You Act So Non-Confeddy,
You Carry An Image Inside Your Heady,
And Hang That Picture By A Thready . . .
You Can't Look Any Queerer!
. . . Better Steer Clear Of That Whirlpool, Eddy,
Dock, Take Stock, And Get Yourself Ready.
Life Can Be A Little Self-Shreddy
With Any Good Look In The Mirror!

Then Jo-Mima lifted a card,
and read our destination.
"Mirrorland," I heard and thought . . .
"not more self-revelation!?"

The whirring started. The Car took off,
and Jo and I, quite numb
to all the signs of travel, did
not worry what might come.

But this little trip proved scarier yet,
or so the mind submits,
since Concept Cars don't come equipped
with ejection seat crock-pits.

Clothes and cars, good tans, and hair . . .
like flashing Polaroids,
of all the things one dreams to be,
or endeavors to avoid . . .

were slapped against our windowshield,
and some of them got stuck.
Jo and I had to close our eyes
to symbols run amuck.

The Buggy slowed, and from our perch,
a blur of light, surreal,
confused us 'til we fully stopped,
and saw the Ferris Wheel.

The scene was a mandala, twinkling
with colored tiny lights . . .
it reminded me of the Darke County Fair,
on steamy August nights.

We stood and ambled down the hill
to a farmer-packed midway,
both sides of which were lined with booths
of games for us to play.

I didn't know if the Voice was close,
but solicited rebuttal . . .
"Glowing barkers, calling to us . . .
man, if that ain't subtle!"

The Voice had never shown itself
emotionally to buckle,
but I could swear we heard a low,
softly rumbling chuckle.

Walking up, we handed two bits
to a barker with softballs.
Then I wound up and threw at a row
of tiny Bo and Jo dolls.

Our miniature faces alternated
as targets for my pitch.
One, two, three, they dropped . . .
and each without a hitch.

The dolls fell back, exposing cards,
a letter on each one.
Symbol by symbol, we watched the web
of our lives being spun.

I stood the mound 'til "clever" could
be read among the cards.
Then a couple of misses inspired me
to try my hand at darts.

After fifteen minutes, no balloons
were hanging in the joint . . .
and then a guy with furtive eyes
said, "Hey, you made your point."

The latex shards hung, showing where
the characters had spelled
"handsome," though "some hands" is what
I think the barker felt.

I smiled as if dart throwers might
all quickly learn who's boss,
when from the corner of my eye
I saw the game, Ring Toss.

I turned to Jo who paused a bit,
not eager to compete.
"We're magic," I said, "we can't lose.
Those wins were not my fete.

I wasn't long on the sidelines when
Jo's ringers had me bored.
I quickly scanned the midway for
what else it held in store.

And there before us, fifty yards . . .
just past the fishbowl game,
the mirror house's door was lit,
and letters spelled my name.

I was at the door when Jo
walked up, expressing cheer . . .
I guess the rings exposed the words
he wanted to appear.

We stepped on in and didn't halt,
despite the horrid sound
the words of welcome seemed to have . . .
"Come in and look around . . .

As long as you keep throwing stuff,
balls and darts and rings,
the target always has your eye . . .
you might be anything.

Now take some time for reflection . . .
up close, or from afar . . .
and see if views of you confirm
just who you think you are."

Dozens of mirrors in one big room
is all that we could see.
I couldn't believe the number of Bos
now looking back at me.

The first one showed me a sinner,
pretending to be a saint.
The next one showed me a muscle man
who looked a little faint.

One image appeared quite honest, but
one look behind his eyes,
revealed a Bo who sought to hide
the burden of his lies.

Each mirror reflected both of us.
To me, Jo looked the same,
while my reflection always showed
some horrid psychic shame.

It was only Jo-Mima's openness,
advising that his eyes
reflected him in characters that
his worst traits symbolize . . .

that suggested we both suffered the
same subversive plot . . .
reflecting to us what evil we are . . .
or maybe we are not.

Each mirror seemed to stab us with
a vision like a spear,
as both of us stood cringing at
the way we might appear.

It's hard to say how long we stood,
hearts and souls laid bare
by visions of our humanness,
and sins we humans share.

Our fears and insecurities, and,
the shortcuts they inspire
reflected us as dressed out for
the Devil's midnight choir.

We slowly inched our way toward
a door that said, "Repent."
It opened to the fairground smells
of peanuts and old tents.

We heard the calliope organ and bells,
and tried to catch our breath,
now having looked so deep inside
to see our spirits' death.

I asked aloud about the truth . . .
if mirrors or games stood
as a closer picture of ourselves . . .
the evil or the good.

Jo-Mima answered philosophically,
his wisdom at its peak,
"Something tells me neither is
the truth that we might seek . . .

the truly true, and really real . . .
but, we've been witnessing
the various interpretations of
our own pre-possessing.

We weren't the fantastic marksmen
while winning at each game . . .
and neither have we ever earned
all that mirrored shame.

Those measures were all worldly,
adopted or assigned.
They cannot weigh the truth that's in
our hearts and souls and minds.

I think the lesson really here
is truly pretty meek . . .
the world is gonna paint you when
your own brush strokes are weak."

"So, the deal, I guess," I butted in,
"for our self-picture's sake,
is much less what the world shows us,
but shows we choose to make."

"That's right . . . and not that nothing's real,
but our self-syllabus
is a game of winner-take-all that's played
between the world and us.

We need our pictures for us to see
all we are, and ain't . . .
so long as we keep our canvas clean,
and don't forget our paint!"

We walked back through the faceless fair
toward the landing hill.
I don't know a password, but
I felt Jo had it still.

And sure enough, the Buggy revved,
and we both got inside . . .
ending a scary sojourn as
t'was time, again, to ride.

#55: Save Your Bunk - I Need A Trunk! (Health - Body)

What? You Say You Got No Fever?
So Why The Doctor's Temp Retriever?
Well, This New Bug, "Cereb-da-ceiver"
Has Found A Way To Make A Griever
Of Healthy Men, And Moreso . . .
It Has A Way To Win The Weaver
Who's Most Prone To Be Naiver,
Apt To Be A True Believer . . .
There's More To You Than Torso!

We came to rest. I was looking for
the normal hilly slope,
but we were on a roof next to
huge letters . . . "C O U N T Y H O P E."

And fifty yards of black roof tar
stretched 'tween me and Jo . . .
and a roof-top elevator access door,
and all the floors below.

Suddenly the door burst open wide.
A gurney carved its tracks.
Nurses grabbed and threw us down,
turned and wheeled us back.

And before I had a chance to ask,
they prepped me for O.R.
I saw a mask, and I heard a voice,
"Well, what have we got here?"

Like viewing a video after the fact . . .
an out-of-body feel
gave me vantage to watch and hear
the entire strange ordeal.

"This one's running for his life,"
the surgeon broke and flung
a couple of ribs right out of my chest
while looking for a lung.

"Good for him," a nurse chimed in,
"he's joined the human race."
"Well, maybe, but," the surgeon said,
"it looks more like he's chased.

His liver's gray. He's got some bile.
Hey wait, now let me see . . ."
He held my kidneys in the air,
tattooed with 'J & B'."

Again the nurse spoke up, alarmed,
"Doctor, his intestinal tract . . .
it runs the length of his legs and arms,
and up and down his back.

Can this be good for a man his age?
What do you make of it?"
"Nurse, it's known as dreamer's syndrome . . .
this guy is full of shit."

By now my parts were strewn about,
around the bloody room.
My empty shell looked comicly like
an airless, human balloon.

The surgeon retrieved a coal scoop from
the hook where it was dried.
He shoveled my pieces into a pile,
and dumped them back inside.

As they sewed me up, I felt myself
pulled, as from thin air,
toward the table and into my flesh.
I woke again, aware.

#56: Pre-Ambulatorn Without No Warn (Psychosomatics)

You'd Think The Rooms Ought To Adjoin,
That Is, At Least, For All The Coin
They're Finding Ways To Pry 'N' Purloin,
While Tuning Up Your Chords . . .
But It Feels More Like A Trip To Des Moines,
From The Carving Knives Of The Tenderloin,
To Where They Kick Your Psychic Groin,
Below The Belt Of The Mental Wards.

There's no use trying to describe the halls
through which the gurney flew . . .
I was blinded when they grabbed my balls,
and told me to ah-chu!

#57: Okay, So Wad Am Eye? (Health - Mind)

Thank Your Stars, And Your Redeemer.
Maybe You're Just A Sneaky Schemer,
But Better Than Bein' A Losin' Dreamer,
If You Don't Go All Insane . . .
And If You're Dead, A Lost-Soul Screamer,
Then You Can Prove Hippocrateamer
Was Little More Than Big Blasphemer . . .
With Too Much Cough, And Out Of Creamer,
To Keep Thought Tracks On Train.
It's Like The Guy Who Buys A Beemer,
But Lacks The Juice To Make It Gleamer,
Soul Ain't Housed In Flesh And Femur . . .
And Mind Is More Than Brain!

I was scared to move, afraid to find,
I might not move at all,
when the gurney took off through the door,
careening down the hall.

Another turn . . . a sudden stop . . .
slid me to the floor.
I fell, dizzy, onto a couch.
Someone slammed the door.

Peripherally, I thought I saw
some white coats lifting Jo.
I wanted to shout, "If you see a mask,
lay back . . . enjoy the show."

I watched a helmet full of wires
get placed upon my head.
A German accent gave commands . . .
and whatever else was said . . .

I took it, there were orders for
urgent analysis
of all my notions . . . valid and true,
or full of fallacies.

Not unlike the previous room,
I felt my spirit drift.
From a vantage point, I watched the pros
dump out my brain and sift.

Like plungers pumping rusty pipes
of cerebral commode,
I watched the helmet wires suck
assumptions by the load.

I heard the doctor dictate as
he fiddled with a knob
on a panel labeled something like,
'Tinker Think-a-ma-bob.'

"Vell, eerz zum vear of failure, boot,
it duzzunt luke to be
enough to make zees fellow act
any more carefully.

Eerz zum hangups on zex und love.
Zay indicate zees guy
needs a voman to hold eez vings . . .
zo maybe he can fly.

Ya, eez noodle, ist clogged mit snags
yust like vee often find . . .
parents, god, money, und sex . . .
eet clutters up zee mind."

The door flung wide. The gurney rolled in.
The doctor then intoned,
"Careful now, zee mind cannot
yust be cut und sewn."

Then next I saw the hospital hall . . .
the gurney driver floored
my bed around people and walls,
up to the "check out" ward.

Another stop, and the gurney flipped
me upright to a stand.
When Jo arrived right by my side,
we faced a window and . . .

were greeted by a kindly face . . .
an old, androgynous nurse,
"Give me your charts, turn in your carts,
and dig into your purse."

The drivers passed two clipboards through
the window where 'it' sat.
I watched 'it' read our history, and
then hand our papers back.

"You see, one's physical status is
easy to diagnose.
We open the body and look around,
and sew it to a close.

Replacing organs, and arms and legs,
resetting broken bones . . .
is easy, since your healing is
a thing to which your prone.

It's a game . . . we've learned to turn the die
long after they've been rolled.
No flaw cannot be modified,
no matter what the mold.

Still, we haven't figured out
how to change the mind.
We've studied every traveler here
we've had the chance to find.

We cut and paste the body 'til
we get it where we want,
but brains refuse to give up ghosts . . .
they must enjoy the haunt.

We thought we'd try to operate
and change the way you feel,
but like our other subjects, we
thought you might not heal.

You are dismissed. Now you can go.
You're healthy by the charts.
You're in no need of therapy,
drugs or body parts.

However, let me warn you now,
that you may have a spell.
You have no bug, and you aren't sick,
but you are far from well.

And there is no penicillin for
the bugs that bug the mind.
It takes some serious exercise
to keep the brain in line."

We boarded the elevator for
our rooftop parking space,
I had the sense we'd met that nurse . . .
maybe some other place.

And then it hit me like a punch . . .
that maybe these two boys
had seen the State of healthfulness,
and even seen the Voice.

We reached the car and found it odd
how quietly it slept.
The doors were locked, and it appeared
a transport most inept.

"We've gotten used, when we return,"
Jo-Mima whispered low,
"to find the Carriage ready to fly
as we are set to go."

As fingers of dusk spread all across
the roof of County Hope,
Jo and I were taking turns
with words like, "stethoscope."

"Tongue Depressor," Jo would shout.
"Scalpel," I'd reply.
And this went on until the sun
completely left the sky.

Frustration showing, I finally said,
"Remember what they did!
They tore apart our bodies first,
and then, they ripped our id."

"They certainly weren't careful while
severing my frame.
Still, I guess it feels I've healed
completely, just the same."

"But our heads they treated gently,"
I chose to interject.
"Mine still hurts, though they took pains
just trying to protect . . .

whatever they were scanning there,
and this may sound perverse,
but I think they couldn't alter it,
but to make matters worse."

"Hey," Jo looked enlightened,
"that may be the deal.
They ripped apart our bodies 'cause
it's only them that heal."

"Wow," I said, "that's go to be
a part of what we find . . .
as much as we can change our form,
it's hard to change our mind."

Jo-Mima nodded without much verve,
as we were not profound,
just sitting in a Carriage that
did not make a sound.

"Ouch!" we said in unison,
both jumping to our feet.
Steam was rising from the hood
and imprint of our seat.

"We're not there, but we're getting close."
Jo-Mima spoke our thoughts.
"My head is turning inside out.
My ideas are in knots."

"Okay," I said, "it took two wards
to check out all our works.
I hate to say it, but what if we're
supposed to find two words.

We know that exercise can change
much of our physique . . .
and surgeons fix our body parts
a hundred times a week.

So, our bodies may be vital, and
perhaps our health is more,
but, newer tissue always grows
in place of what you tore.

Now, brains are also tissue, but
they didn't scan one cell.
It seemed they looked for the stories that
our actions sometimes tell.

They studied my assumptions, like
behind the way I act . . .
like health of mind is a personal set
of statements of some fact."

"Well, I know my assumptions were,"
Jo picked up the pace,
"established long before my sense
of reason was in place . . .

what if all our consciousness
is built upon a deck
of dreams and fears our brains don't get
the chance to double-check?

The sun had set, but Jo and I
still knocked around for hint
of what this place had tried to teach,
and what that lesson meant.

"Well, I give up," I finally sighed,
"let's get off this ceiling.
All these puzzles are makin' me sick . . .
and way past any healing."

Varrroom, the Buggy started up,
like we were in its way.
"Give me a break," Jo-Mima yelled,
"what password did you say?"

"Get in the Cart, boys," roared the Voice,
though not like it was mad.
"I guess He made this tougher than
He really thought He had.

I offer a hand . . . but how many times . . .
I guess we'll wait and see,
but, getting you off this rooftop is
our first priority.

Health, in body, is like machines . . .
there's maintenance and there's care . . .
be it dry dock, oil, food or rest,
it's pretty fair and square.

But minds get sick like muscle and vein,
and sometimes, mechanically,
but most of all, the mind will ail
from bugs that you can't see.

So, all those little notions that
you took in as a child,
the reasons things seem safe and tame,
as well as harsh and wild . . .

sometimes all those feelings get
stirred up within your world . . .
and sometimes they can storm your brain
and leave your lobes uncurled.

And 'hope' provides an answer,
like 'confidence' and 'prayer.'
Lots of things will help you fight
the craziness up there.

The point is healing doesn't work
the same in those two wards.
One takes hammers, saws and gauze . . .
the other, umbilical cords.

The first can ever be tweaked and tuned . . .
the second, to be blunt,
and to quote your Buckliest of Lords,
must be all done in front!

So, off you go . . . that's all you'll get
for understanding here . . .
but of course, you knew there's more to health
than what might first appear."

#58: No Bars, No Chains, No . . . (Freedom)

Some Folks Spend Their Lives A-Wishin'
For What They See On Television.
Other Folks Are On A Mission
Searchin' For Lands Alask-More.
Though Science Grants The Future Fission
Greener Fields And Better Fishin',
Just Make Sure That Your Collision
Into Your Chosen Task, Or . . .
With Your Future Has Precision . . .
Contains A Clause For Its Rescission,
'Cause You May Find Your Decision
Gets You What You Ask For!

Jo-Mima had his hands full when
we finally took our seats.
Apparently, he'd grabbed some drugs
passing the pharmacy.

So I reached down and grabbed a card
almost too thin to hold.
The writing was so delicate
the word could not be told.

"Wherever it is we're going ought
to offer us surprise.
I just can't read this card at all.
Here, you give it a try?"

"I can't see a thing," Jo answered . . .
"nothing but a blank.
I trust that we aren't headed for
nowhere, to be frank."

The Phil-Mobile then lurched ahead,
but weirder than our clue,
was a windshield that remained so clear,
unlike our normal view.

No images flew to greet us as
the Buggy slowed to rest . . .
no contour helped us recognize
our hill beyond a guess.

No vision of flora or fauna came
to entertain our eyes.
No sound of life would give us cause
to search for its disguise.

I heard the click of the door release,
and watched a smoky mist
fill the Buggy, and fill my mind
with mood of nothingness.

"Voice," I cried, trying to keep
from falling comatose.
"Help us, please." Jo-Mima's plea
was like a distant ghost.

There is no way for me to tell,
especially on this trip,
how long we lay there stranded, or
how long we might have slept.

I think the Buggy woke me up . . .
perhaps the engine turned . . .
the door was shut, the cockpit clear.
Jo looked at me concerned.

Neither of us could formulate
a thought before we heard . . .
the Voice was calling us to life
with a riddle quite absurd.

"I long for the day when a mortal man
can pass a tougher test.
You try to travel Philosophy States
like an honorary guest.

Regardless, your intentions earn
you both the right to know
the State where you've been sleeping for
a hundred years or so.

You've come to know that all these States,
despite their worldly norm,
are experienced by you, while you trek
through their most pristine form.

As difficult as it might have been
to recognize Success,
or any other State you've seen,
or had the luck to miss . . .

you've finally come to visit at
a State that drives a spike
through heart and soul, as well as brain.
That's what Freedom's like.

Like babies crying for another piece
of moldy birthday cake,
you spend your living begging for
a freer path to take.

Even the lowly prey of the woods
know better than to plead
for freedom from the jungle's rules,
and cover of the weed.

Even the hawk that sails the wind
above the valley floor
knows not to trade the shackles of
his daily hunting chore.

Only man, whose arrogance knows
no upper boundary
might request the granting of
a wish like being free.

Since Freedom here is absolute,
perhaps your world can't show
the terror felt by him for whom . . .
anything can go.

Count yourselves as fortunate men,
surviving certain death
that comes with total freedom and
total emptiness . . .

and don't expect that I'll be here
every time you faint,
succumbing to a truth you dreamt
was something that it ain't!"

The Carriage door then slowly closed.
The engine cranked and purred.
Jo read a card still on the floor . . .
and then the windshield blurred.

#59: The 'Fare' Is False And Costly! (Fear)

Maybe It's Just You're Scraping . . .
Getting By, But Not Escaping.
You're Worried . . . You Might Be Aping
With Robes Of Want Now Draping . . .
All Over A Would-Be Life.
Well, Know Those Ghouls-A-Gaping,
You Thought Were Here For Raping
Reflect But Your Own Shaping,
And Universal Strife . . .

Our transitions from State to State
seemed varied as to time . . .
but this trip certainly felt to be
the shortest of its kind.

As quickly as the windshield blurred
it seemed to clear again.
The scene was so much like before . . .
we must be where we've been!

The Buggy's double-doors unlatched,
and opened outward to
reveal, not Freedom's silent mist,
but, nothing for our view.

So, healthy apprehension donned
we peered beyond the car.
"We can check it out," Jo said,
"and still not stray too far."

No solid ground was there to keep
us both from meeting death . . .
but heck, the Buggy had to sit
on something more than breath.

So, I stuck my foot out to the gray,
and then, in horror, watched,
as whatever ground was there began
to swallow my galosh.

"I knew it! I knew it," I yelled to Jo,
and jumped back in my seat.
"This place is worse than Freedom,
except we're not asleep."

The Carriage began to jostle about.
Jo quickly looked astern . . .
"Yikes . . . I knew a wolf might sneak
up here and try to learn . . .

what we're doing . . . how weak we are,
and we can't use our feet
to run and save ourselves the fate
of being good to eat . . ."

At first, Jo had me worried, but
as near as I could tell
there was no wolf behind the car . . .
"Hey, what the hell?!"

At that, my worst foreboding came
and scraped across our roof.
The slightest glimpse convinced me, and,
I needed no more proof!

"It's the movie creature . . . Alien!
I've seen this thing impale . . ."
"No, it's Beelzebub," screamed Jo,
"I saw his horns and tail."

We were hiding under everything
that we could get beneath.
With eyes shut tight, I still could see
the Alien's head and teeth.

It was then I heard the chuckling, and
I recognized the sound.
Wherever we were, or gone or been,
the Voice was still around.

Then, "Jo," I whispered softly so
as not to tip our hat . . .
well, just in case I might be wrong,
and Aliens laugh like that.

"What?" I heard him whisper back,
under a stack of maps.
"Do you think the Voice is out there?
I mean, I guess, perhaps . . .

we could muster up the strength
to check the door again . . .
after all, we can't just hide
in here for long, my friend."

The rustling papers told me Jo
was back into the game.
I took a look out through the door,
and at the gray terrain.

"Voice?" I queried, my eyes were fixed
where normal sky might be,
"Are you here . . . and if you're not,
can you help us flee?"

And then the Voice came booming from
everywhere at once,
"Again, you fail! But it won't help
to leave you here for months.

Bo, you should have clearly seen,
with one step out the door,
this State was going to show you
what you were looking for . . .

and even more, when Jo began
his paranoia dream . . .
how could a killer wolf hunt from
a land of whipping cream?

Like Silly Puddy, your brains pick up
a cartoon frame or two.
But any fear can stretch that clay,
and yes, the world you view.

You know I've other travelers that
need guidance now and then.
You already know the key here is
not locking yourself in."

Then, all at once a stillness fell,
and somehow we both knew,
the Voice had left to serve all those
stumbling elsewhere too.

"I guess we cannot blame the Voice
for abandoning two fools
who fail to read the warning signs,
and understand the rules . . ."

"Wait a minute," Jo interrupted me,
"maybe it's a hint . . .
Remember it said, 'lock yourself in,'
I wonder what it meant."

"Well, you thought we'd found Wild Kingdom."
I thought I got Jo good,
but he came back with, "Look who's talking,
you dreamt it was Hollywood."

But, even though it had now gone,
and we were all alone,
I felt this State was calmed a bit
upon the Voice's drone.

And so it was we sat there with
no threat to make us move,
trying to read the message that
this State was out to prove.

We discussed all types of nightmares:
the worry, fear and dread.
We considered all the evil things
that dwell inside a head.

Once in a while the Buggy'd shake
and provide a modest scare,
but preoccupied with analysis,
we didn't stop to care.

"Jo," I offered, reflecting back
upon his look of fear,
"what was it you mumbled when
the Buggy brought us here?"

"I really don't recall," Jo said,
"what caused the car to jump.
All I know is it made me want
to stop and take a dump."

"Well, concentrate," I admonished him,
"it might be our best clue.
What lesson do these nightmares have
to offer me and you?

What word are we supposed to find
to get us on the road?
Damn, I don't believe this place!
Why can't we break the code?"

"It was not a word I'm familiar with,"
Jo shuffled with a map.
"It was like some strange contraction
that made me want to crap.

Wait a minute . . . it wasn't sound . . .
but if my mind is clear,
it seems to me it was something like
a word about my ear.

Was it 'beer'? No, more like 'Be-here'.
It might have been 'Belief.'
Wait, I've got it. It was 'Be-lie-fear.'
Wow, what a relief!"

As Jo was searching for the word
that baited our last trap,
I watched him step outside the car,
and blithely take a crap.

"Be-lie-fear," I said to myself,
to only then confirm
it made me want to defecate.
"How can a simple term . . .

that isn't even a word," I asked,
"physiologically,
have an effect like this on us?
It's difficult to believe.

Damn, we're stupid . . . we never learn,"
a vision prompted me.
"Jo, I've found the secret, okay.
Now, see if you agree.

Again, we've ignored the feedback that
our actions generate.
We've done it before . . . refusing to hear
the message of a State.

I don't know how we failed to see,
but when I touched the ground
I imagined an evil quicksand, and
that's precisely what I found.

And then I dreamt of a monster that
I happen to respect.
Next thing I knew, what-a-ya suppose
my brain opts to conject?"

"Yeah, now that you mention it,
I pictured a hungry wolf,
and sure enough, I turned to see
one rip our bumper off.

And then the Voice answered our call,
and left us with a hint
about knowing the key to this State was
not locking ourselves in."

"So, what do you think it means, Jo Mime?
It feels to me the eye,
ain't meeting all experience in
this State of Terra-fy."

"Wait a second! I just realized,"
Jo-Mima pointed out,
"what if everything we saw . . .
our fears helped bring about?"

"What are you saying . . . that our nightmares,
and even threats from Hell,
are nothing more than images we
inflict upon ourselves?"

"Well, maybe so. Consider that
the horrors at our door
were preceded by our pangs of fear
the moment just before.

What if this State is nothing but
a mirror for our minds,
reflecting back to us the things
we most want not to find?

This State may be the canvas that
is absolutely blank,
waiting for the paint of fear . . .
a link of chain to yank."

Well, any reader who's come this far
by now, can, tonally,
hear a chord of truth when struck,
though maybe still off-key . . .

and yes, it's true that right or wrong,
regardless of the choice,
it always seemed when we arrived,
so too, came the Voice.

The Buggy jerked a little bit.
The engine tried to start.
The Voice returned, predictably,
"Well, that's the biggest part.

I don't know why I've come to take
the two of you to raise.
It reminds me more how hard I worked
back in Cro-Magnon days.

So, listen up. My time is tight.
Jo, you're on the scent.
The State of Fear is where your last
few moments have been spent.

Freedom and Fear are very close.
The border's hard to find.
It may, at first, seem neither has
an edge of any kind.

For mortals, I'd say that Freedom's worse.
Your souls just aren't mature
enough to stop your mind's defrost
to liquid horse manure.

And then, again, your souls don't know
all Fear is self-induced.
Your spirit can't be threatened by
things the world's produced.

And thus, Fear is a favorite State . . .
what do humans say . . .?
It separates the men and boys,
and eats both anyway!"

"So, that's the reason," I couldn't believe
Jo interrupted then,
"you told us that the secret was
not locking ourselves in . . .

the threat of Fear, though real, is held
completely in our brains,
a scimitar we shape and hone
to self-inflict our pain.

And that's the reason our guiding word
was just some cryptogram . . .
Fear is like a flood of lies
your confidence can dam."

By now the Carriage bumped and hummed,
but wasn't taking flight . . .
as Jo and I were listening for
the Voice to set us right.

When nothing broke the silence, I
just turned to Jo and said,
"We're getting pretty good at this.
Let's just move ahead!"

"You boys are really something else,"
the Voice severely spoke,
"even when you do okay
for human-kind of folk.

Your accomplishments are dust and crumbs
to creatures really bright.
In a hundred floors of this meta-world,
you've only come one flight.

Try as you will, the things you seek
remain beyond your reach.
You try to learn with logic what
only faith can teach.

You strain your guts to see the truth,
while you ignore the witness
that might decode the world for you
so fear won't leave you shitless.

'Be-lie-fear,' does not, my friends,
mean lies that bind your mind,
but rather that your fear's exposed
by strength your heart can find.

It's both hearsay and heresy,
until you learn to cleave
the roots of 'be-lie-f' and 'ear'
and learn what you believe."

"Wo!" Jo shouted, thunderstruck,
revelation on his face.
"I get it now!" He clapped his hands.
"Give my brain some space!

Fear is not just made of lies . . .
it's less than lies, albeit,
our minds succumb because belief
gives us cause to see it."

At that, and with the Buggy hot,
Jo and I were farting.
"Do we have time to take a crap,"
Jo asked, "before departing?

The Voice first laughed, and then announced,
"You fellows are so witless.
You never figured the password out . . .
it might have scared you _______!

With that the Buggy whirled away.
The windshield turned to black.
"Jo," I said, "I hope these States
don't ever ask us back . . ."

#60: Whew, Boy, We Gonna Have Us A Time! ... Uh, What? (Hope)

The Biggest Problem With The Masses . . .
Is That They Fail To Save Their Asses,
Mired In Muck And Mess Morasses,
While Donning Their Rosy, Self-Hypno Glasses,
Convinced The Muck Is Just Molasses,
All-Lured By The Allegoric:
Tomorrow Grows The Greenest Grasses . . .
We Will Surely Ace Our Classes,
Keep Our Hair And Lose Our Chassis.
We Grasp For Anything That Passes
For The Yuck-A-Chucked Euphoric.

By now the Buggy's floor was messed
with bits of maps and cards.
The powers that Be can't fully direct
us touring, child-retards.

The only thing this flight's windshield
allowed us to construe
were blurry flashes of colored lights
provided for our view.

Then somewhat uneventfully,
the Carriage slowed and stopped.
We looked out on a desert night
where heat of day still popped.

But feeling we'd ignored a scene,
Jo turned to look around.
"Whoa," he said, calling my eye
to a knee-yawn of a town.

"It's Vegas," I said, heading on down
our knoll and toward the strip.
"Come on! If there's a lesson here,
you know it's gotta rip!"

We came to a corner that, first, we thought . . .
maybe, we'd seen before,
but we didn't recognize the lights,
the marquee, or the door.

I thought the name was pretty weird.
Even the usual grand,
outrageous Vegas, prepared us not
for this, "The Promised Land."

Giant automatic gliding doors
exposed humanity.
We both walked in before we read
all the rules of entry.

We were s'posed to drink a special drink,
and put on special shoes,
but the crowd was going crazy, and
the doorman let us through.

An angel-waitress walked right up,
and handed me some chips.
"Your drinks are with your dealer.
His name is Paco Lipps."

Neither of us felt out of place.
We took a nearby seat.
The dealer greeted us by name.
We were beyond retreat.

Sniffing my drink, peripherally,
I saw Jo shoot his straight.
I thought to stop him, but my words
of warning came too late.

With a growing fire in his eyes,
Jo-Mima looked for trouble.
He grabbed the cards, and held his glass,
and yelled, "Make it a double."

Jo was starting to act so weird
I put my drink down, full . . .
and just in time to avoid my eyes
suffer the pull of wool.

For more than an hour Jo played cards . . .
a gambler pro gone mad.
He went through all the angel's chips,
and everything we had . . .

and all the while, he drank more shots . . .
the house's specialty.
They called it "Dose." It looked like rum . . .
and smelled like lizard pee.

"Jo," I said with great concern,
"we're learning nothing here."
He glared and said his luck would change,
of this, I could be sure.

"I'm all for wasting time with fun,"
I said, a bit uptight,
"but now you're acting weird, and well . . .
this place just don't feel right."

"You need another drink, my man,"
the dealer's voice intoned.
He motioned for the angel, while
he stared me to the bone.

I looked into his eyes to feel
the glaring heat of hell.
I resigned myself to make the move.
I shrugged and said, "Oh well!"

I grabbed Jo's collar, and jerked him up,
and headed for the door.
When no one moved to stop us,
I looked around the floor.

The dealers, dressed in clergy gowns,
looked shocked at what they saw.
I think we really startled them . . .
that we could move at all.

And at that moment, I realized
those special shoes we failed
to put on at the door, were meant,
to keep their wearer's jailed.

Only the waitress angels, and
most of the dealer priests
were trying to catch us as we ran,
as security increased.

I had to grip Jo tightly so
we'd make it to the door.
And he kept yelling that he had
to turn back for some more.

He wasn't acting angry, but,
he looked about to cry
when we burst through an alley door
into the moonlit night.

All at once a stillness fell
upon us in the street.
And only then, Jo-Mima's cries
were audible to me.

". . . then I'll try the other deck . . .
it might be well the case
that another game would offer me
a chance to get the ace . . .
and then I'll try the three of hearts,
or maybe I'll replace
the deuce of clubs with a diamond five,
though seven has the grace,
for my next game . . . yeah, that's the way
I can win this race . . .
. . . and then I'll try the other deck . . ."

He kept repeating it over again,
just like some mantra rap.
I grabbed him by the shoulder, and
I gave his face a slap.

"Yeow," Jo-Mima looked at me.
His eyes began to clear.
He seemed to have no memory of
how we'd gotten there.

It didn't look like anyone
had followed our escape,
but as we passed that first front door,
I saw behind the drape.

There was a neon sign the size
of a business envelope.
We missed it on our first time 'round,
"Eternity of Hope."

Jo-Mima's twenty drinks of Dose
were kind to wear off fast.
By the time we reached the Buggy,
the effect had fully passed.

"Jo-Mima," I said, "can you recall
this past ten hours, or so?"
"I remember stepping into the light . . .
beyond that, I don't know."

"You don't remember playing cards
and drinking all night long . . .
spending all that money, and
then trying to prolong . . .

the inevitable loss of everything,
like maybe even soul?
I mean, those cats were scary . . .
we're lucky to be whole.

And as near as I can figure out,
you were playing at
the Devil's poker table, and
without a caveat.

I guess you must have lost your mind,
but then, there is no proof.
If I was really right we'd see
this desert Buggy move."

Right about then, ten yards away
a cactus burst to flame.
The Voice then shook the desert with
more sympathy than shame.

"Well, I'm glad you made it out of there.
The stumbling that you do
seems to move you forward, and,
somehow it gets you through.

I'm noting all your strategies
for future students' sake . . .
there really might be method to
your progress by mistake.

But, as we've made a habit of
my lending you a hand,
again, I have to guide you some
for you to leave this sand.

This place that you've now visited,
cause-see-no, though it seems,
is really just the gates of hell
dressed up in human schemes.

Lights and money, and pretty looks,
and going places, are
the kinds of things that humans will
prefer to truth, by far.

It's really Hope that takes a man
on tragic walks in life,
as much as people think that Hope
can help deter their strife . . .

and that it does, and does it well,
for it can blind a man,
and keep his heart so full of dreams
that it won't see to plan.

Hope can be a tool for joy
and wonder for a few,
but, usually it steals your soul,
and takes your future, too.

While the trap of Hope is deep and dark,
its entry looks so sweet,
it thieves your capabilities
before you chance to meet.

And though this State is one that I
might choose to warn you of,
your luck has seen you, once again,
slip through the evil glove."

Then, sort-of like a fading song,
the Voice was gone again.
The Buggy started up real strong,
and Jo and I got in.

#61: Thank The Lord - You Can't Go Back! (Youth)

Someone Else Might Well Be Braver
When They Learn To Use A Shaver . . .
And Some Of Us Might Truly Savor,
The Loss Of Childhood's Wink And Waiver . . .
To Welcome Lines That Time's Engraver
Carve Into Your Face.
Forget Your Fashion And Your Favor . . .
You Overcome All Qualm And Quaver
When You See Your Youth's Cadaver,
Knowing That You're Now Much Safer,
Having Left That Place!

We were getting pelted with a bloody rain.
The Car was reddish-pink.
The husks and seeds of a thousand plants
were sticking there, I think.

It seemed we traveled for hours 'til
the Car began to slow.
"I really don't like the looks of this . . ."
My thoughts were read by Jo.

The engine stopped, the door flung out . . .
we stared across the hill.
The scene there looked so ruthless that
I suffer nightmares still.

The ground was strewn with eggshells, and
the prints of tiny beasts.
The air was full of pollen . . .
and screams that wouldn't cease.

Around the hillside, metal stands
held coin binoculars.
"Okay, Jo, I'll give it a glance . . .
I hope this nickel's yours.

By the way, you must forgive me if
I seem a little brash.
I have to borrow some change from you . . .
I haven't got the cash."

The scene was awesome, and totally new,
but still reminded me
of other States that seemed to work
almost a-morally.

Creatures were killing creatures with
no symbol of remorse.
The slaughtered accepted dying like
they had no clear recourse.

And then I chanced to watch an act
that made me feel as though
we might have landed in a State
I'd known, but long ago.

A boy and a girl, there, barely blessed
with fuzz of puberty,
were having sex within the shade
of an apple-laden tree.

They thrashed around like animals,
both biting at its mate,
until a falling piece of fruit
hit their conju-plate.

It fell upon their grassy bed,
within the grasp of each.
I watched as he raised up to look,
and then began to reach.

It was over very quickly when
the female grabbed a stone.
When the male bent down to grab a stick
she crushed his cranial bone.

"Holy shit!" I jerked away
to leave that horrid sight.
"Jo, you won't believe this place.
It's really bad, all right!"

Jo moved in, but then I blocked
the eyepiece with my hand.
"It's horrible, Jo . . . a world that shows
the Devil's own hot brand.

Maybe we've gotten to Murder Land,"
I tried to incorporate
the ruthless spectacle we witnessed with
some kind of Philo-State.

Then Jo pushed my hand away
to look through for himself.
"Wait," I held him back again,
"maybe their seeking Hell . . ."

My mind raced on, trying to weigh
the terrible evidence,
"we've finally come upon a State
of vengeful virulence."

Jo stood back, somewhat amused.
I searched for another word
that might describe the horrors that
my senses had incurred.

"No, that's not even scary enough . . .
true Anger might be it.
I can't even find a gruesome word
bad enough to fit."

I was gazing off to the distance,
lost in a day-nightmare,
Jo squeezed by and grabbed the stand,
and caught himself a stare.

"Okay," Jo said so blithely,
"they're kissing and eating fruit.
Heck, we've seen all this before.
What's so tough to compute?"

"What?! What are you talking about?"
I imagined another guy
now being slaughtered for a fallen pear
as I stooped again to spy.

I focused my eyes back to the ground
where I knew blood was shed.
Jo was right. The boy was up,
and back with her in "bed."

It was then I noticed the apples fall
in abundance from the tree.
"A-ha, this is the Forgiveness State,"
I concluded confidently.

"On the other hand," I thought to myself,
"I would expect this State
to require an elder's wisdom be
exampled here, someplace."

"You know," I said out loud to Jo,
"one thing that bothers me . . .
There's nothing here past budding youth,
as far as I can see."

"RIGHT!" A Voice explosion shook
the ground on which we stood.
"Finally, Bo, you used your head
for more than ire-would!

You weren't too wrong at 'vengeance,'
and 'anger' was kind of close.
Though 'forgiveness' is a part of it,
it's less than you'd suppose.

If you had time to hang out here,
and study Youth some more,
you'd learn that, as a State, this place
it is treated superior.

It bothers me, if you must know,
that allowances are made,
for a snotty little brat-of-a-spot . . .
that'll never meet the grade.

And with all its temper and selfishness,
Youth has hoodwinked Grace.
It snubs its nose at karma, while
it takes its favored place.

It recovers from every excess . . .
makes fleeting any pain . . .
commits the most egregious goofs,
to laugh and play again.

Insulting rules of life and love,
it bites at all behest,
confident that, come dinner time,
it is the honored guest.

And if we didn't celebrate it,
it might not be so cruel.
But, for too long, we've taught it that
we are its eager fool.

Revered and worshipped, it remains,
and we will leave it so,
for, though Youth is abusive,
its innocence does show.

And we will recognize that Youth
deserves a special stage,
to act its part aggressively,
with energy and rage . . .
for soon enough, the playwright bows,
and tosses on the stage
the script that Youth must follow hence . . .
to settle down and age."

#62: Apollo Guys Are Spaced! (Regret)

Well, At First, It's Irritation,
Some Strange New Consternation,
Psychic Insubordination
That Makes You Feel Absurd . . .
Then, Comes Intonation,
And You Feel The Enervation,
The Lines Of Limitation . . .
And Then The Observation,
As Expressed In Eltonation . . .
That "Sorry" Is The Hardest Word.
But Maybe "Sorry's" Sorry-ation
Is Granting It A Station . . .
Well, That's A Possiblation . . .
At Least, That's What I Heard.

Again, the windshield delivered us
a world of crazy sights,
though Jo and I were wincing at
different times in flight.

The Buggy stopped. We looked upon
a city scene and sign.
A cornered street, a bus stop, and
a plaque: "The Rue-More Line."

So, Jo and I got out and walked
up to a common bench.
Thus far, the State just looked to be
a fairly lead poop cinch.

And that is when the bus pulled up
with room enough for us.
We got on board, and didn't pay,
but no one made a fuss.

The driver wore your typical
transit uniform.
She looked at us like criminals.
That seemed to be her norm.

She eyed us in a mirror, and,
she yelled, "Where are your tags?
The station master at Remorse
should have stowed your bags."

We shrugged it off, supposing that,
before too long, we'd find
what the hell was up her sleeve,
and what was on her mind.

We took a look around at all
our fellow, transit fares.
They all just sat, and looked ahead,
like rows of frightened hares.

They hung their heads and wrung their hands,
and maybe held their breath.
"I think we're headed," I said to Jo,
"to someplace worse than death."

And before we'd gotten comfortable,
I read the first stop's sign,
"Welcome To Sorrow - Remorse and Rue,
Further Up The Line."

The stay at Sorrow was pretty short.
A couple, real forlorn,
got on and sat in a couple of seats,
among the better-worn.

The bus moved out, while Jo still held
the card that he had grabbed.
For all we knew, we might as well
have walked or even cabbed.

"Next stop: Remorse . . . and baggage claim,"
the driver yelled again,
and stopped before a loading dock
of bags, and then, she grinned . . .

"Everybody, grab your bags.
Be sure to check your name.
Lots of folks have baggage that
looks very much the same."

So Jo and I got out and found
some luggage marked for us.
"Damn," I said, "how long we s'posed
to travel on this bus?"

Now, luggage of all size and type,
from purse to wooden trunk,
was labeled with descriptions of
all sorts of mental junk.

And the driver started yelling then
that we should check the date.
She pointed right at me and Jo,
"Come on, I'm running late!"

"Jo, we can't get all of this,
and pack it on that bus."
I said, "Let's just grab a bag or two.
That's enough for us."

So, both of us grabbed one small bag
to fit beneath our seat.
The driver frowned at our small load,
but had a time to meet.

The bus took off, as we fiddled with
the tote-bags in our laps.
But, as flimsy as they seemed, we just
could not undo the flaps.

And, we didn't learn 'til later why
both our bags were locked.
But, had we known their contents, we
would really have been shocked.

The driver then announced, "Rue-More,
the last stop on the line!"
She made it sound like punishment
for commission of some crime.

The bus pulled right up next to folks
who didn't even flinch.
I thought so many crowded there,
no one could move an inch.

Bags were piled up everywhere,
all opened and unpacked.
I bumped three guys just trying to get
the bus door slightly cracked.

We stepped out on the station deck . . .
I heard Jo's warning shout,
"Nobody's moving . . . they're statues, Bo.
We'd better check this out!"

The driver didn't speak at all . . .
like, maybe not allowed.
She only frowned and watched us push
our way into the crowd.

"My bag's unlocked," I heard Jo say.
I felt mine open, too.
But we were busy forcing our way
through that mannequin zoo.

And, working our way on through a crowd
as so incredibly dense,
I heard Jo muttering to himself,
"Damn, this makes no sense.

These statues look like living beings,
just stopped right in their tracks,
while searching through their bags and trunks,
suitcases and backpacks."

We made it to the station house,
and through the station door,
where we were met by more of the same
weird statues as before.

"Bo, have you noticed a funny thing?
Every bag is bare.
Maybe something stunned them all
to steal each rider's fare."

"That's one theory, Jo, but I'm
not really sure who'd care.
These empty bags make me wonder if
anything was ever there?

If all these bags held clothes and stuff,
or other real content,
they wouldn't be so barren now.
There'd be some small remnant."

We'd made it through the station, and
out at the other side.
The statues stretched forever, but
their numbers did subside.

And that's when we began to look
for a little more perspective.
Up 'til then, just getting through
had been our prime directive.

"Hey, Jo, maybe it's poison gas,
exploding from their bags?
Holy shit! What's in these things?
The low-life scalawags . . .!

They've slipped us bombs in gym-bags, and
we might have met our end.
Let's dump these things right here and now
before they do us in."

Well, Jo-Mima seemed to understand
everything I said,
and we dropped those bags right then and there,
and took off with a dread . . .

as fast as we could to get away
from bags and frozen folks.
It's amazing, the physical strength a man's
fear of death invokes.

The scary thing that crossed my mind,
the further that we got,
was, didn't the folks who waited to look
have any fearful thought?!

Some horrible need must finally make
a person take a look,
in spite of all the evidence of
the gooses it might cook.

But when it seemed the statues might
stretch to infinity,
I looked up at the open field,
expanse in front of me.

And there it was, maybe fifty yards,
the Buggy sat and hummed.
I conjectured with a relieving sigh,
"Maybe this is dumb . . .

but I don't know a magic word
that'll get us out of here.
I've no idea what this State's about.
Tell me you found it clear."

"I dropped the card back there somewhere,"
Jo said, "but think this trip
had something to do with nosiness . . .
like, could it be gossip?

I figure all these frozen folks
got just what they deserved,
sticking their noses in other people's
bags . . . I mean, the nerve!"

"Yes," I said, "you're thinking that
the station called, 'Rue-More'
was home-base to a gossip-mill,
and that's what this is for?

You're right, I think 'Rue-More's' the word
as printed on the card,
but that don't mean it has to be
this bus stop boulevard.

What if 'Rue-More,' ain't 'rumor,'
but something like 'remorse' . . .
like ruing, philosophically,
might be a kind of force."

"Damn, you boys are stupid, but
given the average toss,
even a coin can use its head . . .
avoiding total loss.

And once again, I see you're both
lucky to be alive.
Somebody must be pulling for you
down there on Level 5.

I believe that yours was just the sixth,
or maybe seventh time,
that Mrs. Shamer's bus was known
to run that far behind.

You didn't grab your bags in time.
Well, isn't that a shame?
You're moving on, and you don't feel
the slightest bit of blame."

"Well, now I know what it all meant,"
Jo expressed himself,
"the bags were full of some regrets
that cast an evil spell."

"Of course, regrets were in the bags,"
the Voice's explanation
made quite clear the reason for
the bus ride destination.

Your transit symbolized all men's
life experience . . .
the introspection of Regret,
and toll of its expense.

Regret is memory, made of thorns.
The only time they vex
is when you let them plant themselves
in soil of your cortex.

All lives collect baggage which
is used to pack regret . . .
often enough to weigh you down . . .
there is no scale or limit.

And that's one way that destiny
keeps you on a tether . . .
while focusing on past mistakes
can stop you all-together.

Those poor souls you wound around . . .
at various times, they chose
to stop and check their baggage, and
got memory over-dose . . .

of things they wish they hadn't said,
or wish they hadn't done . . .
of all the wheels and webs they wish
they hadn't ever spun."

The final words the Voice conveyed
were left as it departed . . .
"You lucked out here, but Boys, you know . . .
all life's trips are started . . .

with a packing phase for what you need,
and deciding what you don't.
Past lessons may be handy, but
a past regret just won't.

Don't hide in rooms, and paint your walls
with guilt . . . no man bears witness
listening to the demons that
tell you it's forgiveness.

Another State will scare you with
the lessons of piety,
while regrets are selfish self-destructs . . .
what wonders irony!

So, when you pack to move from here,
take care at packing time.
Some baggage you might choose to bring
is better left behind."

We stepped into the Phil-Mobile,
and both let out a sigh.
I turned to Jo, "Now, tell me if
you also wonder why . . .

our loads are not of heavy weights,
we don't face title bouts,
but aren't these heavy concepts, still
about to wear you out?"

#63: Don't Dally O'er The Valley! (Fulfillment)

So Spend Your Life, Working-Wooing . . .
Amow, Amust, Amate, Amooing . . .
Maybe Just In Your Pursuing,
Your Brain Gets Lost In The Congruing . . .
The Bookie From The Bet.
Or Maybe Life Is Born Of Cooing . . .
TV Guided, Oprah-Spewing,
And Less From Any Sort Of Doing,
Regardless Of The Debt.
Still, The Barbe-Clue's For Chewing,
And What You Think You See Ensuing
May Be All Your Pot's Got Brewing . . .
And After All Your Pain And Pooing . . .
You See Just What You Get.

Jo-Mima lifted another card
that didn't have a word.
A circle cut in the center made
the damn thing look absurd.

Jo asked, as he stuck his fingers through,
"What do you make of this?"
The Wagon fired up and we
were back in the abyss.

This time the weirdest image played
upon our front windshield . . .
a chasm with a rope-like bridge,
connecting empty fields.

The chasm felt enormous, though
the image showed no depth . . .
just a scary sense of bottomless,
where thousands may have leapt.

The Wagon slowed. The picture cleared.
The image then turned real,
and we got out to approach the edge . . .
to see what I could feel.

"I think our hill should be right here,"
I said as Jo came near.
Jo looked a little queasy and
I felt a little queer.

"What's the matter," I asked my friend.
"Are you afraid of height?"
"Bo, it ain't the altitude, man,
but something here ain't right.

There's a canyon here that looks real wide,
and God, who knows, how deep . . .
but there's something else scarier that
might give a man the creeps."

And that is when the stranger's words,
sounding very close,
said, "Go ahead and jump if you
must see how deep it goes."

We both looked 'round at emptiness . . .
and then, to our surprise,
a perfect, filmy man appeared . . .
right before our eyes.

Its eyes were painted open, like
he might really see.
Then all at once his mouth changed shape . . .
he spoke to Jo and me.

"I know it's true, and I've been told
that I look pretty odd.
But there's no mirrors in this place . . .
so I can't see my bod."

"Well, your insides may work fine," I said,
"and it's nothing personal,
but your only problem in my world is
you're two-dimensional."

"Oh yes, I know. Believe you me,
that's no mystery . . .
and I know exactly how I got here,
and what would set me free.

Of course, it's funny, and I would miss,
were I to now advance . . .
the fun of speaking before I'm seen
while strangers mess their pants."

"But are you real? . . . like a human?
And how did you get here?"
"I'm not sure what 'human' is.
I come from planet Zeer.

In case you haven't quite caught on,
whatever State you roam,
no matter the world from whence you came,
this place will look like home."

"So," Jo asked, "this place applies
to a universe of worlds?"
"Of course! It's all on Level 3,
in the Hall of Wisdom's Pearls."

Jo and I then flashed back to
the Voice's condescension . . .
our experience would be limited to
First Level comprehension.

"Forgive me, fellas, you seem real nice . . .
I hate to cut this off,
but my muscles are just paper-thin,
and it's hard for me to talk."

"Oh . . . sorry," Jo said, "you've treated us
very courteously.
Is there any way that we can help
you get, as you say, free?"

"Well, I'm not supposed to tell you, but
I came here just like you,
trying to find out how to fill
some holes in my life, too.

I watched as people took this leap . . .
and likely to their death.
Each time I failed to jump myself,
well . . . less of me was left.

The problem, you see, only later on,
was I to realize,
my courage diminished relative to
my 3rd dimension's size.

I should have figured what it was . . .
that's why they call it, 'guts.'
I never guessed that flat-as-a-board,
though safe, would drive me nuts.

It's not my nerve that makes me speak
to everyone in range . . .
but boredom, greater than one's fear
moves anyone to change!"

As the Zeer then ended his story,
I peeked beyond the ledge.
The sunlight lit the chasm walls,
below a razor's edge.

Jo then pulled the card back out
to find the hole still clear . . .
but this time flipped it 'round to see
a letter printed there.

"Wait," he said, "what's this mean?
An 'M' behind the hole?"
"That's not 'M' . . . it's 'W', Jo . . .
I get it . . . see? It's 'W-hole'."

I took my friend aside to share
a crazy, private plan.
I didn't want to scare the Zeer . . .
clearly a gutless man.

"I've got this crazy feeling, Jo . . .
this ain't about a bridge.
There's something more important to
our stepping past that ridge.

That bridge is new . . . like never walked.
We ought to ask our host . . .
it sags so much, but the middle's flat,
where it should sag the most.

I'm telling you, we've got to jump . . .
and bring the Zeer along.
I'll admit it's just a feeling, but
I feel it pretty strong."

"You're preaching to the choir, Bo.
I'm right behind you, dude!
I told you that this place felt weird,
and it wasn't altitude."

Suffice it to say, we knew we had
little to justify
grabbing the Zeer, and counting down . . .
"3 . . 2 . . 1 . . let's fly!"

There must have been some lapse of time
while we were in the air.
I remember jumping out a bit . . .
to make sure we would clear . . .

the rocky side as we went down.
I thought I'd rather fall
for weeks, and hit the bottom hard,
than bounce along the wall.

But fear can sometimes mess up one's
sense of reality . . .
and I guess there's no assurance of
time and accuracy.

So maybe we fell for seconds, or
for minutes, or a day.
All we knew was it felt more
like passing some doorway.

It was almost like my back foot raised
as the front one lit again.
And there, before us, a garden lay,
where chasm had just been.

I didn't lose my balance, but
just turned around to see
the ledge that we'd just leapt off of
right in back of me.

The Zeer had fallen forward.
He rose up to his feet.
He stood, and started swelling up,
becoming quite replete.

His swelling left him most rotund . . .
perhaps in need of diet.
He'd always had the girth to leap,
but just no guts to try it.

He walked away, still thanking us
for all our understanding,
while Jo and I surveyed the world
from that garden landing.

The rope bridge, tied to columns, dropped
a couple of feet or more,
but quickly flattened out to lie
across the garden floor.

"There is no question in my mind,"
Jo-Mima volunteered,
"we jumped from that side over there,
but now it's disappeared.

We've stumbled just a step or two . . .
but gosh, look at our pace.
It seems we're making progress like
we're bigger than this place.

The garden was before us, but
now spreads out to our rear.
The far rim of the chasm, now
looks just ahead and near.

This place is but illusions . . .
like our first sight of the bridge,
that looked to be the only way
to get from ridge to ridge.

The edges of the canyon that
now melt into thin air,
once threatened us with razor sides
that proved to not be there."

"Well, I'll be darned . . . who's flying now
completely by their seat . . .
two of my favorite idiots, again . . .
have landed on their feet."

Of course, we recognized The Voice,
and both let out a sigh.
I guess, by now, we knew that we
had better trust this guy.

"Voice, I'm really mixed up now.
I think that we're okay,
but I'm not sure of where we are,
or why we jumped that way."

"Bo," The Voice responded quick,
"as you two boys are apt,
you accidentally did it right.
Just let it go at that.

But, I guess you'll never figure out,
if I don't lend a hand,
some of the stuff you're going to need
to pass the great exam!

So, the chasm was a symbol for
all life's emptiness.
And filling it up, abundantly,
does not require finesse.

You simply have to make that leap . . .
to jump in spite of dread,
since much of living at first appears
certain to leave you dead.

This State is Wholeness, and often called
'fulfillment' where you're from . . .
and leaps don't need direction . . .
you only have to jump.

The Garden of Life will wait to grace
only those who enter.
The fearful see but chasm and death,
with nothing in the center.

They try to read unopened books . . .
to taste the untried meal . . .
to walk the path without a step . . .
to imagine what is real.

Fulfillment does not come to those
who wait to learn the game.
It's only he who starts to play
who understands its aim.

And with both feet . . . into the deep,
is how to meet each day.
With less commitment you are apt
to simply fade away.

Of course, you see, objective is
not required for leaps.
Few landings choose to advertise
what any jumper reaps.

The Zeer was lacking courage . . .
well, that's a common curse,
but timidity 'til assurance is
a trait considered worse.

The fearful I can stomach.
They make some sense to me.
But keep him from my sight who would
await a guarantee.

Hardly a living soul will give
the gods a greater chafe
than he, who blessed with body and mind,
still tries to play it safe!"

At that, the words abruptly stopped.
The Voice was clearly gone.
We looked around to recognize
we'd walked the entire lawn.

"Hey," Jo said, as we approached
the rise behind a bush,
"there ain't no stair, but it ain't high . . .
Give me a little push."

I boosted Jo, and watched him grab
right on the Phil-Mobile.
He turned and pulled me up to hear
it purring with a zeal.

We watched the garden beneath the sun . . .
return to chasm view.
Red blossoms on a nearby bush
flamed up in crimson hue.