The Ping From Jesus

In the winter, dark and dreary
There I sat, eyes red and weary
Cutting, pasting, point and click
Coding something monstrous, sick

Over the whine of cooling fans
Came a beep from computer land
Mouse the mailtool, leave no turd
Some more junk from a chatty nerd?

Blossoming forth from cyberspace
Comes a note from a real place
I lose my grip and drift away
Reading ASCII of a special day

A tale of wonder, a song of songs
About a man from then and gone
Mailer’s address sends a clue
Access gateway, break on through . . .

Continued . . .

Copyright 1993

The Old Man and the Sheets

The early sun burns over the horizon in the flawless azure sky, a sun already lurid molten iron. The day would be hot. The bush would be quiet, the flies torpid. I sense that today will be important. The season was that inderminant time between spring breakup and summer drought.

I will do laundry. A man does not need to be told when to do laundry . A man can sense when the time is right.

First, one must heat water. To heat water, one must burn wood, and to burn wood, one must kill trees. But killing trees is a righteous thing, a thing a man knows how to do. I had killed many trees last winter.

I start a goodly fire, a fire to match the lurid sun. Above the fire, I hang the iron cauldron that so recently held a hearty stew of venison and earthy vegetables, and tomatoes. But now the great pot holds water, clear as the flawless sky.

Secondly, one must have soap. I have soap. Last Christmas, a silver icon had spoken to me in the men’s room at the racetrack. Enraged, I had killed it, then captured its green life-blood in a whiskey bottle.

The water is heating, and I have found the soap. I strap on my side-arm. It is old-fashioned – a 1911 Colt .45 replica, fashioned from a piece of armor plate in the arms bazaar of Peshawar. Ali had given it to me that haunted night in Kabul. He had not wanted to give it to me, not when the Soviets were searching door-to-door. But Ali was a friend, and died like a friend, and then I had the gun. I am ready to take the dirty laundry.

Continued . . .

Copyright 1993

A Tale of Two Strangers Shrugging
Excerpt One

Once upon a time there was an alien named Riley Vaentine Galt. Who is Riley Galt? Call me Galt -- Riley Galt, just don't call me late for dinner. Sorry, but when an entity floats around in space for several eons the witticisms get more rancid than the food, which is probably the only funny thing out here

I wasn't laughing, though. You see, food is my favourite dish. I've alway been a hungry alien and ever since I was jettisoned into this program I've eaten my dehydrated space goop with a fork. It's against regulations to eat with a fork, but my lips are as chapped as a cowboy's thighs from sucking on the nutrient pouches.

In fact it was my talent with the gobbling irons that landed me my current assignment. I was caught lounging in the mess hall with a forkful of space goop and mouth full of attitude when the call came up for volunteers. That fork poised in mid-scoop was mistaken for a loud "pick me!" I was deployed faster than a ten-ton Peterbilt screaming down a seven-percent grade.

Par for the course, the orders were vague and trite: to seek out and find the proverbial brave new world. Ha! Who were those three-fingered guys kidding? Sure, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was a dark and stormy night, it was a sunny and still day. All of the above, none of the above, I didn't care, I didn't know. I wasn't sure anymore. I wasn't sure of anything except the murky image of my feet propped on the console of my space capsule.

copyright 1993

Magpie, black and white
Sweep your beak across fresh snow
Spill light into dark.

copyright 2004