Word Set Scene

Is there a man who isn't wild in some part of his being? Should he be called a man who doesn't long to range and roam free, who doesn't seek also to liberate others? We call men civilized who use their minds to invent means of oppression, who raise hands against the helpless. Better we wander than fall into the snares of their cities. A landloper rests in the knowledge that the world is his domain and no one may deprive him of it except through death, or worse, imprisonment. For such a man, the objectives of life are threefold: stay alive, remain free, and help others to do the same.

The cobblestone underfoot, slick with grime And running with refuse A wooden box, shoulder high Unstrained by its paltry contents, Yet a burden to its emaciated bearers The procession, chalky-black winding through a reeking labyrinth, thick with the condensation of rot One dead note marking time, A bellow, a croak The cough of a Beaten and dying thing But the shuffle of feet a weary one, Heedless, unmetered The epicedium is sung A song from dirty lips Lips that hang on smudged, yellow-pale faces, Faces that match the windows, the moon And move in unison, To a silent song, a ghostly song, An invisible substance Emitted from dull faces, Faces that resemble one another People displaced from their provenance, Swept like fish into the sky and rained into the desert to gasp Dust like water Until their skin turned sticky brown Their flesh receded So that white slivers of their bones began to show And the birds, the rodents, the bugs All tortured them as strangers Preying on them in their vulnerability Now they pass into death One after another Like a homecoming The last hope of a refugee An end to suffering The promise of heaven

Alice chose to remain in the house on Euclid Avenue with her refuse: bags, boxes, papers, knickknacks, and trash. With her dogs, cats, a bird or two, mice, and insects. She stayed to turn the wheel of a failing ecosystem. She could have escaped, I would have helped her. But, she was given to mawkishness over her collection of rubbish and a maternal delusion in relationship to all living things within her household. A coward, I left her there to die. I should have stolen her away in the night and burned the house down twice, scorched it to rival Hell.

In case of the former, good and evil are words we use to describe relative behavioral extremes and their consequences. The actual effects of those behaviors would have little impact beyond the feelings of human beings. I case of the latter, we are a lost people, to be pitied above all other creatures.

Learned names have no flavor. Men name, they labor over taxonomies. They systematize, attempting to stuff infinity into a briefcase so that the world might be better understood -a world according to them. They construct a framework, a shelter, a religion. Even as it enables, it restricts. Where is there a prevailing sense of wonder, insatiable curiosity, perpetual awe?  I want meaning and substance. Anomia should become my discipline -not a malady, but the purposeful reintroduction of myself to the world. Then I should name all things, and each with many secret names. I will call a thing by its appearance in light and shadow, its reflection in the mirror, the way it feels in my hands, the sounds it emits, the memories it invokes.

The greener grass of other worlds beckons me. The blue grass of other worlds sings to me. Somewhere there is a world where grass is yet uncolored. Beyond it, a world in which grass is but potential, awaiting knowledge and the power of a word uttered in darkness. I could linger an eternity in sweet oblivion before saying the word.

I am multiplying but not separating. All of me, at last I counted four of us, are coincident and inseparable, but not indistinguishable, not to us anyway. To strangers, coworkers, friends, even loved ones, we are a singular entity; we share the same guise. There is no outward dissonance, only minor differences, disagreements as to our nature and purpose, all part of an ongoing discourse. Matters are easier to settle when our numbers are odd, sometimes as a result of democratic process, but more often the result of intimidation. There is strength in numbers, so they say. Mine are growing.

I remember someone in my youth comparing United States governors to the President, as if they were miniature presidents. I wish the gubernatorial office maintained the power and esteem of the Presidential office. Perhaps in some State, where men still have chests, it does. But then, I have a chest and no desire to enter the arena of politics or government. I am faithless. We focus too much attention on that distant figure of a politician disconnected from our culture and geography. I'd prefer a local king to a distant politician, better yet, a strong governor backed by a constitutional president in case the necessity for appeal arises. Really, I may be quite content to slip through the cracks of civilization, or not. I've yet to make up my mind. One thing is certain, I'll not have it determined for me by flag chasers and comfortable men.

It is well-nigh time I took some sleep. My mind is mean with fever. My head is a bucket of filthy mop water. I taste sickness in the excess of hot saliva and swallow against the rubbery swell of my throat. Feeling is never good in joints, they resonate at some low frequency and pop intermittently so as to communicate to their dissatisfaction with my age, the weather, and our present malady. The rest of me is a wood stove, stoked and dressed in rutilant skin. Goodnight. I pull the blankets tight on all sides and wait to burn clean through till morning, to wake pale and cool like a pile of old ash.

I dreamed a fiery staircase, an infinite helix ascending into the heavens above, twisting in dirt and rock, piercing rough crust and spiraling through the core of earth, shattering the opposite surface and descending into heavens below. Like the vision of my father Jacob, upon a ladder he dreamed in the desert, I witnessed beings move up and down upon the stair. But, these were not angelic host. These were eldritch things, greasy and black-skinned like Coleoptera, ragged like aged stone. They wore pale masks, whether wax or human flesh I could not tell, all expressionless but for the menace in their eyes. I looked, but found no angel to tell me the meaning of this vision. I awoke feeling as though my spirit had traveled a great distance.

My jobs require I prevent the capture or demise of my client by opportunists and assassins. That’s the order. The greatest threat to my client in this case -himself.