Thursday, May 24, 2012

The Wanderers

During one of Alexander’s marches, near the Sea of Galilee, a hand’s throw away from the legendary Garden of Eden, near the Macedonian camping site, was said to be, a soldier, and pupil of Aristotle, and Theophratos, of Lyceum University at Athens (Macedonian veteran), and scholar known to be: Kebes, who became fascinated with the unnaturally shaped stones collected from the surrounding farms, in which he kept until after Alexander’s Campaigns: he made drawings of them, and were uninteresting to the artisans at the Athens’s Academy, but he interpreted them, and the Academy’s view of them,  in the following manner:

       “If you look at a map of the world you will see Europe, Greece, and a bent finger that leads into the Mediterranean Sea.
       South of that, lies Crete, east the Aegean Sea, hence, we are in Asia Minor, we have behind us the Pillars of Hercules,
       and in front of us India, we have Jerusalem, and ancient Egypt, but who can tell me were these unnatural shaped stones I’ve  
       collected, came from, no one. I asked: who carved this stone? What beginnings of civilization carved them? What where these   
       people called? And were they people?  And the group of scholars listening, said—gasping: ‘You dare to pass old stones on 
       to us?’  I didn’t respond, but asked instead: What population did this come from? The Jew, the Egyptian?   They looked at a map,  
       and the isolated fragments I had brought to them to view, and said nothing, as if it was of no value. I said to them: It is time that  
       you know. I told them: one population precedes another, is this not   so? And I added: If we do not know, then it must be older than all those we do know of, this only makes sense.  They looked at me     
       as if I was an intrusive sea. They told me, ‘It’s from some wonderer of long ago.’ This I agreed to, it was obvious. But how  
       long ago, and who were they? I asked.  They again looked at a map, an older map. A voice said from the group: ‘Elephant Hunters of long ago.’ Traditions and dogmas rubbed one another down to a minimum of conversation; they wanted to talk of Plato’s
       philosophies or Aristotle’s teachings with Alexander. Not unnatural cut stones. But I think as they pondered, these Elephant  
       Hunters, as they called them: had teeth, perhaps skulls smaller than ours, I have seen them too, and some cracked abruptly, with  
       force.  Perhaps they, like us, picked fruit from the trees, but more so, because there are no animals in that area worthy of eating,   
       lest elephants. I didn’t ask them to consider this—it would be indigent, and they would no longer have anything to do with me, but  
      I think: maybe our ancestress were from a hinterland we know little to nothing about, and such be our past, and this they and  we   
       in the past have never considered, as if we always were, but they know we were not always—I told myself: they know that 
       Greece and Egypt were not the beginnings, only the beginning of Greece: before it was Greece—who were we? we forgot what it we were called, and likewise, Egypt forgot what  Egypt was called, and the Sea of Galilee, was the sea with no name but it was there—and in time the Jews appeared, gave it a proper name, and the Elephant Hunters, as my comrades have called them, were there,  
       but not the elephant, the elephant was never there: and they know this, even if they do not say they know this because they know Alexander brought the elephants there on a war march, and I was there with the elephants, and so they are known not to have
       been part of this land mass. And they also know, that there was before them a population, and before them another population: 
       countless—but they do not want to open that ancient door, perhaps they think the gods will forbid this kind of knowledge,    
       become angry—like at Troy and cause a stampede in the heavens, one that will break the earth open as it did with Troy, and 
       we will   become like the gods, and then what?...”

#3354 (5-21-2012)

Glass of Beer

(Chapter Story, ‘The Drinking Room’)

Jerry fills the glass clutching it, talks, remembers, dreams, thinks, wishes, watches, going in a circle around the table, ends back up looking at his glass, into his glass, the foam within the glass, his mouth unknowingly opens, the bubbles and foam are disappearing, he watching them dissolve, as if it was magic. It is a mustered-seed yellow liquid, cold beer, the same color of his pee he thinks.  He puts the glass to his lips, opens up his mouth his throat, his eyes wide open, and pours it down.
       He now picks up a cigarette out of an ashtray he had put down, a while ago, a Camel’s, non-filter, relights it, sucks in hard to get the cigarette hot as a pistol, it is red hot on the tip, he now leans over to pick up a card from the stacked deck, in the middle of the table, a cat, yellow as the beer, runs by, it belongs to the house, was a stray cat once upon a time—was I say: was…was…, now the kids adopted it.
       “Lor…d…y…!” says Jerry, “what kind of cards are these?” he questions. He pushes his eyebrows up with some hidden muscles seemingly coming out of his eyelids; his holes in his nose—nostrils suck in air as if he’s been running, he’s overweight by a hundred pounds, well, almost a hundred pounds, take or give twenty, he sounds like he’s drowning.
       Wistfully, and annoyingly, he rotates his head right to left, a fly is circling his head, he can hear its buzzing it wants to settle on his ear, and wants to land on his nose or eyelash or forehead, his forearms will do nicely also—he shakes his left elbow, smiles at the others, sips his glass of beer some—you can hear the suction, Jim is having a coughing spell,
       “Put on a sweater,” he says, “Betty, go and see if you can fine him one.”
       “It’s nothing,” Jim says, “just the damn damp weather, I’ll get over it, I always do, don’t bother Betty.”
       “The damn damp weather” Ace’s voice stammers repeating Jim’s statement as if soothing: his voice always defeated.
       Jim looks at Ace, his armpits smell, the music on the radio grows quiet and then revives, everyone is square mouthed, Bobby Vee’s hit, ‘Take Good Care of my Baby’ is being played and everyone’s humming to it, a 1961 hit; then comes one Evens likes: ‘More Than I Can Say,’ and he stops everything to listen to it, “Shoo…” he says to everyone (perhaps Vee’s most celebrated international song at the time).
       “Got some good worms for fishing,” says Jim, as if lacking for something to say.
       “Can’t believe it,” comments Jerry, looking at his cards.
       The table now rafts with bottles.
       A thick smell of tobacco, beer, human skin and bad armpit odors circulates around the kitchen table, mixed with chili smells which tributaries of smells lead out of the kitchen, circulating warmly throughout the kitchen, the drinking room, and into the living room and dinning rooms.  The stench being least noticed the lower order of smells, the drunker everyone gets.
       There is some laughter, drunken roars, and eyes dimming. They talk, become silent, empty, full, sometimes they all talk at once and nobody can be heard.
       Bill has a little headache, ‘I should go home,’ he thinks. Then he thinks, ‘I’m acting ridiculous.’
       Ace with his long legs stands up, staggers, wants to stretch them, Evens grabs him holds onto him, supports him until he gets his balance back. He goes forward around the table, step by step, looks out the window, gets some fresh air, his brain is clearing.

       Jerry, he now picks up a cigarette out of an ashtray he had put down, a while ago, a Camel’s…
        Ace straightens up—pulls out a handkerchief, blows his nose, wipes his forehead with the other side; for a few seconds he’s forgotten he has left his false teeth at home, you can see his red gums, he is back and ready to select a new card, still playing ‘Hearts’.  
       The cat is licking Aces shoes, he kicks him away, the cat whimpers, while Ace grabs his bottle of beer by the neck as if it’s the annoying cat, or a  giraffe, and with two gulps drinks three-fourths of the bottle of beer down.
       A dung heap of cigarettes butts are in the ashtray, the ashtray is really a simple soup bowl, low sides to it.
      Betty notices a bulge in Aces shirt pocket when he had pulled out his handkerchief, figuring unconsciously, that it was a pack of cigarettes hidden, because he’s been begging cigarettes off everyone else all afternoon, in place of having to roll his, but they are not cigarettes.

       By the looks of things, you’d think everyone there was an alcoholic; on the other hand, those that aren’t my very well possibly become one in the near future—to include Betty.
       Betty leans her back against the side window behind Jerry. Puts her hands on Jerry’s shoulder, strokes his cold neck, a seeping coldness is coming from under the windowsill.  She closes her eyes as if to catch a moment’s idleness, and refresh her stamina.
       Out on Jackson Street, running north and south, you can hear engines, whistles from the steel company nearby, tires on the wet road, horns from cars, it is a noisy street this day. You can hear fleeting voices as people walk by on the sidewalk.
       Jerry looks out the window over Bill’s shoulder, into the cemetery across the street, there is a grayness starting to envelope it.
       Betty moves out into the living room, and kisses Jerry’s neck before her move.  The cat has urinated on one of the rugs; you can hear Betty scolding her. Jerry finishes his glass of beer pours the contents of the bottle—what is left of it—into the glass, the foam is all out of it, but it fills the glass up halfway.

       Jerry fills his glass back up with bottle of beer clutching it, talks, remembers, dreams, thinks, wishes, watches, going in a circle around the table…
       Evens had drifted off; it was as if he was listening to the drizzling of the rain. Door slams—it is a screened in-door, it is next door, Jim’s house, he and his wife Bubbles live with Jim’s mother. Jerry raised his head, “It’s ma,” he says. His heavy hands fall back onto the table.
       Jim gets up to use the phone in the other room, “Ma, tell Bubbles I’ll be along shortly, I’m playing cards over at Jerry’s.”
       “Yah, I can see the back of you,” she says.
      “Let’s not waist any time,” says Jim, “Let’s play for money?”
       Nobody responds it is as if it was a statement, not a question.
       Mrs. Hino is wearing a blue tunic like blouse, long in sheath that hides her body form, her shoulders to her ankles, and high rubber boots, covering her feet and ankles, a scarf folded twice around her neck; her hands to her side, her head low, fumbling with the keys, barely revealing a movement of her shoulders.  A slight grimace, her nose a little dilated from the cold.  The leafless tree to the side of her has tentacle branches, and very high peaks. She is sneezing…about to open the main inside door to the house…

       Evens, has drifted off, a thin fuzz covers his reality, and is divided between the table and his small apartment room: Sandy is wearing a tattered iliac blouse, sticking to her breasts, tied around her waist, and her knees bare, her cheekbones are rosy, a tattoo on her thigh, a full expression in some peaceful manner, eyes yellow like a cats, lions, restless vibrations, her head is shaved, strange he feels, because noting seems real, but he is the pilot here, some kind of pilot, if only someone could explain to him, if he could understand (he could only hear a few words seeping, a grunt and waving of arms from those around him)…

Jerry fills the glass clutching it, talks, remembers, dreams, thinks, wishes, watches, going in a circle motion with his eyes around the table…
       “Come on Evens, let’s play,” says Ace, looking at him.
       “Again, say it again,” said Bill, he fell to sleep.
       At that, Evens woke up.
       “It looked like you were having a tumble with that Sandy or was it the Shadow?” Jerry asks Evens, licking his lips, everyone dying of laughter.
       “They always like to be begged, don’t they,” comments Evens.
       The telephone rings, and Nancy answers it, it is for her.
       “Who was that?” asked Betty.
       “Just a friend,” says Nancy. And before Betty could say another word, Jerry speaks up, as if knowing there might be a tug-of-war, “She’s at a foolish age, you have to know how to let go, unless you want to fight with her, she’ll just get all the more stubborn.”
       At that, she lets it be.

       Jim drinks down the last of his yellow liquid in his glass, looks at Jerry, sees some gray hairs, he fills the glasses of everyone’s up with a fresh cold bottle of beer, to include his, tops it off with mustered-seed yellow, giving it new foam and life, Ace drinks closing his eyes, everyone is taking long swigs of beer, wiping the sweat off with their hands, the kitchen is hot, he tells Ace, to go and buy more beer, another two cases, no, he changes his mind—figuring he might not come back, Bill goes. Jerry is getting a little drunk; he looks at Jim as if Jim is getting deformed ears, big ears as like Dumbo: “Funny what alcohol does to yaw,” he comments. 
       “Ace,” says Jerry, “it looks like you’re getting craters on your nose,” everyone laughs. 
       “Things happen,” Ace says, taking it seriously, a little confused, then laughs with everyone.

        Jerry puts the glass to his lips, opens up his mouth his throat, his eyes wide open, and pours it down, beer and foam and per near a fly, he hears it buzzing, coughs up the beer, the fly was on the rim of the glass, “Damn thing,” he yells. Now cautiously imploring Betty to get a flyswatter and get that critter before he has a heart attack; then came on Gene Pitney’s  ‘Mecca’ and after that ‘Twenty four Hours from Tulsa,’ songs everyone started humming to or tapping their feet to, and Evens doing both.
       Feet and socks, and armpits odors—sweat odors, swirling about and chili smells biting everyone’s nostrils—everyone calling everyone buddy this and buddy that, an inner whirlwind of buddy talk. The music blasting now; it must be Bobby Vee day and Gene Pitney day, the song: “Rubber Ball,” is now being played on the radio, his number one hit.
       ‘My brother likes Jack Scott,” says Evens: a statement more than a question, no one takes notice to his remark, as they pick up cards from the middle of the table, checking their hands out.
#910 (Glass of Beer) 5-22-2012

Friday, May 18, 2012


The first stage in the evolution
of law is personal revenge:
this law has never found its end!
The primitive says:
“I will repay…” thus,
making everyman his own executer!
So the lion takes vengeance
as he is strong enough to take.
The law of retaliation—:
The Roman law
The Code of Hammurabi
The Mosaic Law (an eye for an eye)
It all lurks behind much of today’s laws!
And who wins?
We are all in, the first stage of
#3275   (1-10-2012)


The gray whales are going south: I see their practicalities
They are surly the great pale bulks of hot blood, that
Rise and fall, rise and fall, catching the wind with the sea—
Turning over the deep cold waters!
None of us here, remember our ancestors—this is so?
Those that crawl the earth, they do!
“Get out of the ocean,” I howl, try to tell them,
Time and time again, flukes looking for rainbows—
Like rattlesnakes trying to swim, that’s what I think of
Them; like the birds, I call them stone clouds—
Heavy footed creatures—they’ve taken to the sea, from time
Immemorial, yet they do not belong here, or to us.

There, over there, look, eyes, look, there is a skull of a man looking: these creatures have thoughts and emotions,
Move about with thin cracking bones, white as clouds;
Bones no stronger than eggshells—
Protein eaters, with erratic nerves and brain waves…
He just stares at me, as if I shouldn’t exist; now he’ll
Write something to the effect, “I saw strange things in
My time, one was a Merman,’ but he’ll not scream
It out, lest he alter his image to his comrades.
“Grow fat and die old man,” that is my wisdom for him.
He thinks I’m the devil I bet.
Beware of my teeth, ha, ha, ha…!

I saw a great squid this morning—deep, very deep
Must have weighted ten-thousand pounds—maybe not,
Maybe that’s an exaggeration, perhaps three thousand!
Hiding under the weight of the world to grab me!
To eat me—the slime, like a worm, but slow as
A tree grows, ugly as seaweed; no wiser than a
Dumb mule—mindless, just muddy flesh creeping
In the darkness—he will die soon, greatness in the
Sea Mr. Man, means long life, but death comes to us
Too, tragedies also, our blood will blend into the sea. 
We have our wooded glens, and nostalgic twilights—
Just like you, just different, so don’t be so snobbish.
We don’t have fire that’s about it, but we got the sun
And we got molten rock, volcanic emissions—so put
That in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Man!

He’s looking for his camera I think.
You are no different than a beast, with thoughts, passions
Your horns are hidden inside your heart.
You are more animal than I.
You’d freeze in the ice-cold midwinter waters—turn yellow
That’s how weak you are; perhaps I’m jealous, I’m not sure.
No oxygen down here, just salted water for us monstrous
Beings…we are although made of amino-acids, I think.
I am twenty or thirty years more than one-hundred,
And you are not the first man I saw, but I am the first
Merman you saw, I am a wonder of the world to you.
Unambiguously human, you’re thinking I am, and
Unambiguously sea-creature I must be, —
Should I submerge, before you take that picture?
You really do not know what I am, I see that theory on
Your face, which is no theory…I am the least of the wonders
Of the sea, should you take time to investigate?
Here in the ocean, we do not take sides, like you do, in
War, there are no brawlers here.
Just good and evil, that, which is common among all living
Things—no, we don’t hold our noses and compromise,
Cold minds, we are not Hitler’s here, nor without love, but
For a few of us; no quarrels, for us it is better not to strike
Or if necessary, strike often.

Here I live among stones that have rolled about on the
Floor of the sea for thousands of years, many are unlucky
They end up, with the tides onto the bays of the world,
Along the shore, never again to feel the brush of water:
Picked up by man, for a wall or fence, or house—who’s
To say, it’s all a craving passion for man to own—they love
The tide-wash, that’s what I call it.  They make me neurotic,
The nausea they provide just watching the sea, as if they
Were shepherds, all demagogues?
Go back to your pitiless wars, prepare for them.
Your yachts—go back and hide on your yachts, and say
To your people what great seamen you are;
Feel our fresh air beating against your shoulders, and Drunken faces; I’ve seen many a man fall into the sea,
Look straight into my eyes, want me to save them.
“Death,” I say to them ‘cold and stern death,” I whisper as
Bubbles come out of their mouth, with blood in the
Corners:  I want to be merciful, and even have wanted to save
A few—but I don’t, their eyes say “You have the keys to
The reserves, to allow me to live,” their hot young lives Sinking, sinking, fates of life, who knows what crimes they’ve
Committed on land—they are the meanest minds once you’ve opened them up, save them, yes, I’ve heard tales from a few of my kind, Pale Saints I call them, they think they are the lions of the sea, and they flock around their feet, and drag them on shore, and they wake up thinking a miracle took place. We are intelligent too; we just do not bow to them like

“Okay, okay, take the picture,” he sees me “take the damn
Picture, and get it over with!”
The old man just stands there like a goat. If I tell him to ignore me, he won’t.  Go back to your house, your castle, or
Whatever you call it—shed, slow-witted man!
Go hammer away on the skulls of your beloved friends
Your great ideas how you’ll save the world—
Stupidity! That is what it is, his brains are squeezed, he just
Wants a picture to show his friends down at the bar;
He’s got lopsided shoulders, perhaps other things
Lopsided also—I see the sea-wind makes him shiver,
You’ve got to move that hot blood about, like the whales do!
“SNAP!”  He took the picture. Now forever he’ll be
Impressed, at the bar talking like brattling birds about
The Merman; I will be a inane, ridicules monster to them,
A freak: I am who I am.
Someone will say, some girl “Ah, sad, the poor freak!”
Then someone else will say a mindlessly drunk,
“He made that from shadows,” as if he altered the Photograph—I think they call it special effects.
Shocking green creature like me—they’ll don’t exist, then
The old man will point on the photograph this and that: he’ll point to the starting point of my tiny jaw, my iron gray hair—

If only they knew my tiresome memories, but they don’t care about them, that is what I’d like to tell them of “Waaah!”
Yes, I’d cry out to those nasty man faces, and I’d like to tell them to get rid of those nasty nets and all—I say, with a neurosis way of thinking, I know but it is the only way to say it: “No offense, get rid of the nets, those nasty nets!”
It was not always like this, no, not always, but those good
Days are gone. More people moving west,
For the splintered sunlight I guess.

It is a matter of fact, I have never killed a man, and never
Will, or expect to.
Small squids, more meat!
It is true I feel some kind of dismay for man, discounting Women, I’ve never saw one.
But whales, and sharks, and eels, can make for a concerning
Afternoon, no weak division here: it is their happiness:
They see all life with no scrutinizing of it;
They’re mask in it like crabs in sludge…

So I live, day by day, month to month, year after year, age
To age, I talk to myself, to the moon, the stars. Even to this Man who took a picture of me, some three-hundred feet away,
Old coot, who’s shaking his head—yes, I’m having a
One-way conversation with him that he is unaware of!
I see in far-off distance behind his shed, wild pigs, no
Not really, kids, must be his grandkids he’s looking at them
And then me, I nod my head ‘no’ he understands that, he
Knows I’ll submerge if he does. Let them rattle away
Into the bushes!  That’s what I say.  Talking, talking, I feel
I’m spinning a web, and he thinks he’s dreaming.
Woops, I get the first grin stirring at me,
I want to tell him to ram that grin up his nose! But I would.
He’s just really a pile of bones, old rat pile of bones,
With a fat belly, a foul bulk rolling belly,
He won’t have time to have old memories of me—
Blue sweater, like the sea!

An invisible fire is in his eyes, not sure what they say,
But should I follow my intuition, I’d submerge,
They want to talk to me: My soul can hardly resist, should I?  What do you think? Guess, if I will or will not?
His fists are clinched, he wants to growl,
Swim out and deep into the sea with me,
And I’m only knee high in the water for him.
I crawl up nearly onto the bank, catch my breath,
I’m not sure how long I can remain out here,
This has been the longest of times for me—
I feel like hissing, but I had to—I mean, I’ve always wanted to
One time, just one time, see how long I’d last,
Notice the terrible sameness, these men put up with.
Perhaps even talk to one: what’s intuition anyways!

I could drag his old bones out to sea,
Down into the dark Chasms! 
Then he’d have something to talk about.
Seize him, crush his bones.  I get terrified just thinking
About me doing it: he’s shaking his head for me not to go!
I don’t want an audience.
At the same time, this is somewhat interesting.
Perhaps he thinks he’ll snatch me, not in a thousand
Years, unless he is a lunatic, and has a fit, I’ll jump
Backwards—but I can’t take him down,
My heart’s not in it…

He glances at me awkwardly, like a lizard—
Sneaking up closer: foot by foot!
I used to take some pride in showing off,
I was younger back than, burning with sickness
And show myself to the sailors, and they’d yell
“Look over yonder!”
That was when I moved to the deep-sea depths:
To get away from all that foolishness!…

My roots go back ten-centuries.
If he wants to live like me, he’s crazy; I live in a king’s
Graveyard, sprayed out from end to end
With unmoving nights, lest a cadaverous creature
Detect my sudden coming—
Thus, comes cringing stages, and lack of sleep
In hushed old caves—
There I sink into silence, cross my fins, hope my world
Doesn’t end, that some shark or eel or similar foe
Find my dingy underground room.
I live where my unremembered ancestral have lived.

Yes Mr. Man, on one hand it is a miserable life, in the sea,
Clutches at my sleep, but like your greed and wars
And stories you like to boast about…
We stand and survive in our own putrid environments: 
“Don’t ask a question please!” He wiggled a finger;
Now he looks at his watch.
I wait here, why?

Should I talk to him, I know several languages,
Even his English and his wife’s Spanish…
She looks Spanish,
I’ve seen her in the window several times,
She’s younger than he, calm as winter.
Yes, I’ve come up now and then, she’s seen me I bet,
Respected me, said nothing, otherwise he’d not be so
Surprised—ten years I’ve watched her, no, it’s been twelve!
Did I say I never saw a woman?
I forgot I have, a shadow, she’s just a shadow though.
“Woe, woe, woe!” cries the seagulls in the wind overhead.

I hear my belly, it growls, sick from that sour squid.
There she peeks out the window:
Take him, she says, take him away s I can live in peace—
I can’t read her lips, but if I were her, I’d be saying that,
The old coot, ram rod coot.
He’s a punishment for her, that’s what I say.
I wonder if she’d marry me.
They marry I guess, not like us in the sea.

The dogs behind the house, howl,
Playing with the children, they seem to be on the edge;
I wonder what’s happening way back there.
She’s gone from the window now, I suppose she’s
Wondering too…kick them with a shoe!

Theories, he’s still on theories, whimpering, whining, Mumbling, and groaning for me to take him down;  
Almost praying…a feeble-minded old man,
With sagging flesh, that even the falcons would get tart from!
Married to a pretty wench!
His legs are swollen; he’s a hundred feet from me now.
The sky has changed.
He has some lunatic theory—he’s talking away, as if
Talking to his ear—
I’m starting to cringe, claw my flesh, I should flee—
I’m getting goose bumps, if you know what I mean
Something’s stirring?

He thinks he’s penetrated a mystery, he has a chilly
Intellect, I can say that, it’s getting hard for me to cope here!
My mind’s goes suddenly white,
I drop to my knees, and I’m on sand, he has dragged me onto Sand, what’s he intending to do? What happened?
I stare up, amazed, I feel as if I was struck by a baseball bat.
He’s torn off my arm; I’ll never be able to swim.
Blood is pouring out of me.
The woman is waving behind me,
How did she get her so quick?
The dogs and kids are running down to see.
“No, now think, think straight!”
I’m really going to die, he thinks he can—
The cold blooded Beast!

I cry out, “Help!”
His whisper follows that, “It was an accident,” liar,
He just wants me to be calm, for the children.
He overturns me like an infant, a tossing fish!
I bellow out, “Help! Please help…!”
The blind mindless, old coot—what’s he up to.
He thinks I’m a demon, no just an odd creature.
He’s tying my other hand around my waist,
With his twisted shirt, “Accident,” he repeats,
Then why is he doing what he is doing?
He’s taking another picture of me, for god’s sake,
What is his problem…his game?

Blackness, I’m feeling the dark power moving over me,
I’m falling into a deeper dread, I’ll tumble into death
I know that now.
Again, my sight gets better, but blood is all underneath me,
My blood: I gave him what he wanted, a smile, a moment,
A picture, and now we are old enemies.
My heart bangs with terror.
He’s just standing there, his wife calm as winter, mindless Too; he never did want to go down to the chasm below,
He is feeling joy for his capture—he will boast this evening.
He’ll be in the paper tomorrow.
I am his animal, his prize, his fish.
They are enjoying my obliteration!
“Poor, creature,” I hear one of the kids say,
He whispers back to the child:
“He had an accident, it was better to put him out of his Misery.”

#3351 (5-10-2012)

Note: This story has a tinge of truth to it, Robinson Jeffers, the great poet, once claimed he saw a Merman, off the coast of Carmel, California, and thus, this author, and poet has taken  that as inspiration to write his,  epic style poetic narration.  Also, when he was in Equator, at the main museum in Quito he saw a picture of a Merman that was seen and then drawn, and documented, again,  off the California Coast, sometime during the 1920s, and when the author was in Malta, he  heard stories of them likewise dating back to  the 14th Century, seen by folks living in a large mammoth cave like quarters: a kind of gypsy people of those far-off days.  Thus, again, legend keeps coming up, and so this his extraction from all these experiences, and encounters in his travels.