The Conduit

The man crouches on the rooftop and opens his mind and his mouth and takes in the spirit of the storm. He sends great globs of saliva into the wind. Cold and wet he waits, perched up top the Liberty building, unmoving. Gargoyle.

Moisture churns deep within the body. Wet rain slaps his skin. Painful numbness blackens the lips flesh and toe nails. Lightning flashes. The static makes momentary networks between the rain drops that hang frozen in mid air. Moisture in the air.

This is the brain of the storm. Lightning flashes. The higher ups try to communicate down. “Can you hear?”

“I hear,” breathes the man.  Sleep is unnecessary. God has arrived. The man is equal to the task at hand and puts his life into the storm. He submits.

Prepared for the future the man is open. Playing the gargoyle conduit in the evening storm is the best pleasure the man has known. The weather owns him, and the man is open.

When the storm abides the man retreats to the page where he scribbles late into the morning. Sleep is unnecessary. God has arrived. The man is equal to the task at hand and puts his life into the work. “Here is life,” he thinks, preparing the page. The man plays conduit.


A Passing Crash of Little Consequence

It was just about eleven in the darkness of the car that the visions started. We had taken the wrong road and were cruising down the highway looking for a decent burger when the vision went white. “Jesus, save us,” I cried and slammed on the breaks angling for the guard rail.

We barreled off the side of the mountain through trees with fucking squirrels screaming as we blew through their family homes then came crashing down into a large shrub filled ditch with a little brook running through.

I stumbled out of the wreck and popped in the glass lens of my sunglasses which had popped out.

My passenger had taken a carrot he was munching through the neck and I presumed the worst for him as there was a lot of blood and he didn’t answer my inquiries.

By now the visions were sending my body into fits. I felt my pulse rate drop despite the adrenaline from the crash. I distinctly felt His presence behind me, approaching to comfort me. I knew if I turned around I would hit heaven.

I turned around blazed right through heaven and straight to hell. When I awoke the sun was out, my passenger was still dead, and I had bit my tongue badly so there was blood in my mouth and nose. I spat.

Fingering for a scrap of paper I tried to write down what I saw before the memory faded. He had touched me then, and words fell from my fingertips onto the pad.

Surrounded by trees, but in good health, I burdened myself with the walk back to the road.

The Man of the Sea in the Morning

The man rigs the ship for movement. At night, below deck he sharpens his tools. When the weather is good, he drinks wine. At every coastal port he plants sons. Every opportunity which is his to take, he takes. He penetrates with great purpose when the situation is his. The man exists to be observed. He is a force of nature let loose by God as a clockwork toy. From place to place he travels, a predator of a design not widely made. His existence is to be studied.

At night and especially in the morning when he writes he opens his mind to the possibility that he is the sole author of his past, that he has never existed and before the current moment all was blank. He decides his past and so informs God.

The man has no doubts that he can handle the world. He prays that the world might be prepared for him. He is a man who understands he is under observation and so behaves every action as if his actions are a part in a grand conversation between himself and God.

All the world is God’s expression made directly to him. His will is to remain equal with God in his game.

The man believes every thought, every movement of atom or electron is important enough to be observed. Every thought is a challenge against the grandness of everything.

“God knows my mind,” he says. “I have ordered it for him. If God be displeased, let God reorder my mind. I am open to his sort of talk.”

On the first day the rain passes in sheets. The water moves in air like waves with the sea. In the spaces between sheets of thick falling blocks of water you take great gulps of air.

The rain dies down by dawn. The sky became clear and the sunlight dries the deck. A gull is spotted overhead. The gull drops a crab onto the deck. Kill it and eat it.

The best writers sail above the sea in a ship built of brand, toss down lures heavy with meaning, and sink hooks into the fattest bodies.

The man sailed port wards. He knew it by memory. The man eased the boat into the bay and up the canal and came up alongside the cleats nailed the wood dock strip and leapt off the boat and landed on his bare feet and tied his boat down with a piece of line.

What was out, his rods, his lines, his radio, the man stowed below the deck then made his way up to the dock house and sat down at the bar and ordered liquor.

The man was fit and impressive. Auburn hair spilled over his brow, oiled by sweat and salt crust. Beneath his brow the man was green eyed. His body was tan and ascetic. He was a fascist and believed all things could and should be sculpted by will.

On the beach in the sand his head resting in your land is a man paused with his head laid back and thinking of nothing and everything at once.

“This is an observation of the self,” he says to the sky. “You know me yet only as well as I know myself. Stay silent and watch if you will.”

The man lays still and listens.

It is possible for thoughts to come together all at once in an unusual way. These thoughts are so striking and new and they often come as a result of the surrounding stimuli. Something was off about the place the man was in. He knew at once that these were not human beings that were like him. They were resources provided to him by God for exploitation. All around him something was closing in, an elemental force, a test, an opportunity. The world pressed.

The man knew it as a demand. The challenge was laid bare and must be struck back at with equal fervor if he was to remain equal in the eyes of God.

There beside the piano leaned a woman who the man knew was an opportunity. Her legs stood slightly apart and she listened at a small man who played uplifting songs at the piano at a slow tempo.

The woman pretended to be occupied with the music, but coyly gazed around the room. She was an invitation. This man was an opportunist.

Disaster in all it’s forms, the loss of life, loss of path, loss of meaning, usually can be described as a descent into chaos, and in that regard the man struck disaster. The woman did too, though perhaps she was a programed that way.

“I am me and all is God and here I walk in his shadow and meet the world that is made for me. I am equal to everything besides me.”

When the man reaches equilibrium with God, he is at peace. This is an admirable man, one who accepts a burden worthy of his power.

Many things that start out small and organized grow to be large and organized.

We who make content and value are on a crowded sea. If you would remember me, give a follow.