For What It’s Worth Jack


I can hear the creak they make as they think and shift around in the sunset. They yearn for some relief I suppose, I cant help but laugh a little. but quietly, I don’t want to disturb them. Listen, crying far out into the upper atmosphere, the Earth acts like a giant speaker, something funky or Japanese. Ringing like a great Laser globe. The sand on his feet felt good, his Marijuana was good, she was good. Waiting in the Hut at the edge of the airfield. Just sky above, Blue they said, but he didn’t know what they meant by that at all. Figures in the distance became warped by the heat from the desert floor, they looked twenty feet tall, with huge disjointed heads, desert Khaki and shiny shoes.

Breath deep on the sweet weed, he watches and idly stares into the sun a little through slitted eyes. The rays of lights burst into him, through his eyes, he saw them wheel like golden bars. They drove things into the sky, great cylinders of energy that flew into the blackness above. They put things into great orbits around this globe and now he could kneel in the sand now and grab two great handfuls of that powdered and grounded up rock and take his wide eyes and fill them with the sting of the dirt. A final laugh he suspected to appear on the fringes of his hearing, somewhere quiet like the cold metal of a capsule.

She would not giggle or point fingers, she sat on the Army cot, on the Army blanket winding her hair in her fingers as she watched my episode through the dust and flyblown window. One pane of glass was missing and was papered over with a pornographic photograph. Betty Page tied innocently and beautiful to a chair. She shifted her head slightly and could see him through the thin print perched on Bettys breast as he thought for a while.

Whirl world and gain the energy you need, and he, there knows that the birth is close and the agonies are about to begin. The twisted bowels of the world will sting and bring forth the fruit of the Prophecy. Bitter tears, as salt, as sour as acid feed the pain that starts now, please.

She waits and he plots great universal changes amid the blue smoke and dust and he looks at his foot as a Scorpion scuttles across in a great hurry it seemed, or seems. He settles the odds inside this thing they called a mind and he settled into the moment as an Eel into a dark place. The thoughts never existed anyway, invented things that scuttle as the Scorpion on his foot, idle dreams and fantasies cooked by a thing that did not understand the way of the existence he lead, we lead. Now? What abstractions, what sick things and again he balled his fist tight and white. He resisted the urge to smash that balled rage into the bridge of his nose hard, it will break and his mouth will fill with blood and he will raise those fists to the stars and laugh to challenge himself.

But no, the idle night closed the cobalt skies and he turned to go back inside. There was more work to do, he would start tonight after her of course. He would pour into her and be lost for a moment, he would be gone and she would fly to that place reserved for her alone but as she opened the door a little of that freshest enriched air would waft gently to him and he would breathe it deep.

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