3.09.2005
"They shall see His face, and His name shall be on their foreheads. There shall be no night there: They need no lamp nor light of the sun, for the Lord God gives them light. And they shall reign forever and ever.” Revelation 22:4-5
Walter Metlof never had many friends. This was his problem, not theirs. Walter Metlof was the type of friend who was always asking to borrow money, but would never return the favor.
He had one friend who had stuck by his side through thick and thin. His name was Jeffrey Casseroni, and he was an advertising agent for Penta Tonics, INC., the premier pipe organ and pharmaceutical distributor in the Midwest. Jeffrey had been with the company for seventeen years. He had risen from a peon in the mailroom to the 77th highest-paid employee in the company. Being the 77th highest-paid employee in the company may not sound like much, but considering the 2300 employees in the Southern Division of Penta Tonics, INC., he was quite proud of his position. It was the crown upon his life’s achievements.
One day, June 4th, 1996, to be exact, Walter and his through-thick-and-thin companion Jeffrey were eating sushi as they strolled through Menlo Park in Cataloni, New York. The original Menlo Park was a few hundred miles away. It was there that a certain human being discovered what substance, called a filament, would burn for the longest time in the absence of oxygen. His name was Thomas Edison, and this of course was a wholly different Menlo Park. As Jeffrey finished chewing his last piece of sushi, that is dead, poisonous fish, his amygdala sent out impulses to the rest of his body that made him crave more of this dead, poisonous fish. The amygdala is a part of peoples’ brains that scientists believe controls peoples’ sex drives and food cravings. And so Jeffrey’s amygdala continued sending out sushi-craving impulses, these sushi SOS, until Jeffery could bear it no longer. He turned to his stingy friend-of-a-lifetime and gently asked, “Hey, Walt, could I borrow a couple of bucks to get some more sushi?”
Jeffrey probably should’ve known better than to ask a monetary favor of Mr. Walter Metlof. After all, he had known him his entire life, and he knew full-well how he would likely react. But Jeffrey’s amygdala was a force to be reckoned with, and as the small Japanese immigrant pushed his sushi cart around a bend in the path ahead, Jeffrey had finally caved in. Not even Walter’s mother could have predicted his response.
“What’s the matter with you, Jeffrey? Do you think I’m Bill Gates or something?” Bill Gates is the richest man in the world. He owns a whole lot of paper-thin slivers of silicon. Walter continued, “Money doesn’t grow on trees!” Money, however, does grow if placed in the stock market or private bank accounts. This is due to the effects of compound interest, which makes money act like sexually-active rabbits. This sexual-activity of money is so strong that Albert Einstein said of it, “compound interest is the most powerful force in the universe.” Wow. The universe is a big place.
Jeffrey tried to mumble an apology, but Walter continued yelling and hollering about money and how hard his life had been. Suddenly, he stopped yelling and approached the mumbling, downcast Jeffrey. He grabbed the collar of Jeffrey’s tan trenchcoat and pulled their faces very close together. “Take that,” he whispered, very menacingly.
As it turns out, Jeffrey felt the sting of a switchblade protruding into his stomach at the very moment which Walter had leaned in and so menacingly whispered, “Take that.” The switchblade had come from Walter’s pants pocket. He had shoved it in there after he bought it in a pawn shop at the corner of Atlantic Avenue and Desoto Parkway. The pawn shop was actually owned by a distant relative of the sushi-cart vendor. They shared a common great, great uncle, who had crossed the vast and treacherous Pacific Ocean sometime during the 1890s, around the time Thomas Edison was tinkering with his filaments. His thinking at the time was to do more with his life than sell pawned goods or dead, poisonous fish. Walter’s thinking at the time, nearly a century later, of buying the switchblade that was now in Jeffrey, had been to use the weapon for defense, in case any young ruffians ever decided to jump him in a back alleyway. The crime rate was on the rise in Cataloni, as it was in much of the United States of America, and Walter thought it best to play things safe. He never would have imagined that he might stab Jeffrey with the thing.
Jeffrey didn’t know it was a switchblade, of course, nor was he aware of the distant connection between the object of his amygdala’s desire and the object of his mortal wound. He was actually quite confused as to what had happened. Who would expect to be stabbed by their best friend over a few dollars? Nonetheless, Walter ran off behind a row of evergreen shrubs, leaving Jeffrey by himself to decide what that tingling sensation was, and then what to do about the very sharp wedge of stainless steel that had violently invaded his digestive tract. The small Japanese sushi-cart vendor had stopped for a moment before rounding the bend in the path ahead. He watched from a distance as Jeffrey Casseroni collapsed into a pool of his own blood, right there in the center of Menlo Park, Cataloni, New York.
it is surprising and beautiful to see the face of a grandparent as they pour over pictures and scrapbooks--pour it over them like a warm shower--and to see the mouth coiling into a smile, and the eyes glistening with recognition and memories.
they catch a glimpse of the mess they’ve made--the beautiful, exquisite mess of people and experiences. enough people to fill a small empire. they share blood and intermingled stories. there is more history dwelling in and produced by them than every textbook ever published. and a grandparent has experienced the ultimate scope of being alive: child upon child upon grandchild, multiple geographies, the honor and freshness of age, poverty and riches, simplicity and microchips. they KNOW and yet still breathe.
in photographs, letters, and memoirs, they can remember again and discover anew the vastness and complexity of the universe their love has created. how much damage has been done? only this: they shaped a world, and then transcended it to pieces by their lives.
in the mirror is the Fall,
blatant and smoldering.
within my mirror slithers
the rebellion of archangels,
the pride of Pharisees,
a suicide the size of galaxies.
a true Serpent’s child
flickers on the thin glass.
I Am the action of sin.
my breath is depravity
and my heartbeat,
it drives spikes into lumber,
through my Savior’s wrists.
this is the reflection of him
who murdered my father,
my lover, my advocate.
for all the grandest
spectacles of death,
hatred, lust and despair,
none can rival the
criminal that stands
before me in this
fractured and rusting
mirror.
it hurts to look people in the face,
for there is shame
in merely living, breathing, thinking.
as i walk into a sanctuary of playing cards,
it is transformed
into a gallows for my ankles.
upside-down, swinging-
the more you know the more you hurt.
all of life’s deepest joys
are tainted by this wretched face.
oh scent of death, fainting existence--
what good is drinking life
into a corpse?
i would not touch that wineglass,
nor any other thing,
for touching would be murder.
but dead men have no will
to withhold their hands.
thus, in touching,
i will suffer the sentence;
unavoidable, inescapable verdict;
of plaguing guilt for all my smoldering days.
Truth
a vacuum within a vacuum will suck
only more emptiness from absence.
a vacuum within a vacuum will find
for its appetites no substance but nothing.
this world, a vacuum, gives no response
to my unaimed, unsharpened pleas.
two mirrors, staring into each other,
see no face or reflection. and so
i eternally gaze, desperate for sight,
and remain eternally blind.
though i am in it, it is empty.
i hurl bricks through an empty windowframe,
listening for the rescue of a shatter.
there is none. never has been.
speak thou of options, after the option,
in a black fit, has already been taken?
when liberating choices thou hast previous made,
thou speaks in disowning shock at unbidden slavery,
or worse, in deliberate and custody-banishing hate
to a parasite thou fastened upon thy own belly.
doest thou invite invasion to midnight tea,
but to quail at thy kingdom’s occupation?
you who beg rights of possession to thyself,
and consider thy body’s blossom but a choice:
i would that thou assume thy ownership
before the silver, lethal daggers do pierce,
before the detection of pleasure’s corollary,
even before the cathartic dusk of conception--
in youth, fill the cradle of thy head,
and honor the sacred womb of thy soul,
that thou has no cause to pluck a child,
a flower, from its defenseless plot,
nor opportunity to hear on lonely nights,
that rocking, the rocking of an empty crib.
enter me like a fierce glowing sun
surrounds a glacier.
embroider yours words onto my
shirtsleeves.
i will hoist up the timbers
and see small crucifixes
scalded into the backs of my hands.
when i breath in and breathe out,
supply and diffuse this holy wind
into and out of my lungs.
my gifts will be given with a
jewel of blood on their tops,
and all people, in touching me,
will taste of you.
move me like an earthquake
shakes a pebble.
pierce me as a worm to
its cocoon.
cover me as a hurricane
above an island reef.
enter me.
Walter Metlof never had many friends. This was his problem, not theirs. Walter Metlof was the type of friend who was always asking to borrow money, but would never return the favor.
He had one friend who had stuck by his side through thick and thin. His name was Jeffrey Casseroni, and he was an advertising agent for Penta Tonics, INC., the premier pipe organ and pharmaceutical distributor in the Midwest. Jeffrey had been with the company for seventeen years. He had risen from a peon in the mailroom to the 77th highest-paid employee in the company. Being the 77th highest-paid employee in the company may not sound like much, but considering the 2300 employees in the Southern Division of Penta Tonics, INC., he was quite proud of his position. It was the crown upon his life’s achievements.
One day, June 4th, 1996, to be exact, Walter and his through-thick-and-thin companion Jeffrey were eating sushi as they strolled through Menlo Park in Cataloni, New York. The original Menlo Park was a few hundred miles away. It was there that a certain human being discovered what substance, called a filament, would burn for the longest time in the absence of oxygen. His name was Thomas Edison, and this of course was a wholly different Menlo Park. As Jeffrey finished chewing his last piece of sushi, that is dead, poisonous fish, his amygdala sent out impulses to the rest of his body that made him crave more of this dead, poisonous fish. The amygdala is a part of peoples’ brains that scientists believe controls peoples’ sex drives and food cravings. And so Jeffrey’s amygdala continued sending out sushi-craving impulses, these sushi SOS, until Jeffery could bear it no longer. He turned to his stingy friend-of-a-lifetime and gently asked, “Hey, Walt, could I borrow a couple of bucks to get some more sushi?”
Jeffrey probably should’ve known better than to ask a monetary favor of Mr. Walter Metlof. After all, he had known him his entire life, and he knew full-well how he would likely react. But Jeffrey’s amygdala was a force to be reckoned with, and as the small Japanese immigrant pushed his sushi cart around a bend in the path ahead, Jeffrey had finally caved in. Not even Walter’s mother could have predicted his response.
“What’s the matter with you, Jeffrey? Do you think I’m Bill Gates or something?” Bill Gates is the richest man in the world. He owns a whole lot of paper-thin slivers of silicon. Walter continued, “Money doesn’t grow on trees!” Money, however, does grow if placed in the stock market or private bank accounts. This is due to the effects of compound interest, which makes money act like sexually-active rabbits. This sexual-activity of money is so strong that Albert Einstein said of it, “compound interest is the most powerful force in the universe.” Wow. The universe is a big place.
Jeffrey tried to mumble an apology, but Walter continued yelling and hollering about money and how hard his life had been. Suddenly, he stopped yelling and approached the mumbling, downcast Jeffrey. He grabbed the collar of Jeffrey’s tan trenchcoat and pulled their faces very close together. “Take that,” he whispered, very menacingly.
As it turns out, Jeffrey felt the sting of a switchblade protruding into his stomach at the very moment which Walter had leaned in and so menacingly whispered, “Take that.” The switchblade had come from Walter’s pants pocket. He had shoved it in there after he bought it in a pawn shop at the corner of Atlantic Avenue and Desoto Parkway. The pawn shop was actually owned by a distant relative of the sushi-cart vendor. They shared a common great, great uncle, who had crossed the vast and treacherous Pacific Ocean sometime during the 1890s, around the time Thomas Edison was tinkering with his filaments. His thinking at the time was to do more with his life than sell pawned goods or dead, poisonous fish. Walter’s thinking at the time, nearly a century later, of buying the switchblade that was now in Jeffrey, had been to use the weapon for defense, in case any young ruffians ever decided to jump him in a back alleyway. The crime rate was on the rise in Cataloni, as it was in much of the United States of America, and Walter thought it best to play things safe. He never would have imagined that he might stab Jeffrey with the thing.
Jeffrey didn’t know it was a switchblade, of course, nor was he aware of the distant connection between the object of his amygdala’s desire and the object of his mortal wound. He was actually quite confused as to what had happened. Who would expect to be stabbed by their best friend over a few dollars? Nonetheless, Walter ran off behind a row of evergreen shrubs, leaving Jeffrey by himself to decide what that tingling sensation was, and then what to do about the very sharp wedge of stainless steel that had violently invaded his digestive tract. The small Japanese sushi-cart vendor had stopped for a moment before rounding the bend in the path ahead. He watched from a distance as Jeffrey Casseroni collapsed into a pool of his own blood, right there in the center of Menlo Park, Cataloni, New York.
it is surprising and beautiful to see the face of a grandparent as they pour over pictures and scrapbooks--pour it over them like a warm shower--and to see the mouth coiling into a smile, and the eyes glistening with recognition and memories.
they catch a glimpse of the mess they’ve made--the beautiful, exquisite mess of people and experiences. enough people to fill a small empire. they share blood and intermingled stories. there is more history dwelling in and produced by them than every textbook ever published. and a grandparent has experienced the ultimate scope of being alive: child upon child upon grandchild, multiple geographies, the honor and freshness of age, poverty and riches, simplicity and microchips. they KNOW and yet still breathe.
in photographs, letters, and memoirs, they can remember again and discover anew the vastness and complexity of the universe their love has created. how much damage has been done? only this: they shaped a world, and then transcended it to pieces by their lives.
in the mirror is the Fall,
blatant and smoldering.
within my mirror slithers
the rebellion of archangels,
the pride of Pharisees,
a suicide the size of galaxies.
a true Serpent’s child
flickers on the thin glass.
I Am the action of sin.
my breath is depravity
and my heartbeat,
it drives spikes into lumber,
through my Savior’s wrists.
this is the reflection of him
who murdered my father,
my lover, my advocate.
for all the grandest
spectacles of death,
hatred, lust and despair,
none can rival the
criminal that stands
before me in this
fractured and rusting
mirror.
it hurts to look people in the face,
for there is shame
in merely living, breathing, thinking.
as i walk into a sanctuary of playing cards,
it is transformed
into a gallows for my ankles.
upside-down, swinging-
the more you know the more you hurt.
all of life’s deepest joys
are tainted by this wretched face.
oh scent of death, fainting existence--
what good is drinking life
into a corpse?
i would not touch that wineglass,
nor any other thing,
for touching would be murder.
but dead men have no will
to withhold their hands.
thus, in touching,
i will suffer the sentence;
unavoidable, inescapable verdict;
of plaguing guilt for all my smoldering days.
Truth
a vacuum within a vacuum will suck
only more emptiness from absence.
a vacuum within a vacuum will find
for its appetites no substance but nothing.
this world, a vacuum, gives no response
to my unaimed, unsharpened pleas.
two mirrors, staring into each other,
see no face or reflection. and so
i eternally gaze, desperate for sight,
and remain eternally blind.
though i am in it, it is empty.
i hurl bricks through an empty windowframe,
listening for the rescue of a shatter.
there is none. never has been.
speak thou of options, after the option,
in a black fit, has already been taken?
when liberating choices thou hast previous made,
thou speaks in disowning shock at unbidden slavery,
or worse, in deliberate and custody-banishing hate
to a parasite thou fastened upon thy own belly.
doest thou invite invasion to midnight tea,
but to quail at thy kingdom’s occupation?
you who beg rights of possession to thyself,
and consider thy body’s blossom but a choice:
i would that thou assume thy ownership
before the silver, lethal daggers do pierce,
before the detection of pleasure’s corollary,
even before the cathartic dusk of conception--
in youth, fill the cradle of thy head,
and honor the sacred womb of thy soul,
that thou has no cause to pluck a child,
a flower, from its defenseless plot,
nor opportunity to hear on lonely nights,
that rocking, the rocking of an empty crib.
enter me like a fierce glowing sun
surrounds a glacier.
embroider yours words onto my
shirtsleeves.
i will hoist up the timbers
and see small crucifixes
scalded into the backs of my hands.
when i breath in and breathe out,
supply and diffuse this holy wind
into and out of my lungs.
my gifts will be given with a
jewel of blood on their tops,
and all people, in touching me,
will taste of you.
move me like an earthquake
shakes a pebble.
pierce me as a worm to
its cocoon.
cover me as a hurricane
above an island reef.
enter me.
| # posted by Ryan Weberling @ 10:12 AM 
