Tag: “Bob”

Cult of the Hidden Joke.

Me and Mr. Jones

OUR TALE BEGINS SOME YEARS ago at my then-girlfriend’s folks’ house, specifically at their “hutch” — a giant, glass-shelved cabinet filled with such sentimental knickknacks and keepsakes as a commemorative Shirley Temple mug, souvenir spoons, porcelain bells, and the “good china.”

One item in particular caught my eye; a four-and-a-half-inch angular statuette, injection-molded of some heavy material superficially resembling carved wood: a pedestal-mounted figure in black boots and cabbie cap, brown trousers, blue coat, red shirt. And its face — dear God, its face. Continue reading “Me and Mr. Jones”

Sales Experience Necessary

IT HAS LONG BEEN PROPOSED in some circles that, in order to build a better class of citizens, we need some sort of national-service program along the lines of an in-house Peace Corps or revamped Works Progress Administration. “Give people the tools to literally build the country they live in,” goes the argument, “and they will obtain a greater sense of national ownership, pride, and responsibility.”

Not a bad idea, that. Here’s another:

“Everyone should work retail for a year. Especially during the holiday rush.”

I’m not joking. Continue reading “Sales Experience Necessary”

Fable, With Apocalypse

IN THE MIDDLE OF A flat grey wasteland, under a grey streaky sky, a handful of figures warm themselves at a snapping fire.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

One of the figures has turned to gape across the waste: a vast landscape of broken dryers and tumbledown swingsets, with here and there half a gas station or bowling alley.

“Don’t do that,” says the speaker. He takes the gaper and turns him tenderly toward the flames to warm his hands again.

“Thanks.”

“It’s why I’m here. And that” — a sweeping arm — “is why that’s there. The wasteland is only good for wasting you.”

“Thanks again.”

“Don’t mention it. Just keep your hands warm. Even when you’re the last one here.”

Ozone; or, The Horror Upstairs

WHEN A MAN HAS GIVEN his life to science, even to the naked edge of that science, he is expected to be vocal about it. And if others choose not to listen, well … perhaps they won’t have the nightmares, the persistent phobias, that I do.

My name is Howard Philips. I came to this city because it offered better opportunities for a dreaming poet and erudite antiquarian than did the sprawling, soulless suburbs. I dwelt in a squalid flat near the docks, one of the city’s older neighborhoods. The pre-century architecture and furtive residents suited my mood; the diverse faces of the passing crowds inspired me to tell (or invent) their stories in free verse and rhyme.

My building seemed to have stood forever, as evidenced by its worn-down hallway carpeting; shabby lighting; and close, dank air. Its most reclusive tenant lived directly above me. I never met or even saw him, but the loud and incessant hum from his apartment – an untuned wireless? droning rotary fan? Failing air-conditioner? – disturbed my creative meditations. When I tried to complain to him, my intermittent knocking brought no response.

Then, one day, the noise ceased. Continue reading “Ozone; or, The Horror Upstairs”

Stellar Blues

do the stars know the names
by which we call them?

we,
the hubristic and temporary,
label the unthinkably ancient
with quick mouth sounds
and fading pen-scratches.

will they mourn
when we are gone?

would they say:

“nice try, two-legs;
you had one chance
at planetary survival
and missed it
by not paying attention.”

would but those who did pay
had more power than
only the will
to shout

stop

and make it stick.

For Franz Kafka

THE OLD WOMAN SAT, SOFTLY singing, on a blue wooden chair in the vast cobbled square, rippling a carpet of birds with each cast of her seedful hand.

Tall jagged buildings loomed on all four sides — blocky and black-windowed, granite-yellow in the light of the dying sun, their shadows not quite lengthened to cover her frail red-shawled form. The air was cold her cheeks red as the birds fought for dried corn and cracker crumbs.

A tall man strode toward her — dark blue and broadshouldered, cap visor shading all but his dour mouth.

She rolled with the blow which sent her sprawling.

Fluttering clucks roared, arose, the birds swept round and round him. He raised his arms, alarmed; they were wings and he dwindled, his voice now one chirp among hundreds.

She felt herself, sighed, and satisfied, arose; then shifted her shawl and sat, singing softly, scattering seeds.

Participatory Solipsism

I am the greatest man in the world; indeed I am so great that I can afford great generosity: I encourage all others to adopt the delusion that they are as great as I. If they truly thought that they were themselves the greatest, they too would be as generous; and then we would all be able to humor each other, in peace, for none would feel threatened by the now-harmless delusions of everyone else.”
— Dr. Philo Drummond (Now go thou and do likewise.)

Too Bad

“WE PASSED THROUGH SEVERAL HUNDRED media-transmission shells on our way in,” the communications officer said. “Of course, we were eager to see who had made them.”

By the pale light of a flickering viewscreen, the captain’s expression was thoughtful. “I can see why,” she told the communications officer. “Judging by their cities and transportation networks, they built big and dreamed bigger.”

“Indeed. They even made entertaining fictions about lives on other worlds, in other times. Some were quite remarkable.”
Continue reading “Too Bad”

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