Just One Minute

Saturday, March 15

From WorldCom, an Amazing View of a Bloated Industry. We now know in quantifiable, stupefying terms, just how much WorldCom overpaid for the telecommunications network it built. By Gretchen Morgenson. New York Times: Technology

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Circles Unbroken

Side by side America marches to work,

properly attired, stiff shirt and tie,

they maintain the lie. Dressed in blue, gray an occasional green, all looking the same.

Onward in battle with the world, drowning in the swirl. Individuality,

surgically removed, each faces looks, all fail to see.

Try to be different, they manufacture it, be yourself, they dilute it,

place it in pills, push it over the counter 33 cents each or 3 for a dollar.

If you can't pick up, they deliver.

finally alone and sheltered, a moment of peace, a taste of ease, the phone rings.

Regional headquarters demands a change,

somebody must be blamed.

Effortlessly, you toss a name, it ends somebodies life, but so goes the game.

The working day over, America marches home,

complaining about life, longing to be tree, setting down for dinner and then T.V.

Fire

Despite my doubt, I can't escape, the loneliness, that comes about when away,

grows day by day memory holds me in suspense, keeps me on defense despite my

bout, I can't live without. So, I live within no man's land. Believe me you, it is, what

exactly I wish you knew. Nightfall, trumpeted by Northern winds proclaims the

westward fading, wasting little time announcing its arrival.

Would fire but ward upright man from right down glands, the breast aprowling

through the night, breath warmth into chilled stones, in hope that millions of years

of darkness, naked nature the beast before the light burned bright, could be staved

off one night more.

Sunset Rising

Chapter 2

May day fell on a Sunday, Christian's and Communist held separate but equal festivities, in separate but equal corners of the world, with separate but equal memories, in equal but separate realities - a day of prayer and arms, butter and guns, an ancient Christ - a dying Marx.

In the streets not far from the rescue mission, in the bloody part of a decomposing city, an unshaven man draped in the worn and mismatched uniform of the displaced began to stir from an artificial slumber. Slowly, he raised his head from the pavement, stretched out his hands, pushed himself up to a sitting position, and in a hoarse whisper sputtered, "Thisbe, Thisbe, where's the bottle?"

The young woman, shivering in the shadows, ostensibly no more than seventeen of the twenty four years claimed, pushed back her hair with an upward motion of her hands then rolled to a squatting position and exclaimed, "You know damn well, we finished it." Adding in a voice of harsh distaste, years inner rage, "As usual you guzzled down the biggest share."

The man seemed not to hear or if hearing, not to understand, if understanding, not to believe. He stood, wobbled, slipped and fell, stood again, pulled out his pockets, shifted through the rubble on the ground, in search of last nights libations, 'till he turned up the remaining dregs from an all but empty pint. "Bitch," he shrieked, "Damn bitch, you been holding out."

Thisbe coiled congeneric to a slug, protecting herself as best she could. With barely audible defiance, she issued a muffled plea "I was saving it for after the mission. You know how thirsty you get singing them hymns. Besides, first thing in the morning, you can't keep nothing down."

Jake drained the bottle gasping breathlessly, in between gulps, "Get us another. Use your assets. Hell, that's all your good for anyway. Go find some upright citizen and lay him down and don't let 'em pay you trash. I want twenty five dollars, no less. Do you hear me?"

"Jake can't we have breakfast first?"

"I've had breakfast, now I've a mind for lunch."

"Jake, if I'm going to get some money, I'll need to wash up. They've water at the mission."

"You look fine to me."

"And how much you gonna pay?"

"I don't pay I just take. Pull them down! Come on bitch, assume the fucking position."

Thisbe's jeans slid slowly down to the ground, her knees met the cold gray concrete, her hands moved to support the added weight, her bare buttocks swaying in response to Jake's unromantic thrust. Her mind recoiled and sought solace in memories of better times. The images were heartlessly vague, bleakly undefined. Nothingness, mind blank numb, nothingness. The rising and falling of her heartbeat the only sound.

"Run, Run, Run", her mind urged. She could not. She didn't know where to run or to what. "Fear", she told herself, "she could live with", it was something one becomes accustomed to "like and old friend.~. All the while, patches of memories kept fading in, just beyond her level of consciousness, kept saying otherwise, offering not the comfort of familiarity, only the promise - no, the threat of something sinister.

Eternity might have come and gone elsewhere - here nothing, a walking void, emptied silence, deafening stillness. The sun, not yet visible, the chill not yet gone, day struggling in its eternal battle against the night. The yellow orb dipping and bowing hesitantly across the sky, skimming over the horizon like cobbles gliding atop a shimmering stream - dancing, rejoicing, jubilantly nimble in its phosphorescent unshading - the chronic antecedent of celestial migration. Even the surrounding buildings seemed to fluctuate with each lunge, like a kaleidoscope - blisterously inviting, surrounding you with promise, majestic heights, entrapping you - all the while, waiting to survive yet another temporal intrusion. Confident that the second, marking man's time, would soon be spent in the flash of a sleeping night's eye.

Her mind fought to turn away, only to find herself staring back like a reflection in a mirror, not as clean, slightly cracked and more than a bit weather worn. Little by little the dim memories became clearer as if a drug like haze, a haze that had ensnared her mind through distortion and dissolution was slowly and all too frightfully evaporating. In fear lay refuge, in memories lurked guilt. In between? Madness dwelt.

Jake, quivering with a deep guttural cough, inserted and withdrew without the slightest warmth or thought to the girl he once again marked, blindly expending his rage against the shadows. In. Out. In. Fucking all who he imagined, had ever slapped his face, only an occasional word escaping from his lips, "Kill... all... upstanding... bastards... almighty... pompous... who... think... are...." With each utterance he forced his penis in deeper, at each silence he withdrew, 'till finally, his energy spent, he spun her around ordering, "Now, do what you do best."

Thisbe, mechanically kneeling, slowly flicked her tongue, and prepared herself for the driving lunge that was yet to come. Then, giving way to the force, her head fell back against the unforgiving ground, her throat burned, as the slimy substance spurted and slipped within. Another day begun.

Jake, while pissing against the wall, taunted, "Now, you've had breakfast too. Go, suck up a bottle and be back soon." Struck by his own humor he began laughing, "Be back soon, be back soon." He shook so hard, the urine ran across his pants, soaking his jeans. "That makes me Fagan and you, the Dodger." Then, throwing the empty bottle towards her head, "Dodge this. Hell, Come on, we'll stop at the mission. You're right, you do need cleaning."

They moved swiftly and with great skill, through the quagmire of dilapidated buildings, avoiding notice not through guile but neglect, neglect of those in authority to pay heed to those without voice or bureaucratic influence. Twice they were spotted, twice dismissed, as nothing more than a deformity, a blight - a necessary dumping ground. The rags of poverty invoked a cloak of invisibility, allowing them to walk amongst the world a faceless void, unknown, unseen, unwanted.

In front of the Mission, on either side of the steps, stood towering statues, gifts to the community from some near to well gooder. One, depicted Prometheus triumphantly holding aloft his gift of fire, while the other, displayed him bound to Mount Caucasus, muscles spent, body bent, a vulture feasting in his flesh. Thisbe and Jake gave neither statue a second thought.

The doors parted and Thisbe buoyantly ascended the stairs, past her barrier of fear, carrying her one suitcase, with its two wheels gone, back towards the showers, away from the gawking penniless men, stopping only to snatch the microscopic bar of soap and miniature towel the caretakers dispensed, immersing herself under the hot running water of the shower stalls - laboring to wash away the foul stench. It lingered yet.

Jake was waiting for her. He had saved her a spot at the table. He motioned to her as she emerged. ''Here honey, over here." As she sat down, he continued, "Well aren't you a sight.

If I know'd you could look that good I might have taken it more slowly. Can't be helped now, but you wear that next time and

I'll really show you a time. Where did you get that outfit? You been spending my dimes?"

"You said I needed cleaning up."

"Yes and don't you look fine." Then grasping her wrist he repeated, "Where did you get it? Don't give me no shit."

"Let go, you're hurting me."

"Couldn't have that."

"Let go you bastard or you'll never get your wine. That's better. Don't get so bent out of shape, I ain't been spending money on clothes. These are ones I've always had. I've just been saving them for a special time - when I felt a mess and needed some cheering up. Honestly, Jake, I wouldn't lie. You've seen them before. Just too plastered to remember."

"Well okay, honey, I certainly hope you're telling the truth. But, no matter, looking like that you might even cop the big time. Yes sir, I believe your price just climbed the rung. Let's get to work, poppy's getting awful thirsty."

You promised we would eat first."

"Never did."

"Jake, I have to eat, men don't like women who's bellies rumble."

"I ain't ever heard that."

"Please, Jake."

"All right you eat, while I go see if I can roundup spare change. I'll be wait'n in the park. Don't you come back 'till you've earned something with that pretty ass. Now, don't you go get fat. No additions to the family"

As Jake exited, the director of the mission reached the pulpit. Here the piper was paid in advance. As the media lights came on, the minister dressed in white coat and dark tie, descended from the choir steps, microphone in one hand, bible in the other. A tall man of about thirty five he surveyed the crowd with his bright phosphorescent smile and with a whisper, invited all to draw within.

"Brothers," he said, "I am so glad you could be with us today and I know that the Lord is ecstatic as well. In His name I, the Reverend Janus Biton, welcome you, to this moment, this place, this incarnation, this epoch, this terraqueous globe - in our shared humanity.

I ask that each of us recall that life is more than procreating eating, breathing, more than working 'till worn out and replaced - that life is found by sharing the good news, the Saviour has come. My friends, we are here through the grace of God to live - not just for the moment but everlastingly. Many of us knew this once and many of us, in our forgetfulness, now despair.

Be mindful that taking without thought' without worship is not without cost. Consider Prometheus and the factors that caused him, to provoke the wrath of Jove. See that his sin against Jove was not that he performed his task too well - but his ingratitude and impiety.

Reflect on the vulture devouring his liver, relieve coming in the seconds the vulture soars before returning to the renew its feast. Look at Prometheus with the torch held aloft, see Prometheus as he revel'.s in the gift he brings - then center your attention on the price his pride was forced to pay.

Know that our Lord, the Son of Jove loved, triumphed, suffered too, yet He never lost the love of his Father - because He never forgot to give back that same honor and love.

May the time come when we, who have been passed this torch are again willing to take the flame to our hearts. May we always recognize the ever present vulture and in noting, be mindful that our call to eternity comes not when the torch is raised high but when our feet are chained to the mountain of our day and we do not forsake our charge and do not fail to give ~he Lord God his due.

See the light and fear not the vulture." Basking in the warmth of his own words, the minister moved from the center of the room, pausing briefly to exchange greetings with his makeshift flock. Thisbe was angled in her chair in such a way that Janus seeing her dressed in the ,Hessalinan manner excused himself from the crowd and approached.

"Well little one," he inquired, "Have you heard the good news?"

"The only thing I've heard is my stomach grumble."

The Reverend motioned for Thisbe to attend. "Come with me, we'll see what we can do."

As a they reached his limousine, Thisbe, thought, "Easy money." but she asked, "Where we going? I haven't ate yet."

"Don t worry, I'll see that you don't starve."

"Just as long as you know I'm not doing anything ~till after I eat. You got anything to drink?"

"My dear child! What is your name child?"

"Thisbe, and I'm no child."

"All right, Thisbe, have it your way. My dear lady!'

"I'm no lady neither. You tell me what you want, I'll say how much."

"Can't you carry yourself with a little more decorum?"

"If that's what turns you on - but it will cost extra."

"Thisbe money is not an issue."

"Maybe that's so, if you happen to have some. What about breakfast and that drink? I haven't got all day."

''I thought you said your time was negotiable."

"What are we talking about?"

"We'll play that by ear."

"I'm not cheap."

"And I, ain't broke."

The trail seemed endless, down, down, down - down through twisted bramble, tall broken pines, down through parched land, caked and cracked, down through monstrous oaks so thickly laced that but a speck of light shone through.

Just One Minute - more

Saturday, March 15

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