The Insufferable Camel Walk (1998)

  

The sun was low, per near on top of us, a grueling inferno, the air stagnant, in the city of Cairo, in Egypt, it was my third day, no wind, other than a puff now and then. Solomon, whom was the head bellboy, about my age, 51-years old, he and his brother, Herc, whom I nicknamed after Hercules, he was so strong, I hired to take me to the Camel Market, outside of Cairo, some forty miles. It was his day off, so it worked out well.  His old Chevy, whirled down this long dusty dirt road picking up light dust and sand along the way, the tires wheeling and tossing it in our faces from our open windows. It was 107 F. In the distance was the pyramids and sphinx at Giza. Two days ago I had been in the pyramid of Khafra. The Great pyramid was closed for repairs. I had entered down into an empty rock-cut chamber.  Khafra is built on higher ground, looks taller than the Great Pyramid, but it is just appearance. From Solomon’s house you get a great view of dynasty pyramid temples.

        But what I was about to say is here we are driving down this long road about forty miles outside of Cairo, it is 107 F., open windows,  the ground seemingly giving back all the heat it absorbed from the sun, even the tires on the car are hot has hell.  The front windshield, gives a glare from the rays of the sun, the window glass radiates a kind of shimmering blinding waves of diversions, bendings or refractions. On both sides of the road, as we rode down this dusty and dirt way  there were many camel drivers, bringing their camels to the market, some paused in the sweltering heat to get a rest, drink water, see the car, our car, coming down the road, soon to pass them. Many of the camel owners have driven their camels to exhaustion, many dying dead on both sides of the road, about half a dozen lying dead!

       The dead, and the soon to be dead, their spines looked rocky. Their humps leaning over like old women’s breasts. I stared out of the back window in a groggy wonderment at this insufferable puzzle; saying to my mind’s eye, ‘Why bring camels to the camel market to sell, only to watch them die on the way?’

      

At the market it was surrounded by a white adobe (or mud brick) eighteen inch wall. Per near perfectly square, and perhaps a third a mile wide, and on both sides, men, within this walled bizarre market of sorts, were selling, and trading. The ground was lined with numerous pits, and the sun hotter than a machinegun’s barrel, shooting at full blast. To peer through the flickering heat-wave, my face sore and sunburnt, I was still mindful of those dead half dozen camels on the road leading up to the market. Yet I remained unspoken of it, knowing Solomon and his brother, took it as normal.  Knowing one sees strange things in different cultures that are simply a way of life for its people, no rhyme or reason for it.

       I felt a bit depressed, I mean this was not the work of nature, but of indolence, on behalf of the owner, and if not, what then? Greed?  He just lost a selling item because he didn’t want to rest the animal, or feed or water him.  Whatever the reason it would remain an unexplained mystery.

       I, along with Solomon and his brother, walked about the market, looking into stalls, and stopping to nod our heads now and then at folks selling, it all was a growing sense of strangeness and mystery to me, and it seemed everyone was blinded to a kinder care of the animal.  Solomon explained they tie up one leg of the camel so he can’t run away. And there he stands, or falls to the ground, on three legs, when he gets too tired of standing. A beast of burden. I even told my second self, perchance, everyone’s brain here is affected by the sun; but that was of course a cruel observation, criticism, until you walk a distance in their shoes, who’s to say!   And to be frank, myself being a poet, I’ve come to the conclusion, trying to reason something’s out, only inflicts wounds.

Note:  My most recent story “The Insufferable Camel Walk,” (#1153) written September 16, 2016, at 1:00 a.m., dedicated to Domenico, who was born September, 16, 2016, at 8:30 a.m. 7.5 hours later, to my Godchild,    Ximena Herrera.

Two Branches Full of Variant Petals (Rain will Fall)

Two Branches Full of

Variant Petals (Rain will Fall)

Sharla & Sheryl—7-2016

“My ways are not your ways,” says the Lord.

And I say, ‘It will rain’

thus,

forget about what you know,

and try to understand what you don’t know—

The purpose of man is to study man;

and so it can be for women!

All of course mixed with other things, present:

and past, perchance in times yet to come…!

There is that other world that other persons

live in—

The eyes become the extension of the brain—

So this poem should express: thoughts we

have not yet thought, as with my two nieces

whom have come afar to visit me!

Those thoughts, now visible bodies, with eyes

and ears, have lived through the rain.

They have become a new and unusual, exciting

volume for my life, perhaps I for theirs

likewise!

Is it not true, this is the tip of the tail, for life?

Not to be disingenuous!

If not, I say: you’ve wasted your life….

#5396/21 July, 2016

Note: the author uses the title word ‘Variant’ in place of ‘corolla’.

He Is What He Writes: The Weird Tales of Dennis L. Siluk by Benjamin Szumskyj (2008)

He Is What He Writes: The Weird Tales of Dennis L. Siluk

by Benjamin Szumskyj  (2008)

Embarking on the critical study of author Dennis L. Siluk might be an endeavor that would fall on deaf ears, rather than the applause of a receptive audience. I mean no disrespect by this comment. This is because, despite dozens of published books and thousands of copies sold, Dennis L. Siluk’s literary career has been virtually undetected by the community of the weird tale. However, being unknown is potentially more rewarding than being found and forgotten, or worse still, ignored altogether. And being that none of Siluk’s many readers have chosen to study his works of fiction, bar the flurry of positive reviews, any study of his work will be both deserved and enlightening.

Siluk has written several books outside the weird tale canon, such as of poetry (Sirens, The Macabre Poems: and other selected poems), children’s stories (The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale, Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant Life: The Little Russian Twins & Uni’s Street Car), travel (Chasing the Sun, Romancing San Francisco: Sketches of Life in the Late '60's), mainstream (Perhaps It’s Love, Cold Kindness), non-fiction (A Path to Sobriety, the Inside Passage: A Common Sense Book on Understanding Alcoholism and Addiction, A Path to Relapse Prevention), thriller (The Mumbler), and pseudotheological (The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon).

The fiction collection that best encapsulates the style, imagination and originality of Siluk is Death on Demand: Seven Stories of Suspense (2003, iUniverse Inc). Though a relatively recent publication, it collects several stories written over a period of years. In discussing the following stories, I may reveal the endings in order to illustrate a point.

Death on Demand opens with, what I believe not only to be one of Siluk’s best stories, but perhaps one of the most powerfully written stories of the last decade ‘The Rape of Angelina’, a story which showcases the author’s background in psychology and sociology within a historical context. The story begins with a well-read individual who has acquired a forgotten poem written in 1278 AD entitled ‘The Lioness of Glastonbury’, whilst conducting research at an undisclosed university in England. Upon arriving in Glastonbury, he meets a man named Arthur who is distantly related to Angelina and happens to possess a copy of her diary, written in 1199 AD at the end of the Crusades. As he states:

“At Chalice Well, you will see a Lion’s Head. Angelina was a lioness. Although people thought she was timid, and coy, she was far from it. When she died, in 1221 AD, she left her diary, and the story of the three soldiers who wanted to rape her; one did the other two… Well, that’s part of the story; no one ever found out what happened to them or for that matter, how they died. But I know I got the diary. I found it in 1984, hidden in the old Abbey Barn, that place has a magnificent roof, doesn’t it?” [DOD, p. 18]

The story then changes to Angelina’s point of view, directly from her diary, as she recounts the events of that fateful year. The third chapter is crisply written, particularly the first section, in which the 13-year-old details her dream of finding a beloved knight and being married, her developing body, and the attention young boys give her. It’s an authentic narrative, for Angelina comes across as a sensible, mature and honourable girl who idolizes the life of King Arthur, as well as looking up to her grandfather. Soon enough, she is confronted by three wandering knights, who she believes to be visiting King Arthur’s grave site. However, they advance on her and each of the men rape Angelina. After being raped by the third attacker, who falls asleep (whom Angelina thinks is either English or Islamic-Arab), she picks up his sword and decapitates him.

Taking his bag of coins (‘I took them for my torn dress’ [DOD, p. 41]), she buries him (‘about three feet deep, and I rolled him into it just like mom puts in the ham during winter’ [DOD, p. 41]) and returns home, telling no one what had happened. That night, she asks her grandfather about the Holy Wars and Islamic culture, particularly, towards women. The next day, Angelina uses the remainder of the deceased rapist’s silver to buy a wolf, which she locks in a cage and is determined to domesticate.

Angelina continues her plan of revenge when, upon seeing the other two in a tavern, she tells the soberer of the pair to meet her at a disclosed location soon after. He agrees and upon leaving, Angelina buys some wine and quickly makes a visit to the local herb dealer, buying strong sleeping narcotics. Later on, she meets up with the man, tricks him into drinking the drugged wine, then releases the hungry wolf and he is mauled to death. Consider the macabre nature of the following scene, through the innocence of Angelina:

‘He couldn’t talk or make any more sounds the wolf had chewed his nose and throat off, and open. I thought people died easy, but it’s not true. Sometimes they die slow. The wolf looked at me then went and started eating again, paying me little attention; I think he was making sure his meal was secure.’ [DOD, p. 65]

The third and final rapist is led to Chalice Well, where after passing out from drinking the same drugged wine, Angelina ‘tied his hands over his head; then tied his two legs together’, then proceeded to chop off his hands with his own sword and cast him down the well. The final scene is worth quoting at length,

‘As I look down the well, the rope followed him like a snake. He has no hands to untie his feet, and he cannot climb the 30-feet to the top. And I know the well is pretty deep. I cannot see him, only hear his cries.

‘Now I put the top of the well cover back on; I will lock it now, so the children will not fall into it. I can still hear his screams, barely, but I do hear them, he is begging me to open the well door, and at the same time cursing me. He is not sorry for what he did to me, only sorry I could get revenge on him; now his body will sink soon, and he will sober up, or wake up drunk in hell.

‘I hear water splashing, he is lucky he is thin, not like the huge one, for he would sink if he was that big. He will get exhausted soon. I must bury the rest of his things.

‘”See Mr. Knight, you are paying for your sins. But I will tell the world you were a great knight, for that is what knights are created for; they are special. Thus, I will save you from disgrace. What would you do if you lived, just get drunk and rape more girls like me. Now, that is not what a good knight should have to look forward to. GOOD NIGHT!!” I think he heard me, I tried to say it loud enough through the locked well cover. Matter of fact he did hear me, he is saying “Come back…come backkkkkk, ppppleaseeeeezzzzzzz.” [DOD, p. 73]

Thus finish Angelina’s diary entries. Angelina tried to subconsciously forget her rape and murderous revenge, distancing herself from the whole experience and erasing the whole series of events from her mind. The townsfolk don’t believe she did it, nor would they desire to trial her for such atrocious crimes despite the evidence. Soon after, the Arthurian Green Knight enters the town and when the two meet one another, they instantly fall in love. After marrying one another, Angelina sadly dies in childbirth.

The final chapter returns to the present, with a psychological explanation of how Angelina erased the rape and killings from her memory. In reading this passage, one can begin to see Siluk’s knowledge in this area of psychology (in addition to the ‘Other’ voice heard by Angelina, throughout the story). The narrator ends up leaving Glastonbury, but the story remains there, for in leaving, he is unable to take away the story and he begins to disremember Angelina’s tragic life.

What makes this story work is that unlike many female characters that are raped in literature and extract vengeance, Angelina does not become a masculine force. Rather, she remains feminine and does not adopt the traits or personality of a male. Like Michael Moorcock in Gloriana, or the Unfulfill'd Queen (1978), Siluk is careful in his writing of one of humanity’s worst forms of violence. Angelina is such a likeable character who is able to remain stable of mind through her horrible ordeal that her reaction of vengeance becomes more realistic.

‘Seventh Born Son’ is an intriguing story, surrounding the life of ‘Vlad Bran, otherwise known as Vlad Hoof’ [DOD, p. 92], for he was born with a tail and hooves. Narrated by a ‘friend’ of Vlad’s, the story begins in Transylvania. What starts as a potentially clichéd story evolves into a cleverly crafted life story of a figure cursed by his environment. The stigma of literature, in this case Bram Stoker’s Dracula, has constructed a world to believe that Vlad’s hometown is a place of evil and vampirism. In deciding to leave the place he once called home and travel to Wales, he soon begins to think evil thoughts on killing other people. As a result, Vlad’s true nature begins to emerge as detailed in the following passage,

‘As several months passed, he established himself as a serious manager in the food department, the headwaiter, with several under him. And would attend weekly meetings concerning improvements, in which he gave good advice; never showing his discontent for the world outside his mind, his damaged soul. It was justice he yearned for. When he walked by city hall, he spit at it. When he walked by the National Museum he stopped and would always wonder if there were any misunderstood freaks of nature like him in there. He liked walking the riverfront and watching the alcoholics get drunk sitting by the benches, overlooking the Millennium Stadium. He felt if anyone knew what he was thinking – which was killing – and if they were half sober, they would realize he could and would carry it out. And just what he was thinking was revenge. Yes, revenge on the world. Anyone would do. But he was not a vampire like people thought him as. He was just misunderstood. He didn’t need blood to cure him, only blood to wipe the dirt they threw on him away. And so, as spring came, he drew up his plan.’ [DOD, p. 94]

So begins Vlad’s vengeful campaign. His first victim is a female whom he decapitates, the second victim is a priest lured away from the police and stabbed in the back, the third victim is raped and then mauled by wild dogs, the fourth victim is an old man pushed down a well, the fifth victim is a homeless man that is buried alive, while the sixth and seventh victims…are Vlad himself. He commits suicide (the flesh), then rigs a trap that when the police break down his door (after being tipped off by his ‘friend’), drives a stake into his chest, thus destroying Vlad’s spirit. All up, seven victims are slain, just as Vlad had wanted it. It is a satisfactory ending to a story fuelled by bloody passion and the relentless hatred of being a social outcast.

Even at the end of the story, we are never told in words as to whether there is any real supernaturalism in the story. We are made to believe that this all happened, regardless of the preconceived belief that Vlad was a vampire. If we are to toy with the belief that Vlad is capable of supernatural feats, say hypnotism (after his third victim is raped and simultaneously attacked by dogs), then it the reader’s choice to do so, for the author has not indicated as such. ‘Seventh Born Son’ succeeds in being a suspenseful story in that it relies heavily on pseudo-supernaturalism, that being, the allusion of the supernatural to mask realism. It is easily one of Siluk’s best short stories (1).

‘The Dead Vault’ begins as a touching account of love and murder, set during the eighteenth dynasty of Egypt, 1570-1293 BCE (New Kingdom period). It surrounds two lovers who partake in the murder of Tutankhamen,(2) but soon find themselves fleeing for their very lives, as ‘those who hired us, betrayed us, used us as an escape-goat, they are the ones who have sent the bone collectors to find us, and bring our bones back to them.’ [DOD, pp. 108-09] The lovers flee so far from their native Egypt they arrive in the Americas (!) and build an underground mound, where they await a peaceful death (Ohio to be exact).

This story is, perhaps, the poorest of the collection, due to the impractical choices Siluk constructs for his characters. Would a mound maker keep a diary? Why the Americas? Must they really die? Would an ancient Egyptian truly use the word ‘sidekick’? And being that Hesmaglig was a former teacher of Tutankhamen, why would he need to use his wife as a sexual distraction for the guards? Surely he would have access to the King’s chambers? Sadly, the story is full of weaknesses.

‘The Senator of Lima’ is a suspenseful story that on face value appears to be the author’s open discussion on the issue of terrorism in Peru. Like many of Siluk’s stories, the character of Chick Evans is semi-autobiographical, an innocent author who happens to be friends with the Senator of Lima. However, in his rise to power, the Senator had made a pact with the very real terrorist group Movimiento Revolucionario Túpac Amaru (MRTA) and the Senator is aware that his life is in danger, as he has been unable to pay back his debts. Locking himself in his hotel room, the Senator asks his friend Evans for help, but no sooner is Evans confronted by members of MRTA and a verbal contract is made between them, in a game of cockfighting, Evans must win three out of six to save the Senator’s life, but if he loses, the Senator has to commit suicide. It’s a fulfilling ending and, I suspect, contains far more truths than Siluk is willing to admit.

‘The Old Man, and the Tides of Winter’ would have to be, for me, one of the most touching stories I have ever read. Set during a typical Minnesotan winter, an ageing man dwells on his life between his regular visits by his son. During a harsh storm one night, the old man comes across a young puppy and adopts it. However, soon after, the old man passes away and is found by his son, though the puppy is hesitant to leave his deceased master’s lap. His son takes the puppy and looks after it, on behalf of his father.

‘The Old Man of Chickamauga’ is set in Virginia, 1861, at the time of the Civil War. The story opens to a distressed old man, who is agonizing over the destruction of his land, property and death of his son-in-law. The Union soldiers are outside, preparing to burn down his house. History informs us that in January 1861, Virginia threatened secession from the union known as the United States of America. Due to the old man’s resistance to the Union soldiers, it would be safe to state that this is not West Virginia, for they did not wish to secede along with the rest of the state and were admitted into the Union on June 20, 1863. The union soldiers end up burning down the house with the old man inside, an action which later haunts Lieutenant Foremost. The story may have been written as a homage to Ambrose Bierce’s ‘An Occurrence at Owl Creek’, when, towards the end of the story, Siluk has the Lieutenant say, ‘Let’s eat breakfast men…and then we got to go build a bridge at Owl Creek.’ [DOD, p. 153]

‘The Camel Market’ is a simple story, set in Troy (2900 BCE), in which a man reminisces of his childhood, working with his (now deceased) father in the camel market.

Thus ends Death on Demand: Seven Stories of Suspense. Siluk has crafted some powerfully written and imaginative stories here and continues the testament by many that small press is the true sanctuary of quality weird fiction. In a purely complimentary statement, Siluk shares the lust to write like the infamous Lin Carter, but I do wish he’d approach established markets and anthologies to showcase his work, rather than a print-on-demand publisher. Nevertheless, Siluk seemingly enters himself into every one of his characters, regardless of whether he has visited the locale of his story, or has experienced, in one form or another, the character’s life. This semi-autobiographical injection brings more life to each of his characters and narrators and builds Siluk up as being a Baron Munchausen-like character. Whether others feel Siluk’s work is deserved of study remains to be seen, though if one is to acknowledge that he has written and sold over 30 books, one could say that theoretically he must be doing something right as an author. Time will only tell.

References
Siluk, Dennis (2003), Death on Demand: Seven Stories of Suspense (Lincoln, NE. iUniverse Inc).

Notes

1 For some, what can only be described as bizarre reason, Siluk later expanded and retitled this story as ‘Dracula’s Ghost’. However, I feel that the story is weakened in this later version and do not recommend reading it prior to ‘Seventh Born Son’.

2 In the story, the narrator Hesmaglig stands by and watches his friend inflict a head wound to the young King’s skull. For decades, scientists and historians have believed this to be the sole cause of Tutankhamen’s death, but recently, debate has risen that the infamous pharaoh, in fact, died of a disease-infected wound on his leg.

Lost Days

Lost Days

I had a dream, sweeping thorough me today: deep to deeper.

Seven billion human beings, like colossal demon, trodden the world’s streets! 

Seven-hundred and fifty billion pounds of flesh, blood and meat.

And we were multiplying…

The world’s floor was sinking in, wavering like a kite in the wind.

We grew faint, and the world lost its counterclockwise spin.

I could hear the racking of earth’s fault plates as they shifted, rotated.

Slabs hitting one another as they vibrated under earth’s crust.

And I could hear the shocks of cities riven by earthquakes.

And I could hear and see, the coastal masses crumbling in front of chaotic sea waves.

Yes, all in one little dream-vision.

Writing now of the doom and sorrow yet to come, dreadful can be the fathoms of time—

Their hidden mysteries.

Time is a stairway to change, and if there is no change, steps crumble one by one—

These are lost days, falling into a gulf of nothingness.

#5235/5-8-2016

The Assemblage

The Assemblage

 ((The State of Lucifer) (in Poetic Prose))

Presumable to tranquilize Lucifer’s spirit, he tuned and twisted his fingers over and over and around a baton he held in his hands, but his face confirmed what his mind was saying, thinking.

The angelic being beside him whispered: “That won’t help much!”

Those words of the Great Father were now animated in his mind by a recoiling echo… 

Lucifer felt for the first time in his life deep humiliation, the feeling was new—or must at least have been interpreted as such.

Lucifer, along with many of his cohorts were the eyes in the front row of the assemblage:

They were intensely fixed upon the Son of God, as they sat stone-still, Lucifer, looking straight at Him appallingly!

Truth is like oil, it will eventually rise to the surface, and on this day it did!—

Lucifer and his associates refused to look shocked about their impassivity into which they had sunk ever so deep during the Father’s speech.

 “The Commander and Chief will be my Son!”

Announced, Elohim, with full composure.

Lucifer was now quiet as a farm mouse, and as hideous looking as a Atopodentatus—

He purred like a cat unintentionally trying to read the faces of all his friends in the first row.

Was he, or had he been day-dreaming unknowingly thinking he was to be the chosen one, Commander and chief?

Had he not realized his cup was already cracked?

Thus, his heart was hardened, closed, and he was not so unlike Judas, he was set on doing what he was going to do!

This was the spark that lit the fire in heaven!

In a moment, Lucifer is going to speak without thinking, which is the same thing as shooting without aiming…

Which is like a man who says to himself:

‘He who ventures nothing, nothing gained: no horse nor mule’.

And God, might he not say: ‘Be careful, lest you lose the goat and the rope!’

So you see we are at this perpendicular corner, with the state of Lucifer.

Most of the assemblage didn’t take it very seriously, but for Lucifer this moment was very personal.

It was a misguided policy which was being directed against Him, and him alone, and many of his angelic following, would in due time take sides.

And so he told himself his first lie: “It is for them, my comrades that I will take up my stand here and now, and later if need be, for myself.”

So he involuntarily raised his voice.

But what was he thinking?

Perhaps: pacify a king and he will beat you, beat a king and he will pacify you?

Who’s to say but Iblis himself, and he will never tell!

And Lucifer shouted “Err!”  

And someone in the audience clapped his hands high in the air and shouted: “Bravo!”

(It was not what was said, for it was just one word, but rather what was meant by that one word, it had some dogmatic connotations, intent.)

Is it not true, the tongue will hang a man quicker than a gallows tree?

Lucifer felt cheered even though it was but one voice.

And to be frank, he was quite satisfied.

He did make the assembly start thinking about the statement God the Father had made about His Son’s victory.

A victory Lucifer felt was ill-advised.  

In short, that little noise would create a big bang.

Yet at that very moment he had no wish to shine as an orator—

He could wait; however he had come to the conclusion he was overlooked, wronged, and by and large, degraded.

Now blinded with anger!  

Not hurt in particular although it probably had some residue, but frozen anger!

By and by, he would speak, but not this day, he dare not spoil the victory banquet

For he knew God the Father no doubt was the more powerful figure.

Written: 4-25 & 26-2015/ originally ‘The Great Fall of Lucifer (21,000 words)

Reedited 5-2016, for a chapter story, “The Strange Assemble”

Rename “The Assemblage”

Lost Time and Worlds

Lost Time and Worlds

(The Atopodentatus unicus/242-Million B.C.)

As I gazed into the new found fossil I lost my present self.

I was swept away, brought deep into an early epoch of earth, a time when the continents were just about to form, emerging from a watery-world.

Everything was lush and cloudy, a phantasmagoria world, but in a long stream of consciousness.

I was being pulled back deep, and deeper, into a world of troublous unfamiliarity.

Terrestrial man had not yet arrived on the planet.

I had traveled fathomless eons backwards in time, it was like an awakened atom emerging out of a flung pocket of a gravitational wave (GW) passing by earth, into a 4^th dimension of lost time—

Flung into a world that was kept inside that pocket of that GW, for 242-million years, as if it had orbited at the speed of light, from a catastrophic event on earth to the end of the universe.

And perhaps ricochet back, and for some strange reason, by some electrical magnetic force on earth, my brain waves, connected like white on rice, with the GW.

God has simply not shown us all the umbrageous, giving powers that man and the universe—combined, hold in common.

And the darkness and repose of that long dark night kept a massive secret, in the GW’s pocket, I felt…

Then light, illumination, without hesitation, clear and complete, came about.

The blaze of the day’s brightness, so great was it, that it pierced the blossoms in the deep garden in the sea, or ocean, or wherever I was brought to—

Seemingly a sea without boundaries:

With jewel-colored fish that swam about me without fear.

Above me I heard the swishing movement of a long precarious looking reptilian fish like creature, a closer look, I knew it was the ancient and long lost, and fossilized Atopodentatus.

Long extinct from earth.

Its Latin name being for the most part ‘…strangely toothed’ creature.

It at first looked like a hammerhead whale, or shark.

Bizarre to say the least.

Its jaw was filled with peg-like upper front teeth, as to scrape algae off rocks, or grab and swallow plants.

Then quicker than a clap of an eye, a massive eruption took place.

I knew what it was.

The legendary, and largest of the world’s mass distractions that caused mass extinctions of 90% of all marine life, on earth, 242-million years ago.

At which time my spell was broken, as I looked at the fossil, and then turned my view to the ‘Play-Doh’ image of the creature, at the Chicago Museum.

No: 5234/Poetic Prose (5-8-2016)

“Because of Love” ((For Larry J. Yankovec) (a Tribute)) 11-2012

I guess looking at it, now being an old man of sixty-five, I remember Lorimar, we called him Lorimar, a nickname, his real name being Larry, I remember how he made me laugh. We had taken a trip once, slept in the State Fairgrounds the police chased us out and we had to walk home three o’clock in the morning, and we walked by a farm, and we stole two carrots, we were so very hungry. We grew up together; he lived next door to us. We’d play pool in his basement, playing Elvis Presley records, one song always reminds me of Lorimar, that being, “Because of Love,” there was this album of Elvis’ that just came out called “Girls! Girls! Girls!” and that song was on that album he had just purchased, and the album was sitting to the left of me, on a table, the record player playing that very album on that very table, and that song was playing, and he was playing the album as we played pool, over and over.
Oh, I suppose I could talk on and on about Lorimar, “Come on, Chick,” he’d say, stepping up and down on his toes, he had one web-toe, jogging around the pool table, “let’s get drunk?” And we’d hit the road and look for someone to buy us a case of beer—we were of course underage.
Once achieving our mission in getting that case of beer, we’d come back and sit down in his patio, which was attached to his garage, and get drunk. Oh, I’m sure his younger sister Nadine thought we were nuts, and I guess she’d be right, we were. He sure was fun to hang around with.
 Anyhow, last night more like this morning, November, 8, 2012, I had a dream of Lorimar—I had only seen him once in the last fifty-years which was some twenty-five years ago, he would now be sixty-six years old, anyhow, in the dream, we had taken his car and went up into Northern Minnesota, and we parked his car at a hotel, and went down to a bar, and on our way back, in a taxi, we stopped at a gas station, I wanted to get something, and I lost my shoe in the gas station, and was looking for it, and the taxi driver came in to ask what was the delay, and Lorimar took off in the taxi, of all things. Well, we had a car, and I told the taxi driver just that, that we had a car and that I just didn’t understand, but if we went back to the hotel, he’d most likely find his taxicab. Fine, I woke up, that was the end of the dream; in the morning the sun was up and the day was cool, I asked my wife to see if she could find his telephone number and address on the internet, I sensed a needed to. We’re in Lima, Peru, and he’s in Glenwood, Minnesota, remember, and again it’s been twenty-five years since we talked, I was a little nervous. I called the number about 11:30 a.m. there was no response, I figured he was out to lunch with his wife. Therefore, I waited, having lunch with my wife, and after lunch I tried again, his sister answered, I explained who I was, and asked if she remembered me, and she said, “Oh yaw,” I think she remembered the worse part of me, back fifty-years ago, I was a wild one. Anyhow, I said, “Is Lorimar home, I’d like to talk to him.” There was a near flaw to her voice, as if she was holding back tears. At this, as I was standing outside in my garden, my knees started to bend, legs dropping a few inches, and my ankles weakened—I discerned something was wrong, very wrong. She hesitated, it was hard for her to speak I had noticed, nearly tongue-tied, hard for her to get the words out, I asked a second time, and she said agonizingly: “He passed away!” “When did that take place?” I asked. She again hesitated, I had to ask twice. From her came, “August 25, 2012, he had cancer, and other complications.” Then she went on to explain, his wife had left him for a dear friend of his some eight years past, and she explained ever since, she was living with him: that is, for the past six years she had been living with her brother, and he had many physical complications during this time. I myself understood quite well, it was twenty-five years since I had seen him last and he was at that time way overweight and drinking a lot, I had stopped drinking and smoking, myself a few years earlier. Anyhow, at that moment I had gotten a tear in my eye, and the noisy neighbors drowned out some of what Nadine was trying to say, tell me, but she was feeling freer to talk now about this and that, but I had to bid her farewell, I wish I hadn’t there so much to talk about. I liked him a lot, because, well, just because he was himself, so easy going and yes: he was a lot of fun. No: 974/11-8-2012; reedited 8-2013

The Reverie ((For Larry J. Yankovech) (a Tribute))

I guess looking at it, now being an old man of sixty-five, I remember the way Lorimar, we called him Lorimar, his real name being Larry, and how he made me laugh. We had taken a trip once, slept in the State Fairgrounds the police chased us out and we had to walk home three o’clock in the morning, and we walked by a farm, and we stole two carrots, we were so hungry. We grew up together; he lived next door to us. We’d play pool in his basement, play Elvis Presley records, one song always reminds me of Lorimar, that being, “Because of Love,” there was this album of Elvis’ that just came out called “Girls! Girls! Girls!” and that song was on that album he had just purchased, and the album was sitting to the left of me, on a table, the record player playing that very album on that very table, and that song was playing, and he was playing the album as we played pool. Oh, I suppose I could talk on and on about Lorimar, “Come on, Chick,” he’d say, stepping up and down on his toes, he had one web toe, and jogging around the pool table, “let’s get drunk?”  And we’d hit the road and look for someone to buy us a case of beer. We’d come back and sit down in his garage patio, and get drunk.  Oh, I’m sure his younger sister Nadine thought we were nuts, and I guess she’d be right, we were. He sure was fun.

       Anyhow, last night more like this morning, November, 8, 2012, I had a dream of Lorimar—I had only seen him once in the last fifty-years which was some twenty-five years ago, he would be now sixty-six years old, anyhow, in the dream, we had taken his car and went up into Northern Minnesota, and we parked his car at a hotel, and went down to a bar, and on our way back, in a taxi, we stopped at a gas station, I wanted to get something, and I lost my shoe in the gas station, and was looking for it, and the taxi driver came in to ask what was the delay, and Lorimar took off in the taxi, of all things. Well, it would have been all right, maybe, but we had a car, and I told the taxi driver just that, that we had a car and that I just didn’t understand, but if we went back to the hotel, he’d most likely find his car. Well, I woke up, that was the end of the dream; in the morning the sun was up and the day was cool, I asked my wife to see if she could find his telephone number and address on the internet, I sensed a need to. We’re in Lima, Peru, and he’s in Glenwood, Minnesota, remember, and again it’s been twenty-five years since we talked, I was a little nervous.

       I called the number about 11:30 a.m. there was no response, I figured he was out to lunch with his wife. I had lunch with my wife, and after lunch I tried again, his sister answered, I explained who I was, and asked if she remembered me, and she said, “Oh yaw,” I think she remembered the worse of me, back fifty-years ago, I was a wild one. Anyhow, I said, “Is Lorimar home, I’d like to talk to him.”

       She hesitated, it was hard for her to speak I had noticed, nearly tongue-tied, hard for her to get the words out, I asked a second time, “He passed away,” she said, with a near cracked voice. I was standing outside by my garden, my knees started to bed, legs drop, and ankles weaken.

       “When did that take place,” I asked. She again hesitated, I had to ask twice, “August 25, 2012, he had cancer, and other complications.” Then she went on to explain, his wife had left him for a dear friend of his some eight years past, and that she was living with him for the past six years, and he had many physical complications during this time. I myself understood quite well, it was twenty-five years since I had seen him, and he was at that time way overweight and drinking a lot. At that moment I had gotten a tear in my eye. The noisy neighbors drowned out some of what Nadine was trying to say, to tell me, but she was feeling freer to talk now about this and that, but I had to bid her farewell. I liked him a lot, because, well, just because he was himself, so easy to say, Ah, yes, he was a lot of fun.

No: 974/11-8-2012