VI. Remote

The Philistine is hanging from a void of space and time. It looks like the top of a narrow staircase. A misremembered image of clashing architecture. Strange angles. It is a gap in reality she has created to avoid detection. She sleeps here because even the dead have to sleep when they’ve taken on life again.

The Angel has his void and she has hers. They are not friends and they do not trust each other. Even though they accompany one another; even though they share a sense of familiarity. They are not friends. Those who have been damned can walk in and out of life but they never return to human concepts of fraternity.

The Angel was cursed with a soul before his fall but it wasn’t a true soul. It was an approximation of a soul forced on him by a malicious archangel. He was cursed not to feel or care or create but to covet and resent. Luckily for them, most humans now possess a soul that is fairly similar so he can avoid detection in that regard.

Various unsavory characters in the lower realms can locate souls with similar aberrations. This is usually how the Damned replenish their ranks. They track sadists, narcissists, the machiavellian, et cetera. For years they watch one of these humans shed the good from themselves; until they are pliant enough to be officially coerced to one side or another. Most of these types of humans end up in the Heavenly Host amusingly enough. But that’s neither here nor there.

Psychic detection of deserters among defective souls can be quite problematic though. To start, defective souls currently outnumber so-called innocents 100:1. Which means 7.62 billion of the current 7.7 billion humans are deemed defective by the standards outlined by the Heavenly Host. The numbers are staggering. To add to this problem, Hell is deliberately kept understaffed by the Host. One of many jabs delivered from the pricks that run the show from on high. The Marshals in charge of retrieving Deserters approach this systematically but there are far too many living humans to sift through to hope to complete the search. Furthermore, the numbers are constantly fluctuating. Defective souls are being born more and more each day. The older defective humans are living longer and longer as well. The whole manhunt is futile. Finally, there is the fact that the Marshals recognize this futility as part of their own punishment and don’t put much effort into their jobs. Imagine being forced to do a pointless minimum wage job; for free, for all of eternity. Most Marshals don’t really care. They do their job to pass the time, avoid torment from middle management (aka the Heavenly Host), and to spend some time back on Earth. Which isn’t that bad a place, all things considered.

Sorry. Office politics. It’s a bit annoying.

“It’s fine, Bosch. Go on.”

Right. right. The vision. The Philistine and the Angel. She was hanging in her void. So we can’t track her in that regard.

Then there was a mirror. A reality mirror. They were looking in on one the Angel’s lackeys. Another schizophrenic arsonist.

“Like the bag lady at the bus depot.”

Yea. And the runaway that lives in the sewer.

“So this is like his M.O.”

I mean, yea. But you don’t need to get fancy about it.

Back to the mirror. The Arsonist was obviously in the downtown area.

“How do we know that?”

The train.

“Right. Sorry, Bosch.”

So anyway. We saw them talk to the Arsonist. Then they were talking amongst themselves. Nothing descriptive was occurring outside of their meeting place. A single room. Looks like a trailer home. 70s or 80s style decor. Probably not the Angel’s main haunt. He’s an aristocrat by nature. Considers himself too good for a place like that.

“Wasn’t he living in a river of shit before he escaped?”

Heh. Yeah.

Yea.

Anyway. Trailer. Air smelled fresh. Dry. Very dry. Not in a city. Could be in the western states. Too general. Probably why the Angel chose it. He’s clever like that.

“Okay, well. So far. We have Buffalo. Chicago. Memphis. Tacoma. Los Angeles…”

Are you gonna keep interrupting me, kid. You’re making me lose my train of thought.

“… Sorry”

Dry Air. Western states. There’s a magazine. Address is crossed out of course. Chinese food containers. Menu says San Francisco. Probably a ploy. Air doesn’t smell like San Francisco. Rent check. Bingo. Flagstaff Mobile Rentals. Alright, now we gotta route a couple Marshals to Arizona. The Seer and her Dog will continue to stake the Arsonist out in case the Angel shows up there again. Let’s put the Rook on it. Maybe Verlaine. They don’t really like each other but fuck ‘em. Verlaine’s always been an asshole anyway.

“Will do. So, Bosch. How did you get so good at that psychic shit?”

I worked on Project Stargate when I was alive. Had the worst performance of anyone involved though. Guess I just kept at it. Been working for one group of assholes or another for 40 some years. Years in Hell are longer though. So it’s hard to tell. I will say though. Angels are way bigger assholes than the agency ever was.

V. Good Boy

There stood a building. Now stands a shell. The charred skeleton of the Arsonist’s first kill. After the first responders left. After chainlink fences were erected to keep out trespassers. After all of this. The burned out apartment complex is still noisy. The echoing cries of 37 human souls; thick in the air. It cakes the walls. Black. Stained. Agony.

Staring off with second sight. A pale maggot of a woman caresses the thick blackened cries staining the walls. She is tall. Regal. Impeccably dressed. Her head is almost skeletal. Empty eye sockets. Blind by all appearances. But that doesn’t slow her down. The Seer is slow and deliberate. A picture of perfect calculation. Never a misstep. She possesses a sort of second sight. Far superior to anything in the natural world.

Fossilized, molten polyester clings to the couch. Charred skin and fatty tissue still cling to it. The bodies having been removed, were imperfectly removed at best. The Seer’s companion sniffs at the metallic frame of the couch. Licking it, like a dog, to discern identity. A long human tongue slips out of his mouth. He walks on all fours but is unnaturally tall with long, lanky arms. Skinless, he has long since forgotten what he looked like when he was alive. His flesh is slick with black blood. Shining in the moonlight like an oil slick. Like treacle. Like pitch.

Moving his muzzle along the floor. His head swings slowly back and forth; leaving black blood in his wake like a snail. He finds the wall. Turns his head upward. Sniffs up the wall. Tracking some smell, some echo of a cry, up and up the wall. Standing on his hind legs. He hits his head on the ceiling.

“Now, now Dog. Back to the task at hand”

Dog slinks back down on all fours and tracks something down a hallway. Down a flight of stairs. In the basement. The Seer trails behind. Slowly dodging obstacles. Ducking below water pipes. Stepping over an old tool box. A single dresser drawer.

“I see it, Dog. It’s below those stairs. Behind that tiny cupboard door.

Dog changes course to obey his master. He lifts a tiny latch with long black fingers and drags out their prize. It’s a little girl. Dead from smoke inhalation. The coroner had all of the bodies removed. All but one. Dog picks the little girl up and presents her to the Seer; palms up, head low. In deference. The little girl is almost perfectly preserved. And that is precisely the point.

The Seer points a long thin nail. Slips it skillfully along the outside of each of the little girl’s eye sockets and then removes each eye with surgical precision. She places the little girl’s eyes in her own empty eye sockets; adjusts it gently.

“We have a witness, Dog.”

“She hid down here. She saw him upstairs. On the second floor. Singing to himself. It wasn’t the Angel. Another one of his pets, of course. Our little runaway seldom dirties his own hands. The Angel’s trace is all over him. The Arsonist. He’s in love. How sweet. We can start there, Dog.”

The Seer removes the little girl’s eyes from her sockets. Placing them lovingly back in her head. Dog puts her back down; crosses her arms. The Seer produces a bright silver dust from a small leather pouch. Spilling it on the little girl’s body she begins to burn white hot and vanishes in seconds. Not even bones are left.

The Seer is grinning thin and wide. She’s lets him lick the blood and ashen cries off her fingers. Licking her fingers dry and clean. She pets his head slow and lovingly. Dog is excited.

“Good boy”

IV. An Island Of Trees

I woke the next morning feeling alive for the first time in years. And for the first time in years I felt a remarkable clarity. I had been growing more scattered as the years progressed; growing more fearful. The gnawing feeling of great big razor white teeth gnashing at itself. Always out of sight. Always at my hind. Stone on stone and metal on metal. But for the first time in years. I was clear. My path was apparent. I was made whole once more.

Shower and a shave. Clean clothes. Boots laced. Immaculate.

Two eggs over easy. Ham. Toast. Jelly. Coffee Black.

I fill my belly and leave my apartment.

Ms. 3F is yelling at herself again. She’s accusing someone of stealing her mail. Putting the whole apartment on trial. Again. She never married. Never had kids. And is much happier for it. Every week she hurls one of her sculptures off the fire escape into the alley below. Launching it down like she’s defending her castle. Sometimes I watch her and smile. I imagine her as a knight. She tells me to fuck off. I smile. She smiles. She goes back inside and starts on another sculpture.

Down a flight of stairs I dodge an oatmeal thick puddle Mr. 4A left in the hallway. He passed out on the second floor; clutching a wrapper filled with half-eaten falafel. He won’t wake up until its time to start drinking again. Grinding his teeth down in his sleep. He mutters obscene things to a woman; real or imagined? He’s either dreaming or remembering. He smiles and nudges the wrapper up to his mouth. Stuffing it in his face instinctually. He forgets to open his greasy mouth.

Out the front door. All of the trees in our neighborhood whistle as plastic bags slowly disintegrate in the tangled barbs of their branches. There’s always music here.

I walk with purpose to the corner store to say hello to Mr. Bahar. He changed his name legally to Stanley when he came to America. Every morning he straightens his hair to fit in. His wife hates it; she misses running her fingers through it. She misses how proud he used to me in the old country. I still call him Mr. Bahar. He always smiles real big when I do. Years ago he was a surgeon in Damascus. Sometimes i think of how many lives he saved. He never brags about it though. He’s the kindest man I ever met.

I take the bus to the park. I stare out the window. Slowly the neighborhoods get nicer. The people look less and less like me and more and more like people on TV. I get off the bus and get lost in the park. The trees quiet the city outside. It’s like an island. Remote, Quiet. Everything is beautiful here. I lose the path. I lose my way. I pass lakes most people never care to find. And out here, it’s alive. Everything’s alive. Birds dart past with life and music. I am still. I am whole again. I am not afraid. I am present.

I close my eyes and lose track of time. I go further into the park. It seems impossibly big. Further and further still, I find the edge of the park. I find the fence. Wrought Iron. Tall, black, cold to the touch. I walk along the fence line. Maybe I’ll walk the entirety of its length; a great big square. I drag a branch along the fence, tapping out a slow resounding metallic tang. On the other side, I can see taxis and buses trudge by. People litter the streets but somehow its still perfectly silent. Like the fence holds this little world in. Perfect, contained and peaceful. Further along the fence I walk. The taxis and buses slow to a crawl. The people stand with a fixed glance; singular and amazed. Not amazed. Concerned. Up come the car horns. They stab, jagged. As cars lurch forward in violent stutters. A deer is in the middle of the street. Scared. Spasming back and forth, unsure of its footing. Somehow it got out of the park. The wrought iron fence is over eight feet. How did it get out? The only gate is on the other side of the park. How high could it jump? Great big points of bone stick out of its head. Swinging at cars, scraping at buses. People shout. A man throws a water bottle. A rock. They try to shoo it away. Back into the park. It stutters forward. Stabs back. Cars lunge. Brake Hard. Screeching brakes. Horns blare. People are late. Angry. Crying. The deer is crying. Moaning a slobbish bellow. Terror. Jagged car horns. Swinging its head. Violent. Pained. Yelling. More lunging. A car nudges its hind leg and he’s off. Out of the street. On to the grass. Barreling toward the wrought iron fence. Faster and faster. Heading straight toward me. I stagger back. Run away. He leaps hard and high. Eight feet straight up. His ribs catch. Jagged points at the top of the fence. Cold iron digs in under his chest. Screaming high and horrid. His voice shakes. Unreal. Louder than the city. Screaming. Rasping. His legs struggle to climb up the smooth iron. His fore legs flail wildly. Struggling more and more. His weight sinks him. Stuck to the fence. Wailing. His entrails heave up and out of the jagged wound under his ribs. The fence is shaking like its going to break loose. People on the street are screaming. A young boy cries. An old man vomits on his suit. I fall back and look up at this horrid thing. A thunder clap rings out. Loud as a cannon. Amplified by the canyons of metal and concrete. No one moves. I don’t breath. A cop shot the deer. He isn’t wailing anymore. His legs hang limp. His arms rest on the top of the fence. His head cranes down and to the right; looking near me but not at me. Impaled on the fence. The poor thing looks like Christ crucified. Bowels hanging out.

Sound is gone once more. The city carries on. Buses and cars speed home. They just leave him there. Hanging. I can’t move. It’s getting dark. And again. I lose time.

III. A Leap Of Faith

my whole life was a leap of faith. i was always desperate and small. and so, so afraid.

a small man. i was a low and lonely little creature. obedient and dutiful. but small.

when i started to get sick. when things started to get scattered. my wife left.

i was the recipient of secrets. little sounds. impossible things.

i was the recipient of visions. sometimes loving visions. sometimes fearful visions.

but it was too much for Claire.

she tried. the best anyone could try. but i got more scattered. she suggested a doctor.

but we couldn’t afford that. no honest person could anymore.

and it got worse. it got bad. i got mean. as if the small man i was was growing.

soon there was another man in me. he was mean. i wasn’t mean. i loved her.

so much. too much. but this mean man got bigger and bigger. and so i grew. finally.

he got so big. he just about pushed me out. i told Claire. and Claire cried. and cried.

she was sorry. she said she was sorry. but i was becoming a handful. a busy, large man.

busy mind. more secrets. more visions.

one night. i dreamt of a knife. i dreamt of jagged things. i dreamt of yelling.

small things crashing and exploding. like fireworks. in slow motion.

but the fireworks were old things. in my heart. in Claire’s heart. these small things were love.

they were memories. they were us. the love between us.

and after that dream they were gone for good.

after that Claire left.

bad dreams.

i lost track of time. after Claire left. my job left. my house left. i moved downtown.

to the cheap part of town. somehow i scraped enough together to stay indoors.

and i was lucky for that. a small blessing.

but the visions got clearer. more confusing. and the secrets got meaner.

and i cried. and cried. no one knew me anymore. i don’t think i knew myself.

the mean man grew bigger. he would yell. and i would yell back.

luckily no one cares where i live. you pay by the day.

and no one cares.

the cold trains just dance and dance around this cold little room.

and no one cares.

more time skipped. hard to keep track.

as the visions got more real. my life became less.

i was so scared and small. and the mean man in me got bigger and bigger.

crowding me out. and noise. noise, noisy lies. cruel secrets. lies as big as skyscrapers.

light and magic. and i was adrift.

one night there was more noise than usual.

i couldn’t keep it out. i screamed to keep it all out.

and just like that. the snap of his fingers. and no more noise.

he was beautiful. and grand. golden yellow.

my apartment flooded with light. with love. with warmth.

and loving silence.

the walls shook gentle, in and out of reality. they were there. and then not.

they were slightly bigger. then slightly smaller. different textures. confusing.

but i was safe. he made me safe. no fear. no noise. only love. and his voice.

in me, around me, everywhere. big, warm and loving.

“be still.

and know.

i am your lord”

I. And So It Falls

it was elegant. like water. dancing and shimmering. it felt like summer. like falling in love for the first time. a stolen glance between lovers. before they know who they are to one another. a quiet grace. nerves and apprehension. and then, reward.

oh, what a reward.

it was so easy. so natural and good. i was waking up from a long, lonely dream. and oh god was it ecstasy. warm and wet. and mine all mine. i was so giddy i could hardly breathe.

the gentle dizziness of kerosene. all around me. i fondled the matchbook with one skillful hand. rubbed my thumb and forefinger together and snapped a match into another room. like cupid’s arrow. a rush of warmth erupted behind me as i walked the hall.

that little love caressed me, danced around me, up the walls and pooling like water on the ceiling. an inversion of the natural order. that little love, like kind hands all over me.

i began to hum, gentle at first.

“cupid draw back your bow, and let your arrow go”

growing bolder.

“straight to my lover’s heart, for me, for me”

selling it like an old fool in love.

loud and wild, caution be damned.

and they would sing back. all of them. just for me.

distant in my mind. but i knew, were i naked to the storm. they would be shrieking, horror and pain.

skin bubbling up like boiling water.

i put my hands to the ceiling to stroke the acrid, black cloud. to me it felt like a dream. like a warm mist on a cold day.

he promised to protect me. and he did. his love was a shield from harm. a shield from consequence. from agony. i walked in it. amongst it. protected.

flicking lit matches as i strolled the halls. past the fire exits. locked chains snaking around the bar, so no one could leave. i prepared it perfectly. just as he told.

up another flight of stairs. down another kerosene soaked hallway. shooting arrows into my lover’s heart. and up, up, up i went.

a chorus of pleas. of mercy. of fear. of curses. of howls. of tears sizzling off charred, blackened skin. they try to tear at me but his love is a shield, perfect and absolute.

up another flight and another. i dance, fire licking up my sides as their screams subside. down to the end of the hall on the very top. there stands a locked door. i raise my hand and the door buckles outward. like a ruptured submarine. fire rushes past me, now a scalding torrent. a waterfall, orange and yellow. and angry. so angry now.

the roof is sinking and rising. heaving like waves. as i walk on water. toward the edge of the roof. on the ledge. and i feel his love fading. i raise my palms toward the sky and they are blackened. hard and flaking off. like autumn leaves. they trail behind me and hang in the air. still and unmoving. despite the heat, despite the wind. small flecks of fire rain down, slow and easy. barely moving as time stills.

the apartment complex is a deck of cards.

and so it falls.

II. A Voice, Loud As God

i had a dream,

all ink and gloom.

naked and alone.

i stood.

or sat. 

or floated.

in nothing.

i felt nothing,

saw nothing.

i was simply hanging there.

in space.

there was no fear.

no love.

it was simply.

nothing.

..

gasping. deeply. forcefully. legs raising. back jolting. up, up violently.

every muscle taut as spun steel. stuck in place. for a minute. only a minute?

night time. i was home. in bed. safe.

sheets slick with sweat. hot to the touch. not warm. hot. strange.

the moody, yellow of streetlights cast a somber tone in my apartment.

it was night and i was alone. a nightmare. must’ve been.

i coughed. coughed. coughed up black dust. smelled like char.

burnt steak. faint memories of heat and cries.

weird dream.

..


he spoke to me on the radio.

tinny, thin.

like a monologue over some old cowboy tune.

“every one is so pleased with your work“

i couldn’t react.

the cork from upturned wine bottles held more life than me.

they would sit and vibrate now and then. shaking off the counter as cold trains passed

the whole city shook, in silence.

a gentle insistent vibration like background radiation near Trinity

“you will find your fee, paid in full, cash enclosed in an envelope. look behind your toilet, taped to the back, in a crack along the wall”

his voice was like a nursery rhyme whenever he spoke to me.

it had a quality to it. mickey mouse in the morbid mode

i stood back, turned to the hall and down. but everything was a little different.
maybe it was entirely different.

like someone took my furniture and all the little trappings perfectly spaced as it was for as long as i’ve lived here, and placed it in some new building.

this was my home. but i feel that i’ve never seen this building before.
maybe it was him, maybe his voice was like this.

surreal. corrupting.

a force of the unreal radiating out like psychic sonar.

poisoning understanding.

his voice interrupting the regular vibrations interpreted by the pineal sense.
turning mute floral wallpaper to stark weathered brick,
turning linoleum to tongue-in groove wood.

Was this the same reality? Was i over tired?

Maybe its normal to hear your boss through the radio.

They could be hijacking the signal. pirate radio.

it’s not as absurd as it sounds.

he must be near enough to broadcast a signal.

they clearly have the money to orchestrate something like this.

i turned down a hall i'd never seen before. instinctually i knew. i found the bathroom.

King James Translation placed neatly on top of the back of the toilet.

i knelt.

felt in the crack behind the toilet. the envelope.

“it’s all there, the total amount, but i won’t be offended if you should take the time to count”

his voice was piping in from the drain in the bath tub. i sat on the edge of the bath.

“how are you doing that?”

his voice was like god, always near.

coming from impossible places.

“simple parlor tricks, i’m sure. they occur to allow the ‘ifs’ and ‘shoulds’ extrapolated from likelihoods; to digress, to help you digest that i am god and as such you must heed my every word and turn will to deed.. to make you say: yes, oh lord”

his voice piped from the drain in the bath, slowly circulating to the sink, to the vent above the sink and outside the door. always fitting its surrounding perfectly.

“thank you”

“thank you?” he croaked

“oh lord”

“good”

the clock in the kitchen down the hall, clicked slow and insistent. the pendulum, a monolith in space. shearing reality.

“stand up, place your back flat against the wall”

reflex reaction drew me back.

strings pulling me gently into place.

silent and perfect

my vision blurred. selective portions outlining a frame similar to a human. like heat in the air but in the shape of a silhouette. it seemed so real. i couldn’t breathe. all the air went out of the room. my throat was swollen and thick. it felt dry and panicked. something was choking me. it felt like a shark was gliding in the air. it couldn’t see me. i couldn’t see it..but we both knew of the other. with hunger and apprehension.

a rush of air knocked me down and i was okay again

heaped on the floor, crumpled.

neck hard against the bathroom wall.
the strings are cut. the puppet falls.

“we have another job for you”

i sat there, out of my mind and terrified.

“down the hall is a shelf, behind the shelf is a wall, brick and worn. the brick will wear where worn and yield to hammer and point..beyond where point will take to mortar is where you will find your next order”

..

“yield to me for i am god”

with that, he left. a rush of wind. the beat of great wings.

i went down the hall, frantic and dizzy. kneeling, reverent and dazed. i took a handful of books and stacked them to the side; i took another handful and another and another. Pushing the last in a frenzy, removing the shelf and pawing at the wall to find a weakness of mortar, a difference, a variation in color.

i stared and stared at the wall. i found a hammer and a screwdriver and started chipping away at the aging mortar. dragging the mortar out and out till the brick edges were raised.
but nothing

no signs, no hints, no suggestions of a clue.

exhausted, i slept.


..


i dreamt of meat. i walked in the woods. i walked a quiet wood. past a lake. up a mountain and down. i felt at peace. serene. and as if it meant nothing, i smelled raw meat on the air. i hadn't noticed it before. the smell was everywhere and everything. i looked down. the forest floor was meat, quivering like gelatin, but meat. i looked behind me at the path i just trod. my footsteps were a fresh wound. the trees seized. imitation tree bark. imitation moss. imitation leaves. rings of mushrooms. wriggling and writhing like a wounded animal. the world was fearful.

a loud crack. metal on metal.

i snapped to. like a snake cracked like a whip.

my heart beat wild, like an old engine trying to find its rhythm.
felt like a knife wedged in my chest

the apartment shook and stamped. the cold trains move a little louder through the cheap part of town. a brick shook loose and rested by my face. startled. fully awake now. i turned the brick over. and over. but nothing. i looked into the hole from which the brick fell. a small matchbook was stuffed in the back, i read it and knew my orders.

It's Nice To Be Nice

it’s nice to be nice. people around here always say it. it’s nice to be nice. it’s kind of our motto. and our town is nice. the post office is unlike any other in the country. no one gets upset. everyone goes at an even keel. and no one troubles one another. i heard of a town where everyone’s nice to one another. well that’s where i live.

it’s not that trouble never falls on us. i got my car repossessed. but the man was very nice about it. i was upset. but i was nice about it. there’s always a nice way to do anything. if you slit a man’s throat and offer him a smile, he smiles back. he sits and smiles. and in a very short amount of time, the man is dead. but at least he’s nice about it.

it’s nice to be nice.

our town was founded on this principal. its in the town charter dating back three hundred years. we like it this way. and we keep that tradition alive.

there is one amendment to this clause. if you can’t be nice. if you need to be mean. like you’re grinding your teeth down to nubs and it’s been building and building for years behind a smile that just feels so damn weary. it’s a great effort always smiling, the bones in your face ache with it. but yea, if you need to be mean, you are free to be mean. you are free to spit curses and drool madly at someone. but that someone gets payment in return.

in our town, where everyone is nice and for the most part happy. we trade nastiness in kind. if you prod your finger in your wife’s face, she gets to chop that finger off. if you’re just so damn mad that you’re willing to part with a finger here or a toe there, then so be it.

it’s nice to be nice.

in our town, where everyone is nice and for the most part happy. it is our civic duty to carry a cleaver with us at any time. this is very important. every man, woman, and child carries their cleaver with them. the punishment must be meted out at the moment of offense. it’s like when a dog shits the carpet. you smash that dog’s face in its shit. immediately. so it knows that it did wrong and can associate that wrong doing with its punishment. its the same thing with the citizens of our town, where everyone is nice and for the most part happy.

it’s nice to be nice.

ritual is key to our prosperity. when i do wrong. i know i did wrong. because my neighbor severed what was left of my wrist the moment i cursed him for keeping me up all night with his cousin’s birthday party. they are a wild bunch. but it was my fault for not addressing my neighbor with civility. i know i did wrong. i just let my temper get the best of me. i guess i’ve always been this way.

everyone in town knows me. i’m the mean one. the hot head. the one who doesn’t really smile anymore. they fixed that. my smile. i can be a mean one. and the more they take, the harder it is for me to keep my cool. i have to learn to keep my cool. i lose my cool. i can’t lose my cool. got to learn to stay calm. and smile. oh yeah. i forgot about my smile.

doreen the smiling queen. she helped me with my smile. pigtails and a grin as wide as the day is long. doreen in the yellow dress. it was her eighth birthday. her mother baked her a big angel food cake with bright yellow frosting. just how doreen likes it. her mother felt sorry for me. sitting all alone on my porch. propped up carefully in my special chair. reggie from the pharmacy built it for me. he cushioned it just right so i wouldn’t get bed sores anymore. nice guy, that reggie.

it’s nice to be nice.

anyway, doreen’s mother, nell, felt sorry for me. just a heap of nothing, all by my lonesome. so she sends doreen over on her birthday to give me a piece of that big yellow cake. she was scared, i think. but who could blame her. little girls at her age can be squeamish.

my flies got a whiff of that big yellow cake. and started fluttering about happy as can be. i could see beads of sweat on little doreen’s brow. she didn’t know what to say bless her heart. she just stood there mumbling. muh-muh-muh-mumbling. now i wasn’t as happy then as i am now, so i may have been a bit coarse. and on her birthday, the poor thing.

she said ‘why don’t you smile’

i said ‘why don’t you sit on a fire hydrant and spin’

i was just so mean. all the time. i should have said:

i don’t smile because

your beloved neighbors

chopped off my fingers

and then my toes

and bit by bit,

and year by year,

i became less and less

your mother chopped off my foot

when i cursed her

for not joining me at the town dance

she did it, right there

at the dance, for everyone to see

and my face was flushed

and my blood was up

so i cursed her

and bless her heart

she had to mete out

my punishment

as i spoke it

so that i would know

that i had done wrong

not just to know

but to feel it in my gut

that i had done wrong.

and poor little doreen. doreen the smiling queen. pigtails and a grin as wide as the day is long. doreen in the yellow dress. with tears in her eye, hiccuping wildly, never losing that big old cheshire cat grin. she knew what was required of her. and she took the edge of her cleaver, almost as big as her. she dragged the cleaver along my lower lip. and just like that i had a big old cheshire cat grin. just like her. and bless her heart, now i don’t have to force a smile.