Why does the hierarchy matter so? Calico adage flows
down from prose addled with salvaged bones and an amber glow
Egyptologist went to school off a Cambridge loan, studying by a lamp at home
What asphyxiated mantra lies beneath the sandy knoll of the Sphinx
which can’t be known through a glyph, since in summertime I fled
Is it justified to call me a necrophiliac if I elect to mummify the dead?
After years of waiting, Happy Dunbar once again had what he referred to as the feeling. It was a sense – a frisson, as an old French girlfriend once described it – that he had gotten only a few times in his life. That, he understood, was why he could vividly remember each and every instance. The first came when, as he often joked later, he integrated a black church in Newark, where a visiting minister named Solomon Burke – known in the secular world as The King of Rock & Soul – filled not just the building, but also Happy’s needy soul, with a belief in the healing power of music. In those days, Happy, who had yet to acquire his music biz moniker, was rarely the least bit happy.
They’re getting older,
five brothers and sisters,
all with degrees, jobs, families,
nice homes, good lives, happier
than most except when they must
fly to the home of their childhood
and settle their mother’s estate.
blood, the good Christian
angry at his lack of power, skin broken
under the onslaught of memories, terror and omniscience
transferred to different targets:
me. wings pump
when I talk but won’t take me away.
he doesn’t understand me…
Bright yellow flashed along her sides, blinding and twisting deep. Then, velvet darkness resettled, unbothered and waiting. Emptiness stretched out and yawned loudly, refusing to end, and the past fell behind. We know where we begin, but where do we end? The road never tells.
I always wanted to run. She called my name, but I was stuck at the front door. I never knew where she would take me, and I was scared of where I would end. But my mistakes have left me blinded and twisted, and I regret ignoring her call. I should have ran. Instead, I teased her with little trips down my haven, staying close to the nest, but who was fooling who?
In June 2013, I received the news that Zero Books would publish a collection of my film theory essays. The book U.ESS.AY: Politics and Humanity in American Film is a slim tone of critical dissections of modern cinema and pop culture, featuring the likes of Schwarzenegger, Lynch,Shatner, Swayze, Hopper, and even Kim Jong-Il, who turns up a couple of times actually. The book is a phantasmagorical adventure in celluloid and digital film, to be, or not to be taken seriously, whatever your preference. When Zero offered me the publishing contract, I was thrilled to say the least. Not only was this publisher my first choice, they were my only choice; it was publish with them or publish with no one.
It was deadline night. The newspaper was being put to bed. Phones rang with last minute comments, and fingers pounded along the keyboard. Cigar smoke rose out of the editor’s office and into the small room, where the reporters hunkered down and finished writing their story.
First year on the job, Kingston Linders was assigned to the police blotter. He was itching to tango with politics, but the senior reporter had that gig. He would love to do community events and issues, but that was also taken. And he was the rookie, so he got what he was stuck with. And every day, horror stories came over web and fax, and he had to dig through them.
It wasn’t my fault. I did everything right. She provoked me, and that’s why I was here, terrorized and now trapped. And now, they weren’t letting me leave.
I was sitting behind a brown, metal table. There were hoodlums to the right of me, and one promised assistance. When I looked back at him again, he was gone, and I was left alone to vend for myself. Then, I faced the lawyer, who had her assistant blocking my way to escape. I gave her the whole story, and they seemed to have backed off. But why were they not allowing me to leave this place?
She wanted me to tell her again. I repeated my tale, and then I grew annoyed. I had to go to work. I was late, and I couldn’t afford to be late. I thought that would work. Instead, she handed me her cell, and she told me to call my boss.