Viral perpetration of the accepted
rites, swill to flow out from the
bottle and spit to flow back in. The worm remains at the bottom.
Cares to be cast out with the
demons and the space created
henceforth shall be the seat of
discontent. Said he, "I miss my sin.
I send
remittance to satan with each breath, razor underneath my
tongue in case I should run across jesus again." In the joint, he pulls
a wishbone with his jailers on thanksgiving. Gets
the short end of the
stick and stuck out a month in
solitary. It's hard not to stick out
when yr the only one there, but the floor is earth and
vermin are
like unto me. In medieval france every castle had an '
oubliette.' As
is the case with most words, this one comes from another--"Oublier." To
forget. They put you there and forgot about you. Most likely you slept,
if you slept at all, on a pile of mouldering bones. I remember them as
a particularly uncomfortable bed; to the vermin bed and occupant are
one and the same feast.
"Tell me truly," sez he upon his
return
to the world, "Am I forgotten?" Runs the silent gauntlet as no one
interferes as he walks straight out the
prison as he crosses the
dead-grass hangdog yard and the football game does not stop--a clod
fresh from the kickoff flies over his head--as he passes sleepy guards
at rusting gates as he treads for what could have been the first time
upon a dusty road as a bus passes and does not slow down. So he
continues to walk. Walks until the shoes with which he entered prison
(conveniently left outside his cell door as he also left, without a
word in either case) begin to fray and at this time he imagines that it
would be fitting if snow began to fall. But
no one is listening and
there is no snow. Not even rain; it was his second choice since he
feels he could use a shower. Walks until the shoes have fallen off and
as they do he reaches a bar. "
Garbage in, garbage out" he thinks,
also thinking that garbage would be better than nothing as a thing to
get out of life. Thinks of his position at the bottom of a hole, of a
bottle, of an infernal
pecking order. Thinks of a world of hungry
birds and unprotected nightcrawlers after a heavy rain. But there was
no rain. He continues to burrow towards solace and safety.
Silence
and
anonymity may be blessings here.
A felon walks into a
bar. Silence resounds and he asks, the first he's spoken freely in six
(don't ask why six, it just seemed like the right number) in six in six
in six in six in six years he asks, "What? Did somebody tell a
bad
joke?" Confronted with stares. No voices. Worms' only pockets are
of earth and do not contain the likes of keys and cash. Worms get no
free drinks, even when they have just crawled out of prison.