graphic by Oberc

This Little Yellow Schoolbus

While waiting for the schoolbus the kid and I discuss the limpings of Marxian theory the transitional superiority of Capitalism environmental apocalypse technology as dark horse savior the star wars force concept as metaphor for selfishness versus altruistic giving nature as the true nature of the struggle between good and evil and mercifully the bus comes before my tired middle-aged brain uses up its repertoire or the caffeine boost ebbs.
I watch the yellow blur fade into a snow cloud and am thankful that I still can hide the truth that chaos fills every snowflake between our and the schoolbus door and that all he will have to fight it will be delusion and the love of kind people until age buggers his future so he can laughingly let his parts fall.
And I smile.

Omens in the Toybox

I read the story: three boys hog-tied and bludgeoned to death ten feet from their bicycles.
Genitals cut from their bodies in a park where they played.
I thought of their eyes pools of terror and then blank like a toad's when held belly up.
I can not fathom the worms of madness that eat a man's soul and leave him pus for dreams.
I want to look in the mad man's eyes to see the extent of our dissolution.
I want to kiss the boy's foreheads and tell them it was just a nightmare.
I want to cleave my rib cage and offer my heart to the rabid, hungry Gods who tease us with love.
Crows falling dead from the sky and everyone is afraid to look up.

My Generation

My generation we had that winged breath those star drippings the taste of promise of harmony eternal
It lasted a moment then we sold it to ease our separate fears.
Now the air is brown the breathing becomes hard and we are just another generation of hungry bugs with brains.
Meanwhile the planet shrinks.

© 1998, Dean Creighton