Seventh Sky
i am in a village with some priests
there sits in between us a black dog with a pus filled lump
there is nothing in site but mounds of mud
all of a sudden the priests have begun to clap in unison
theyre thumping their feet
and his years old lump just burst
there is a shower of pus
amidst the spectacle of prayer
of miracle
this black dog puts his tongue in a water bowl
the priests bathe him with saffron
and he runs and curls in the vast vast mud
I am.......
bin bin bind
geno geno genocide
rap rap rape
pla pla play
i will play with your trau trau trauma
i will laugh on your trama
riddle around your tragedy
kill you
put a bullet in your chest
despite all what you have been through
i want you to suffer more
your women to be roped against trees and raped
shutup
trees are nice
dont make it optically appeasing
i want your women to be roped against concrete pillars and raped
i want your youth to be amputated
their dreams to be.............
sheeeesh
you dont mix dreams with amputation
i want your schools to be bulldozed
your hospitals to be droned
your mothers to be shot
your fathers to be shot
your city to be plain as flatbread
i want you to be nothing
and i tell it to your dead body that
when your dead body will stand at a podium
and say that 'i am dead'
i will blame you for your death
i will censor that speech by your deadbody
i will block all algorithms
for im cool
im flashy
im suave
your speech will be against my sensitivities
my rights
it will hurt my sentiments
it will leave a stench at the podium
i wont even let your deadbody talk
now you must be knowing who i am
but will you tell me who i am
if you do
it will be against my rights
Void
walking through a dark night
a dark cobbled street
not a single light visible
till
till i saw a dingy bulb through a presumably dampened cracked french window
hunger there was plenty
i elbowed through the glass and entered the room
empty it was
from there i entered another room
empty too
the only lit house was dampened with emptiness
as always
i had reached my conclusion just by the second room
the second page
so i decided to walk through the emptiness
walk through more rooms
that i did
room after room i found lit low watt bulbs but noone there
there were books with pages so damp that they were almost see-through
wooden sculptures with dust
but i kept thinking that someone must have switched on the bulbs
i reached the fusebox only to find that the bulbs were direct
yet they hadnt fused so someone must have lit them soon
finally i reached the only room at the first floor
it had a terrace but to a dark sky
that only room had a paper glued to the wall
the paper read
" so you like so many before you have reached here -
you will go from here too
this is not a haunted house
nor a cured curse
this is lit emptiness
and if ever in life you want to think of lit emptiness
of buffered mutiny
of rampant tyranny
of adjectivised mysery
of a pulse contingent life
and
and
of a lit emptiness
visit this house on the darkest street again
and maybe that time the street is lit
but this house is dark
that will still be lit emptiness"
Mission Critical
The drink is delicious, and unlike anything I’ve ever had before. The bartender says it’s a national specialty. The fact that I get to charge it to the company makes it even better. I lean back and savor it, mentally thanking the anonymous courier for setting the drop-off at a plush bar rather than by a dumpster in the alley.
I was on my third when the job arrived in the form of an SD card tucked into a napkin under a cocktail that the bartender said was courtesy of the man in the booth. I looked. He was a bit of a parody of a spook in a suit, trench coat, and dark glasses, but he tipped his wide-brimmed hat at me as he slid out of the booth and walked out the door, and I decided that after years in the business one had to develop a sense of humor about all this subterfuge.
I stuffed the package in my pocket as I sipped the drink. It was tart, pleasant, and was a dusty maroon color. “Farier grapes, only grown on the foothills in this county,” the bartender remarked as he saw me examining the drink. “Local specialty.”
I nodded, finished the drink, closed out my tab, and headed out. I took the short walk to the hotel to sober up, turning my collar up at the chilly sleet but leaving my head bare. It’s late, but there are plenty of passersby and the canals are lit with strings of light. I feel a bit like a shadow lurking under the vitality of the city.
My room is a suite with a kitchenette that’s well stocked for a weeks’ stay. I hang up my coat and toss the SD card on the desk. I will open it up shortly, but not right now. I can feel the 16-hour flight catching up with me, and I know that there are hundreds of pages of data waiting for me there. Data that requires a clear mind.
I lay down - just for a moment, I tell myself.
I open my eyes in the passenger seat of a car and am immediately thrown against the window as the driver executes a sideways drift. Several cracks of a high-caliber rifle sound and the back window shatters. A shotgun lands on my lap as the passenger window rolls down.
“Help me out here!” the driver yells. He swerves into oncoming traffic and back out again. A series of pileups blockade the road, but our pursuers are still behind us.
My preferred weapon is not the shotgun, but I move as if it is. I lean out the window and catch glimpses of metallic high rises and flashing billboards before my eye catches on the black tinted SUV coming up alongside. I fire and the round punches a starburst pattern into the windshield. I duck back in to reload, and when I peek out again, the SUV is still behind us. I fire a second at its right wheel, and the tire bursts, sending it into a tailspin.
The driver executes a hard right turn and guns it the wrong way onto an onramp. A cacophony of angry honks pursues us onto the highway, but the SUV is gone. My teeth rattle as we bump over a meridian. Then we merge and it’s abruptly peaceful again.
I sit back, staring ahead, heart pounding as much from the confusion as the exchange of gunfire. The sudden peace was unnerving, and it reminded me that I had no idea where I was.
“What’s your name?” The driver says suddenly.
“Uh…” I am aware that I have a cover identity as much as a real one, but right now neither come to mind. I feel as if my brain is suspended in molasses.
The driver takes this in stride. “Have you seen the news today?”
“No,” I say more definitively. I was in the sky for most of today.
A panel opens on the dashboard. An orange sphere rises out of the space. It looks at me, like a blinking eye on a stalk. Below it is a section of folded black rubber that makes a faint shushing noise as it expands and contracts.
“Huh.” I should find this strange, but the blinking sphere is mesmerizing.
“There was a house fire.”
I don’t respond.
“The whole family escaped, but they left the dogs behind.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. I look out the window and get a faint impression of a city, advanced and futuristic, but also gritty and hard-boiled. This is definitely not the city I fell asleep in.
I turn to look at the driver for the first time. He’s a man in his thirties, with cropped brown hair and stubble on his chin. Sharp eyes squint at the road from underneath a heavy brow.
“This isn’t real,” I say to him. I try the door handle, but it’s locked.
He glances at me then back at the road. “How do you feel about the dogs?” He asks as if I hadn’t spoken.
The bellows pump. The sphere makes mechanical clicking noises as it continues to blink at me. I pull and pull at the door handle. The man continues driving calmly.
“This is a dream,” I say. The door handle snaps off. I look at my hand and see that it isn’t flesh, but a silvery metal skeleton that flexes under my gaze. I look over my shoulder at the driver.
“Gotcha,” Deckard says, with grim satisfaction.
I wake up.
Why I Write
He really liked my writing, actually. He was fascinated with my words. He had an uncanny ability to memorize any passage of literature no matter how large it was. He read every poem, short story, and even edited my first novel. I guess he thought it would impress me if he could quote my own words back at me. I found it awkward. At first, I really enjoyed it. He was more enthusiastic to read my work than any friend, romantic or otherwise, had ever been. But it changed. He started asking me if I'd written anything. If I had, he just absolutely had to get his hands on it. I'd always said my writing was a part of me. Quoting my words back to me, he said he just wanted to get to know me.
I know lying is wrong, but when he asked if I had created anything recently, no matter what had flowed onto the page, I said no. I preferred to volunteer pieces for his consumption and criticism. It worked for a little while. I could relax and write whatever I wanted to. My therapist recommended journaling and even gave me a composition book to use.
In my free time, I often used the journal. I hadn't handwritten much in a while, but it was even more cathartic than my keyboard. He caught me one time, writing an entry with a poem and a drawing of a bird tacked onto the bottom.
He asked to see it, and when I refused, it was like a cold breeze blew into the room. His entire demeanor changed. It darkened in a physical way that I'd never experienced from him before. "Are you hiding something from me?"
Naive as I was, I found no other argument to prove my innocence than to hand over the entry. And to my deepening horror, he flipped open to the first page. Any protest that the words in there were private, were hushed and waved away as if I were just a fly. I told him that I couldn't watch him read it in front of me and I let him take it home.
I wish I could go back to that moment sometimes and dump him right there on the spot. He claimed a relationship was built on trust, and if I didn't trust him, then we couldn't be together. But I could have done two things: first, I could have said, alright, then I don't trust you and we would have ended. Second, I could have accused him of not trusting me. But I was so afraid of losing him, of losing someone who cared about me, that I let him walk all over me.
I stopped writing.
I lied to my therapist about the journal.
I attempted a few soulless poems. Though likely some of my prettiest verses, all for him, I've since deleted them.
He thanked me for my openness with the journal when he gave it back to me. I still have the journal. I never filled in the last twenty pages or so, even though I had wanted, originally, to complete the entire thing like a physical copy of my memories, my emotions, and my ponderings. I haven't ever gone back to read it, despite the memory lapses, for there was more than just the manipulation. I don't keep it to remind myself of the pain and stupidity of that year and a half. I keep it to remind myself that I won't be naive or allow myself to be smothered. I keep it to remind myself to keep writing. Not for him, not for my friends, not for my family, not even for my husband who I'm completely enamored with. I keep writing for myself.
chikling
spring green walls in my room
dark green leatherite sofas
dresser circa 1947
sofa circa 1970
strongbox circa 1880
stupid ply bent bookshelf circa 2017
whenever i stand before that mirror
dark dark circles under my eyes
hair puffed like burnt flour
skin tanned by an anti sunscreen sun
still very beautiful
imagine all those who must have stood before this mirror
stood dressed - then undressed
hands that must have touched this strongbox
its as if im paraded by history
paraded so much that im removed from the present
its as if the present is the past and the future but not the present
crowled or crawled by deep thoughts
pause right here you dumb fuck
deep thinkers are lying alone in distant distant graveyards
alone
alone with their thoughts as eaten as their bones
intellect sells
intellect without a heavy tag is really no intellect at all
be pseudo
wear a white tee
beige coat
show biceps
a brown rayban
a five o'clock shadow
khakis
boatshoes
a casual patek on your wrist
a hardtop convertible
and after u tick these boxes
talk pseudo
talk about thimpu and gandhara
even if you dont know jackshit
so save your intellect
bend your bookshelves no more
for the ants in the grave wont spare
Hell Gone Corporate
Sure, the book happened to be in my seat. I found the book, but I didn't find it. It was placed on the plane meticulously. It was part of my fate. As the book explains, we all have a fate. Mine is to visit the realm of the living to see what kind of horror humans are making on their own. I then take that information to Hell's main office, so they can make ‘improvements’ to the punishments and general awfulness of the place. Hell still finds a way to be less bad than living for me. No wars or discrimination, everyone is treated like shit. Even the billboards they added recently aren't as unhinged as some on the sides of freeways or toll roads. It's incredible humans aren't the Demons, and Earth isn't Hell. Sorry, I didn't mention what the book is called, did I? It's a leatherbound copy of On a Pale Horse. Thing is, what I see in Hell isn't what anyone else sees. Everyone sees what has been determined to be the correct level of bad for them. I have to continue returning to Earth because it's my own personal hell. That's also why Hell looks very corporate to me. Its appearance has changed over my existence here. I've been part of Hell so long, it once looked like polluted Victorian England during the height of the industrial revolution. It has evolved to match whatever the most heinous human setting is at current ever since. I don't remember my human life anymore, yet it haunts me. Next time I get on the plane, I won't touch the book. Funny how the others in Hell think anything can scar me more than They Live. Especially now that I know you could switch aliens for Demons and the premise wouldn't be too far off. The flaw being that a mistake such as allowing humans to get their hands on the special glasses would never happen. Or would it? I don’t know how much of a difference it would make anyway. If anything the Demons in disguise are more sane than the actual people anyway.
Officer Shaw watches me as I slowly get out of the van. I quickly close the door behind me, hoping he doesn't see the mess that's inside.
"Do you know how fast you were going?" he asks me.
I shake my head and try to give him my most charming smile. "Why, no, officer," I tell him, "but I'm sure I wasn't going nearly as fast as you were when you had to catch up to me."
He scoffs, a break in his formality, before returning to his stone-cold stare. "I wouldn't have had to chase after your vehicle if it wasn't already violating safety laws."
"Well, we both know that's not the whole truth, officer." I wait a moment before continuing, relishing the confusion written on his face. "You were following me since that gas station I stopped at a couple miles back. I suggest you fess up and drop the sheriff act."
"Do you know that you can do what you do?" he asks cryptically, taking a step closer. "How long have you known?"
"Known what?" I ask sweetly. "That you were following me for several miles?"
Shaw chuckles, taking a step closer until he's leaning down close enough to where I can feel his breath on my face. "That you are special, different. You're a Convincer, eh? One little sentence and everyone's doing your bidding?"
I try to back away from him, but his hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You'll be a good addition to the others," he says, more to himself than me. He smiles at me. "Don't you know you want to kiss me?"
Before I can process what's happening, I'm leaning towards him and soon his mouth is on mine. He pulls away and then hops into the front seat of my van while I stare at him like an idiot.
Mindlessly, I get into the passenger's seat. "What was that?"
Shaw chuckles as he starts driving away. "That, darling, was the work of a good Convincer playing off your emotions. You'll learn more where we're going."
Signs
I was vibrating as the airbus catapulted through the heavy, steel grey cloud cover. A forecast of stormy weather embraced the plane as it gained altitude. Overhead bins rattled in unison. I clutched the aged, leather-bound novel a bit tighter as if that would steady me through the yoyo turbulence. The book was a mystery – On a Pale Horse – not your everyday fun, vacation read. It was tucked in the navy, mesh seat pocket, forgotten, separated from its owner. I knew the representation of the Pale Horse in the Book of Revelation. Out of curiosity I started reading it during the take-off delay.
That lead blanket feeling of takeoff lifted. We must have reached the cruising level. I was engrossed in the book but became aware of the eerie quiet. My overhead light flickered. It cast a halo over me. A flash out the window drew my attention. “What the Hell?” I gasped. An illuminated billboard sat on a cloudy patch of nothingness.
I focused on the words: “You’ll flunk out of college. You’re not disciplined enough or smart enough.” The book dropped with a soft thud. Another board appeared. “Matt is going to leave you for that overachieving redhead he works with.” I blinked rapidly. I didn’t want to look out the window again but couldn’t stop myself. “Friends? Ha. Didn’t you see the Insta post of them at dinner without you?” Why? Where did these come from? “Your dad is terminal. Not much time left. Why haven’t you visited?” A tear slid down my cheek. A heavy sadness weighed me down. I tried to unpack what I read and the bizarreness of it.
I reached down and retrieved the fallen book. I closed my eyes pinching the tension that was forming on the bridge of my nose. The novel must have stirred up my insecurities. “More like a personal hell” I muttered. I snapped the cover shut and put it back in the pocket holder. The airplanes’ overhead lights flicked on. The volume of conversations increased around me. The flight attendant’s landing instructions played over the intercom system. Plane life resumed.
Upon landing, I exited the plane as fast as possible. I wanted to put that ride behind me. Matt was picking me up and we were meeting some of his work friends for drinks. I have a final paper due but can pull an all-night work session or do it tomorrow. I need to unwind; I need a drink. I have too much stress in my life. That’s the only explanation for the mid-sky “this is your life” advertisement. I inserted my earbuds and hit my playlist. I froze mid-step and looked down at my phone. This is NOT on my list. ACDC’s “Highway to Hell” filled my head.
April 2024, K. Nave
The Red Carpet
Central Park smells better in the fall. That doesn't say too much, but if you've ever had the displeasure of taking a walk through in the heat of summer, you'd know what I mean. It smells like dirt, rot, and earth. I feel uncomfortable watching her undress bit by bit. I have trouble not being unnerved by the leaves I step on as I trample her youth and virility bit by bit. Soon she'll die.
A glance around the park shows the birds, the people, the animals, and insects that enjoy what she offers. The shade, the fields, the flowers, the walkways, and the water-features. Sometimes I wonder if Shel Silverstein walked the same path I do. Did he try to pick around the yellow and orange leaves plastered to the asphalt?
Too often, I hear people speak about phases of life like the changing of the seasons. If this is it, I don't want it. She buds every spring like a little baby. She opens her eyes and learns and grows. She sprouts into a full woman. Fertile with life of every species, she offers everything to them. We don't even thank her.
We marvel at the colors in the fall. They are the last markers of her beauty. Some travel a hundred miles to catch the foliage. But she's dying. We all sigh and simply wait for the birth of a new year, a new season. Will next year bless us more? We don't even thank her. Have we ever thanked her? Rather, we toss silver cans in her bushes and cigarette butts on her trails.
When the leaves drop and turn brown, we wait and wait and wait for spring. What about the old crone that waits, gnarled and bare? Some admire her pretty white hair on the tree branches and bushes, but we simply wait for her to die, so we may enjoy her daughter's benefits.
She gives, and gives, and gives. We take, and take, and take. When there is nothing left, we sit back and wait until she's dead. Then, we may enjoy ourselves once more. For what is fall but the reminder that she's dying and with patience, we may help ourselves to her fruits.
Central Park is abuzz with activity. People take photos of the leaves. The birds perch in the branches. The path is covered and I have no choice but to walk the red carpet that fall has laid out.