He come stepping through grass ever so slow as he does, passing over and granting indifference to a cluster of ants swarming in an ants’ nest.
He look up with face smiling all glistening solitude. All shaky hands and spittle resolving and lining his quaky foundation.
We hope on him to line his pockets.
He keep go along and we do watch him in silence. We to observe him and see what to repeat. His actions all glorious, though we do hate him. This bastard oppressor, he suck at our doors. He do not know what we feel out toward him and likely he won’t never will.
Our doors is all locked, we watch from out window. Him who does step through as slow as like snails, he so careful to never step and harm a small being.
Him ever so careful, he is. We seeing his hands as they jibber and twitch about his cold body, check now his cufflinks, check now his buttons. He wipe down his brow, he scratch at his nose, him to never let fingers a-come to a rest.
Though we may have mis-spake, for now once now or twice so he does stop his fiddling and bark out in sing-song syllables:
“3. 1. 18. 4. 9. 1. 3. 19.”
And we dare not to question it.
While in general we do as instructed and scrawl out scribblings about his behavior, in this we reject. It have gone now too far.
We do not write it down, we do not dare translate.
We been so mistaken.
Him out there, he checking all cufflinks and snappy lapels, he turn head and he eye us, he spy through our window and give us a grin.
It shake to our core as our day here is there and it lies out there with him.
As we sits weeping he out there is dancing and blasting his grin up there onto the sky.
Arms gone straight and fingers done twitching, he hold his face up and bark like a bad dog. It give us a scare and it give us a start. We to jump out our skin if we wasn’t sealed it.
He dancing and singing like it say he would do. We consult we do our scribbly scrawls and we search for a purpose. We quiver in our sick discovery.
And then here come Organ, down from heaven and up from hell. A blasting all screechy and beautiful noise it is, shaking our silence and to cheer a fainting mind. He make us all to wipe at our eyes, to stare out our window into the Whole World.
Now living out there is our Organ resplendent. He live and he breathes all same air as we do.
Everyone laughed we were all so happy.
Jim came running down the hill.
"Tattered Title in a Different Time"
Copyright: © 2011 Josh Myers
Josh Myers is one of them humans living in them hideous states, particularly New Jersey, specifically Lambertville. He eats and sleeps mostly, and writes like a good fishy. He’s too fat and is going to die probably. He is not him, though could be if he has to, though does he? We think not.
He is not, we repeat, NOT him.
He appears here on gracious loan from the A.B.C., thank you.
Please refer all complaints to the Consultant.