Sunday, June 29, 2014

For fun...

Cats rule! Dogs… not so much.

Here is why:

Cats are soft and fragrant. Dogs are smelly mud puddles with feet.

Cats only meow when necessary, unlike dogs, who bark FOREVER.

Cat farts are quiet, very low on the decibel level, and they actually make the air fresher. Dog farts are clouds of toxic gas that kill surrounding vegetation.

Cats don't run in circles and make goofy faces when served food; they thank you with tender body rubs against the leg, then go and eat like a normal person.

They are clean; they sometimes lick butt, but their tongues never smell butty. Dogs, on the other hand, smell exactly the same at both ends.

If a cat knocks your beer over, it's on purpose, which shows intelligence. When a dog does that, it's because he's chasing an invisible squirrel.

Cats can catch and torture fish. Dogs chase sticks and bring them back. Wow?

Cats poop carefully and without drama.

When a cat sleeps on my lap, there is warmth, balance and symmetry. Dogs balance awkwardly and fall between my legs, slobbering as they try to fit where they just won't fit.

Cats drink out of the toilet only if necessary. Dogs will drink out of a toilet with a human head in it. And they drink, and drink, and drink, [checks watch], and drink.

The only cool thing about dogs is that they aren't as cool as cats.

Cats rule!

Friday, June 20, 2014

Misery of He Who is Older than All Men

This prose poem was first published in the Winter 2013-2014 issue of Tales of the Talisman, and was influenced, as much of my work is, by the early writings of Lord Dunsany.

Misery of He Who is Older than All Men

He who is older than all men suffers a misery deeper than the sum of man’s wars and plagues. Left, for reasons known only to the gods, to ponder his existence amidst the cosmic fog outside space and time, to know only his purpose, his destiny, a task performed mindlessly and without pause.

As a consequence, many questions relative to his plight arise but are never answered. He bears no recollection of birth, no sense of an earlier time or even of time itself, save for hints gleaned from the ever-heightening awareness of mankind as it fumbles through its chaotic existence.

He cannot talk to men. There has never been kith or kin with which to converse. Yet now and again come flashes of having once been human: a cave strewn with ancient paintings, the dirty faces of woman and child, crude weapons in the hand, the fearful eyes of his prey and the grim stone idols of worship . . . .

Adding to his misery is the probability that these flashes are merely residual energies from the endless stream of human souls passing through his boney fingers.

Was I truly once a man? he thinks. How long must I endure this limbotic state? How long before I may again know the thrill of the hunt, the touch of a woman? Certainly there is another to replace me.

And he cannot help but be convinced of a return to life, for all souls make their way back to Earth in one form or another—to this cycle he is first witness.

But he who is older than all men and whose core is a diamond of misery must endure his current destiny without fail, for always there is war and rampant disease, starvation, senseless murder, agedness . . . .

For who knew, that he who first personified Death, became Death. That with a cave wall and crude ochres had released it from the intangible realm of nightmare.