Volume VI Number III

June 2003 

cover art by Michelle Crumly

B.A. Daley

Whereas the rest of the world is merely dry humping, I am going for the full gamut of possibility. I am really going to fuck. I have begun this, and it is only the beginning of much more. Grandeur is so near, and I laugh in the face of your doubt. Your doubt is so absurd to me that I roar madly with laughter in the face of it. My umbilical cord has been snipped, but I realize that yours has not. And you stay on in the false happiness of that womb while my naked flesh feels the pierce of natural air. You are all suffocating. You choke on fluid, and it keeps you quiet. There is no need for you to speak in the stability that is your hollow existence. The saddest thing being that you think you are speaking. But I know the fluid drowns whatever voice you may have. So while you gargle in the complacency of your amniotic fluid, I have already been born. And my birth was not stillborn, and my birth was not an abortion. For my birth was grand and the most beautiful and natural thing in all the universe. And I am not born to die but am being born again every day.
I see the world. I see the dog shit you liken to be a rose. I see your mouth full of empty piano keys. I witness your skull visages with flesh nowhere in sight. I take note of these things and know that you do not have a tongue to speak nor lips to form syllables. I see you shrug at remarkability, and I see the dry sockets you call eyeballs. And throughout this black hole you call a life, I see fraud. I hear your deception, and I know you will try to convince me of its validity. Because you�ve tried before, and one thing you never give up on is your evangelism promoting flesh emancipation.
“You slave. You fucking slave!”
You value nothing of the revolution. You don�t value rebels and artists but a skull-laden society. An enslaved race of the walking dead. Of skeletons without blood or skin. Of zombies and automatons. Of blind acceptance and obedience. So you get on-air. You are via satellite. And you pound your chest and wail:
“Begone ye who do not believe! Begone ye who grind rocks beneath your feet, and begone ye who transform dog feces into gold! Be out non-believers! Be out ye who spread the clouds to show us Heaven. Begone ye who are Satan�s progeny, and begone ye who cracked the stiff earth to show us Hell!”
And we laugh and smile our brightest ones to date. We hold hands and know the truth. We know we are rebel angels, and we know we have shown you Heaven. We know we are the true faithful ones- the fulfilled believers. We know of our power to perform miracles and giggle when you shout of all we�ve done. We grin from ear to ear, in clich� ridden splendor, at your foolish presumption that you believe. To liken you as believers would be to liken the grass as the true sky. But your belief, if it could ever be referred to as that, is in being shackled to the ground never to dance atop the clouds.
Your faith in bondage and imprisonment- your puny voice squealing out against the emancipation proclamation. Your evangelism is an altar at which the weak worship. A mirage that they see as the one and holy sacred temple. Because they want to believe your lies. Because deception comes naturally. Because a universe of lies is often blissful. But some do, on occasion, spot dog shit and wish to fling it at your projected image. We know some as such do exist, and we call out to them. To join our freedom train. To follow our underground railroad. To be unafraid.

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