A man walking west suddenly with raised fist shouts
—Damn you, Truth, why must you hide among thickets!
Toward him then with blank eyes the denizen chuckle among themselves, oddly, not pointing. He resembles a malformed child with large hands walking a clockwork dog through a field of razors and daisies.
Yet, this is not what moves them to jeer.
Neither is it the voice with which he shouted, which sounds like a lame foot being dragged across moist pebbles.
Somewhere, smiling among the broken china with the wisdom of some horrible knowledge in your eyes, blue like the scattered and fractured fleur-de-lis on Grandma’s dinner plates. You told me in the flicker of an ancient TV set of those late night terror visions where angels with wings like twisted wire and charcoal and burnt barbie dolls…
and then the Boeing 727 of my compassion ditched into the suburb of my heart.
—
© Brentley 2011
Five guys rob a Shoemaker’s factory and fight to death over the contents of a mysterious box they find in the loot.
The box cannot be opened.
The lone survivor discovers that the box is not a ‘box’ but a solid block of metal made to look like a box to trick thieves.
In an unbelievable rage he pops a neuron, goes mad and ends up in an asylum.
In the asylum he discovers that he is God.
It might even be true.
—–
© Brentley 2011
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