In The Belly Of The Blog

Morning and night in The South Bronx of America, I see out the window a funeral home with 3 Pit Bulls that roam the roof like mythological Cerberus, the three-headed dog that prevents lost souls from escaping The Underworld.

Ashes to ashes, from dust you came to dust you shall return and, as the Irish are wont to say at wakes more often than not, may he or she be kept in the memory of The Almighty Who is from Everlasting to Everlasting. Who wants to remember heartache?

I’m tormented and scarred by grief in a universe that, according to Albert Einstein, wastes nothing. I visualize anger into The Red Eye of Jupiter to keep it in storage. I have to contain myself.

Behind me are Jesus and his Apostles on the face of a kitchen clock. Any moment now, people run of time. Some are lucky if they can get a last supper. I look up at the clouded evening and see a plane that makes me feel the loss of another vision of Persephone: a painter from faraway Venezuela far, it seems, as the planet Venus. Her birthday is 9/11.

The absence of love breeds terror and dreamless nights.

However, this is America where one can take a nightmare straight to DreamWorks.

Or down the hill and across dark waters to Riker’s Island Prison, poverty’s Big Brother.

Writing this is the worst of solitary confinements.

 I want freedom.

I found Excalibur within an old Win95.

The war of ideas rages now and the world can never sue for peace of mind.

It’s a firefight for higher education to The End.