As Sure As The Pope Was Catholic

I was watching some news channel in the Social Stigma Bar as usual waiting for my dealer to show. There was a story about the funeral of Pope John Paul l. It was being broadcast from Saint Peter's Basilica in Vatican City. Instantly it captured my interest and I asked the bartender to turn up the volume. He gave me a questioning glare but followed through with my request.

Whenever I'm reminded of that place , I become one pissed off recovering Catholic. Let me explain the reason for my animosity.
It was during my college years, I majored in debauchery with a minor in celebratory participation well on my way to graduating with a Bachelor's Degree in irresponsibility. I was checking through the class schedule for the upcoming semester. Looking to enroll in classes not requiring any kind of enthusiastic commitment. I was informed there was a World Religion class with exactly that type of prerequisite. The Professor never took attendence or assigned homework. The only test given during the entire semester was a take home exam. It was a course requiring very little effort and was based on a Pass/Fail grading scale. When classes resumed for the semester unfortunately the professor who taught the course had died over the summer and was replaced by some Christian fundamentalist. It was rumored she was part of some religious cult and was rescued by some group her parents hired. She definitely took the subject matter seriously without adopting any of the past professor's methods.

As soon as possible I dropped the class and enrolled in a Classical Art and Music Appreciation class taught by a professor who had hung out with Ken Kesey and the Pranksters. 

It was one of the best classes I have ever experienced. I never missed a single class and got stoned before attending. I was sure the Professor did the same. He blasted the music through giant JBL speakers with the decibel level at maximum. It was so intense it felt as though you were in a concert hall. On a large white movie screen behind him he showed videos of Classic Art pieces while the music blared. These were the first music videos produced long before MTV. 
It was recommended to have a valid passport when signing up for the course. We were later informed the top fifteen students would be eligible to participate in a class field trip. This year the destination was Rome, Italy and Vatican City which included a tour of Saint Peter's Basilica as well as the Sistine Chapel. The cost had yet to be determined but there were scholarships available through a benevolent benefactor.

By some miraculous act of kindness by the Gods I qualified for the trip. I finished at fourteenth in class and was also awarded a scholarship from the University. My folks kicked in a few hundred dollars with some relatives also donating to the cause. Twelve days in Italy was next on my agenda. 

My grandfather passed a month before the trip leaving me his gold and diamond pinky ring. I cherished the ring and wore it proudly. It was a bit too large for my ring finger and at times slipped off of my hand. 

There I was in Italy contemplating what type of trouble was on the menu. On our first day we took a tour of the Saint Peter's Basilica while mass was in session. The scantily dressed, attractiveTour Guard asked that we be extremely quiet and speak in a whisper. She began passing out brochures with the history and facts pertaining to the Basilica. As I reached for one of the pamphlets my ring flew off of my finger. It was launched into the area where parishioners were receiving mass. 

"Goddamn it my ring!" I yelled.
Drawing the attention of the entire Cathedral. 

It pinged on the marble floor with a distinct echo. I could hear it rolling away under the pews. I ran after the ring but I was quickly captured by two Swiss Guards. They pulled me out from underneath the pews by my legs. 

When I resisted it caused them to become angry. Next they physically carried me out of the Cathedral ejecting me through a side exit which was the office of the Administrator. They guided me inside where I was pushed down with extreme force by my shoulders into a chair.

A short, balding wrinkled faced guy sat down behind the desk in front of me. He asked if I spoke Italian in Italian so I acted as though I had no idea what he was talking about. (Actually I knew what he was saying, I was just playing dumb.)

I asked him if he understood English in English and he shook his head no. Although he obviously understood my question. He held up a finger signaling for me to wait a minute. Soon a priest sat down taking his place and asked me where I was from in perfect English. He had a strong New York accent. Finally I was granted a chance to explain my dilemma. After I conveyed my tragic story he pretended to appear concerned. But he wasn't a very good actor. I could tell he really didn't care about my unfortunate circumstance in the least..
He informed me they would search for the ring, however if they didn't have success in recovering it, I should file a claim with the Vatican.

I filled out the paperwork which was printed in Italian with Father Brooklyn translating the directions. My claim amounted to $3,898.00. It included initial cost, sentimental value and pain and suffering. I gave them my home address and other contact information. I requested that my claim be paid with a cashier's check issued from an international bank. No checks, not even from the Pope himself.
He finished explaining my claim had to be approved by their Insurance Adjuster. I would be hearing from them in a month or so. Yay, 'Fat Chance' I thought as we shook hands and said ciao. 
That took place over six years ago without ever hearing anything from the Catholic Diocese in Vatican City. That's right, they never once attempted to contact me. My efforts at communication with them for any type update proved to be worthless.

I was becoming more infuriated with every second watching this news broadcast. I was ready to ask the bartender to change the channel. Just then the camera panned to a close up of the Pope's hands holding a Rosary. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Right there in living color broadcast to the entire world, there it was! On the Pope's left pinky finger was my grandfather's ring. The Pope was wearing my ring the same one I had lost years ago in the Basilica. 

There was no mistaking what I was witnessing. As sure 
as the Pope was Catholic, it was my ring! 

pushing the agenda
they
mess with school curriculum
encourage
child masturbation


seeking truth
she asks
alexa
to explain
the purpose of its device


poisoning
mother earth
they
manipulate the weather
planes spray daily

 *Life of Disrepair*

Life is betwixt two door,
Which start and end.
Depends on seconds and hours.
Elation and enmity modify,
Status of living beings.
Expression may change,
Height may grow,
Weight will increase, but
The mind of hopes stay still.
Billionaires gain up
Poors finding way to feed their small fry.
Some people running for secure,
Some one inquiring for bitty space to live.
Patient, Kind, pleasure, euphoric
brand human as humanity. but,
day-by-day it destructing.
Life is a process of,
Dying tragically between two doors.

in the middle of writing a poem

i always love when

my arthritis starts

flaring up right in

the middle of

writing a poem

i have only

survived these

years by finding

pleasure in the

pain

god help us all

when that stops

happening

———————————————————-

love letters to female prisoners

is it possible life

has passed me by

possible all the

former lovers

weren’t the ones

to make the mistake

all the old guitars

collecting dust

all the things

i tried for pussy

this pen served me

as well as any of

them

i might as well be

writing love letters

to female prisoners

and as the mundane

starts to swallow me

everyday

prison becomes

a relative topic

modern day slavery

someone is always

making money off

of someone

———————————————————

walk in the park at dusk

here come the virgins

the terrorists were

promised

all the freedom we

gave up to feel secure

now our own nation

points the gun at each

other

kids can’t play outside

you can’t walk in the

park at dusk

and god forbid, don’t

you dare be mentally

ill

too bad we can’t make

money off of them

if that ever changes

suddenly…

———————————————————-

trying to steal my heart

an angel with dark hair

panties begging to be

yanked off

a smile that seems to

be too good to be true

the latest trying to steal

my heart although, i am

a willing victim

this one wants to get to

know me enough so she

can travel across the

country and fuck me

my inner child starts

to sprint

but the battered soul

inside knows there is

no way this will ever

come out good

all the while, i’m trying

to play it cool

i certainly believe i’m

due a fucking break

——————————————————–

words are not enough

the spanish princess cries

herself to sleep in my arms

complains about the pain,

life and all the miles between

us

i feel helpless, know that

words are not enough

fall in love with an introvert

and come to terms with a

brand new level of frustration

stuck in the old century of

love letters and flowers,

boxes of candy and a glass

of wine at sunset

how in the fuck did so

much time pass us by

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, wondering where all the lonely housewives have gone. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Cajun Mutt Press, The Rye Whiskey Review, Misfit Magazine, just good poems and The Beatnik Cowboy. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

The Tip of Time’s Arrow

Time travel proved necessary
If we wanted to meet other civilizations
Among the stars
Everywhere our ships landed 
Goldilocks worlds, gas giants, 
Or sunburned cinders
Ruins dotted the landscape
Sucked dry of metals and useful minerals
Intelligent entities everywhere 
Had crashed their ecologies and perished—
Their technological prowess
Not enough, never enough
To compensate for their behaviors.

Time travel proved possible
In the mid-twenty-fourth century
When the physicist Krisha Dalal
Learned to point time’s arrow both ways
Her equations unarguable
A crew of select humans and one AI
Was sent into the past.

Crowded time vehicle
Humans: eager 
AI cool in its rack of superfast processors
We set sail for the Devonian, a test run
Early plants, insects, amphibians
But no large terrestrial predators 
(The sea a frightful tale of teeth and armor)
The ride was silent, uneventful
The doors opened upon a dusty plain
A hovering pall of dust.

Our first dire discovery:
The air, unbreathable—
Like inhaling a lungful of nothing--
Though evidence and theory 
Suggested the Devonian air
Would sustain us.

Fortunately mission control
Had planned for such contingencies:
We have vacuum suits
Our vehicle’s mini-airlock
Snug for one standing man.

Four of us set forth 
Three humans and the AI’s avatar
Nearby, lycophytes and ferns 
Cluster along a stream
Motionless, as if no wind 
Has ever breathed across this land.

Primitive flying insects hover in midair
As if captured in invisible amber
Their wings do not blur 
Nor move at all; they hang 
Motionless above the stream
Its surface dimpled 
As if with the reticulations of water flowing
And yet this surface is static
Still as a stagnant pond.

We move on
Keeping our vehicle in view--
The world like a vast art installation
We move thru it, observing,
Yet without interacting.

Are we trapped in one frozen instant
Of past time?  After our excursion
We discuss possibilities 
A test:
I try to pick a single leaf—and fail
The AI directs a robot
To try, with the same result

This world we cannot change
And we’ll never reach the date
We’re to be plucked from time
Reeled back to the future.

Will the engineers who sent us
Deduce our fate
Find us before we starve
Locate this exact nanosecond 
Where we are stranded?
Or will their rescue attempts
Be a few frozen instants away?
Along with the AI,
We wait and we pray.



David C. Kopaska-Merkel won the 2006 Rhysling award (long poem, written with Kendall Evans), and edits Dreams & Nightmares magazine (since 1986). His poems have been published in Asimov’s, Strange Horizons, and more than 200 other venues. Some Disassembly Required, a collection of dark poetry, was published in 2022. @DavidKMresists on CS. Blog: https://dreamsandnightmaresmagazine.blogspot.com/

More than two hundred poems by Kendall Evans, including a number of collaborations with David C. Kopaska-Merkel, have appeared in various SF/fantasy/horror magazines, chapbooks and anthologies. He and David also collaborated on "The Tin Men," which received the SFPA 2006 Rhysling Award for best science fiction poem written in 2005 (long poem category). His short stories have also received recognition, including two honorable mentions in THE YEAR'S BEST FANTASY AND HORROR. His novelette "Don Huavaca's Dia de los Muertos" appeared in the anthology BARE BONE #6.

***
My green throat has turned into a garden
I have to be silent a lot
I have to drink a lot so that the trees grow
I have to breathe quietly so as not to frighten the birds
I don't want to scare those who are happy

***
damp forest
how does the butterfly come out
heat from the clip

***
Shh shh she she she along with your hoarse cough
Leaves fall to the ground and you don't understand
Will tomorrow knock on your door again
morning…

***
explosions instead of music
death instead of sleep
butterflies everywhere butterflies

***
A huge bird with black glasses would have arrived
And taught us all to fly

We've never been here anyway

***
My thoughts live without me
In pursuit of them I stumble
And I die
The tide of the river

***
¶ spring warmth jumped to my knees ¶
♪ and they stopped freezing ♪
Thats how the dawn began

***
What do we gather instead of mushrooms after the war?

***
the dead man was smiling that day

***
Perfectionism is good
But

Perfectionism is not always good
Perfectionism is not necessarily good
Perfectionism is not very good
Perfectionism is not good
Perfectionism is not good at all
Perfectionism is bad
Perfectionism is very bad.
Perfectionism is often very bad
Perfectionism is quite often very bad.
Perfectionism is always very bad

So
Perfectionism is evil

***
(Based on a literary ballad)

The clock is knocking, knocking on the door:
Behind the door he, you just believe!
 
A gray-haired old man enters the house:
"Here I come."
"Are you an undertaker?
You dare not ask
Who should be buried?
 
"Who, why - I don't care."
"Then take, grab the log,
Drank, knock and prepare the coffin,
To bury my love."

***
dad mom me and other deaths
children nursery gardens and other shadows of the past
days of the night and other seconds
at one point everything burned down and turned
into a fungus mushroom nuclear mushroom from Hiroshima

***
autumn kills itself in advance in spring
the rain comes through and gets inside the heart
shells play snails
worms go underground
and in the eyes of a continuous prison

***
love really exists
but only in books