What if the bored future version of myself listens to Mercy Me
and decides that things ain’t what they used to be?
And what if the anxious future version of myself is forced to choose
between a better life or a better death?
What if the future version of myself never exists?
Lay-by
polystyrene cup/ fast food wrapper /
broken glass from an accident /
a stray L-plate / a crushed tin can /
along with / forgotten memories /
of past liaisons /
Henry is a writer, poet and mental health essayist based in Somerset in the UK. He has a PhD in literature and creative writing from the University of Birmingham. He is the author of several poetry collections and his work can be seen in Pure Slush, Lunate, and Synchronized Chaos, among other places.
That idiotic doctor smiling down at me as if I am a Christmas leg of lamb ready to carve into my chest searching for a purse of gold and municipal bonds safely guarded by Margaret’s father cruel old bastard God forgive me bribing me to marry his obnoxious daughter crying in the corridor afraid I might live and interrupt her carnality and bastardly children dear Lord I am sorry do not treat me harshly why did you plant this Covid-19 have I not suffered through years of archaic gospel and fanatic potbellied evangelists kill Margaret’s father or my bacchanal son not me or that incompetent surgeon ready to claim my wife’s loins along with her insurance
oh Jesus remember I am sick I will die today spouting blood making nurses convulse with disgust splattering my fluids onto sterile white aprons disregarded in garbage cans as my flesh is shoved into an incinerator Blessed Mother is it hot in there will my flesh sizzle does the soul scorch damn family tradition I do not want to be cooked like spare ribs on a spring picnic I want to stay alive inhale spring’s aromas my God it will be spring in less than a week when my corpse will have entered its first stage of decay and I revert back to the existence I led ten months before my birth oh Holy Father I do not mean I have changed you are the light
why do they turn on those lights before I am under turn them off turn them off I will not have you see me like this stop stop I demand no one will see who I am I do not want to die put me back where I was do not put me under Blessed Saints I am drifting help me help me pull that mask off my face so I can tell Margaret’s old man to shove it and quit his factory to escape his grandchildren calling me old fart unloving thanks to the shithead shrink he sends them to forgive me Lord they are beginning to slice my flesh who cares I am exhausted by this reminiscence of my life the larger box preceding the smaller one fourteen years overseeing the manufacturing of cardboard boxes Margaret’s father will probably display me in number 324D all-purpose industrial container engineering breakthrough designed by contents
within the urn be displayed next to my collection of Dickens or Margaret will turn it into a night lamp flicking me on and off teasing the lovers of the loveless sweet Christ hallowed by thy name thy kingdom come shit what is the rest ha my rest eternal rest eternal darkness dear god are they dimming the lights I will not succumb to them or you Holy Virgin forgive me it is too cold I am scared you scare the man just like the boy threatening vengeful flames perpetual blindness oh merciful Lord forgive my transgressions I loved people before machines consumed my fervor
you know people are malicious untrustworthy beasts preying on you devouring gentleness defecating deceit help me everything is black empty listen to me I repent you win just help me do not leave me in the dark please leave me alone it is your fault toying with me playing my fear of darkness laughing at me writhing you sadistic creature of evil forgive me forgive me Father you do understand I see I see yes this is like birth dark frightening yet to be thrust in life light praise God on high a fresh chance to find joy forgiveness ah bullshit no no dear Savior they are hoisting my lungs put them back put them back that madman is murdering me do something I am so cold so alone a thinking piece of butchered meat presold by Prudential premiums
why why must I be punished I am a decent man unimportant undistinguished what of murderers rapists enjoying life as I am dissected I hate you give me back my lungs damn it oh Blessed Lady of Mercy grant me guidance save me from death and life’s years of suffering only to die wondering running not escaping God forgive me because I will survive this surgery and laugh at my family destroying exotic visions of cruises and cars vomiting my bile in their hypocritical faces stuffing my diseased lungs down their throats I will survive this operation if only to bring joy to Prudential my God help me help me Christ help me help me….
New York interdisciplinary artist Amy Bassin and writer Mark Blickleywork together on text-based art collaborations and experimental videos. Their work has appeared in many national and international publications as well as two books, Weathered Reports: Trump Surrogate Quotes from the Underground’ (Moria Books, Chicago) and Dream Streams (Clare Songbird Publishing House, New York). Their videos, Speaking In Bootongue and Widow’s Peek: The Kiss of Death represented the United States in the 2020 year-long world tour of Time Is Love: Universal Feelings: Myths & Conjunctions, organized by the esteemed African curator, Kisito Assangni.
He left his camp in the small clearing on the bluff overlooking the creek. He had been there for three months, ever since he had been forced to leave his small home in town and the life he had been living before the change. As he walked through the timber, he was aware of color up in the trees. The leaves were turning. It was getting a little cooler at night now. Soon it would be winter. That would be another thing to deal with.
After walking over a mile, he came to the bike trail that he would take into town. It was another two miles down the bike path before he would reach town. It was a hike he took often these days. Greg was in pretty good shape. That was fortunate, because his life had become a lot more difficult these days.
Craig Feldman, the richest man in town, had become the Coordinator. He saw that the bidding of the one called The Leader was done in these parts. It was a very lucrative position. He was not only the political leader of the area, he was also the chief of all law enforcement. It looked to Greg that those not willing to live by law these days would probably not live at all.
There had been a war in the middle east, involving several nations. There had been much death and destruction that resulted from it. There had also been other near wars between powerful nations. There had been at least one nuclear attack. From out of all this turmoil came The World Council. From The World Council came many new treaties. Many agreements between nations took place. A new financial system was implemented and the one called The Leader emerged.
Every citizen that followed the law of The World Council was given a commo, a beautiful, mysterious design on their hand. Before they received it, however, they had to swear an oath of loyalty and obedience to The Leader. This commo enabled them to purchase goods and services. It also identified them as a unique citizen of the world. Without the commo, it was impossible to pay bills, buy groceries, or get medical services. It was common knowledge that many who had not sworn allegiance to The Leader had disappeared; it was said that they were put to death.
Greg had sworn no oath of loyalty or obedience to The Leader. The whole idea of it blew his mind. He cold have lived his life much the same as he had before the change, but something inside him would not allow him to be part of the World Council agenda.
Greg was on his way to Phil’s trailer. Phil lived in a mobile home park on the edge of town. Greg had hoarded silver for years, believing the value of it would one day increase dramatically. He currently had stashes of silver buried at several different places in the timber where he was staying. Greg had known Phil from talking with him at The Bucket, a bar they both went to sometimes. Phil drank in various bars, but he was not well liked in any of them. He was mentally ill and received disability payment. He often mumbled to himself and people at the various bars Phil drank at found him annoying.
Greg had befriended him. Phil was a nice guy. He was just sick. He lived by himself and had few friends. Over the course of a few years of talking with him at The Bucket, Greg and Phil had developed a sort of friendship. It was because of this friendship that Greg had been able to formulate a plan after the change came. He had stashed his silver, purchased a good backpack, a good tent, and some other quality camping gear.
Phil had received his commo and Greg often visited him. Phil would take a list to the store and buy whatever Greg needed. Each ounce of silver was valued at one hundred P’ s. Greg would give Phil the cost of the supplies, plus a little extra for his help. While Greg was at Phil’s, he could take a shower, wash a few clothes, and get some drinking water, also. His pack was usually heavy on his way back to his camp.
Jennifer liked vodka. She also liked bars. She also liked the ocean. It was her dream to move to the west coast, live near the ocean, and own a bar. She had also befriended Phil, but at a different bar in town, called The Tap. Jennifer and Phil talked to each other frequently at The Tap. During one of these talks, Phil told her about the favors he was doing for Greg.
A couple days later, Jennifer saw Craig Feldman on the local news, talking about a substantial reward for anyone with information about anyone who was not in compliance with the policies and regulations of the World Council. When she met with Craig Feldman, he told her he could make her dreams come true.
Greg walked up the steps to the door of Phil’s trailer and knocked on the door. When the door opened, a police officer had his pistol pointed at Greg. Another officer handcuffed him.
In timelessness, as if the sun and moon never set or rise
The world is only a book, phantom-like
The soul an invisible muse
Before the words were born, you were a giant
From the kingdom of gold who know not yourself.
灵魂是隐形的缪斯
睁开你的灵魂之眼你将看到无数个自己
没有时光之飞逝犹如日月从未落下与升起
世界只是一部幻影之书而灵魂是隐形的缪斯
在词语尚未诞生之前你曾是黄金之国的巨人不知何谓自己
A Flying Saucer of Giants
Day by day the lightning in my body is waking up
And flying to this mortal world, dark night like iron
Seeking the Devil’s head, to make him into a skeleton of hell
And to repay time with gems
The python’s body will become a golden bridge
Towards a giant city of the morrow
Standing out against the sky, like clouds rising, gathering,
And an interstellar spaceship on my palm,
Like flying saucer of giants
Flashing miraculous brightness from another galaxy
天外之星系的闪烁灵光之巨人之蝶
我体内的闪电正在一天天醒来而飞向这个黑夜如铁的尘世
寻找魔王的头颅让他成为地狱的骷髅而偿还那一枚时间之宝石
那巨蟒的身躯成了一座黄金之桥而通向明日之巨城矗立于天际云蒸霞蔚
而我手掌之上一轮星际之飞船犹如来自天外之星系的闪烁灵光之巨人之蝶
Heavenly Temples and Towers
I rode a heavenly camel towards a desolate desert,
a jade bottle poured the sweet dew of the Kingdom of Heaven
from which emerged a lake, an eternal spring that never dries up,
and giant trees in prehistoric times grew
Their branches and leaves rustled in the garden of phoenixes and birds
The song of birds was music, it intoxicated the clouds
Colourful pebbles grew into huge gems in the dreams
That transformed into heavenly temples and towers.
一座一座天国的殿宇楼阁
我骑一匹天国的骆驼来到一座无人的沙漠
一只玉瓶倾泻天国的甘露汇成永不枯竭的泉水之湖
于是生长出史前的巨树枝叶婆娑宛如凤鸟的花园而鸟鸣如乐让时光醉了天空的云朵
而一粒一粒五色透明的沙砾在梦境里长成巨大的宝石长成一座一座天国的殿宇楼阁
Fragrant and Amaranthine for Thousands of Years
One day I will return from outer space
on a red cloud and bring a giant picture scroll.
My lines of lightning songs will flutter gold greetings from a prehistoric giant city
The mountains that have been sleeping for hundreds of millions of years
will become transparent
and the lights will be brilliant, like five-coloured gems
And the songs of my soul will blossom from me
like the fairyland flowers of the Kingdom of Heaven,
that remain fragrant and amaranthine for millennia
千年芬芬不谢
有一天那天外的我乘一朵红云归来而带来巨人的画卷
我的一行行闪电之歌将飞舞史前巨城的黄金的问候
那沉睡亿万年的山岳刹那间透明而光芒灼灼若五色宝石
而那骨骼里的灵魂之歌盛开如天国的仙葩之千年芬芬不谢
Bio: Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet’s Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Acumen, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, The Poetry Village, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. His best known works are Platinum City and Golden Giant. His works explore themes of prehistoric and future civilization. Yuanbing Zhang (b. 1974), who is a Chinese poet and translator, works in a Middle School, Yanzhou District , Jining City, Shandong Province, China. He can be contacted through his email- 3112362909@qq.com. Address:No.18 middle school Yanzhou District ,Jining City, Shandong Province, China Yuan Hongri Phone:+86 15263747339 Email:3112362909@qq.com
My love had style. Irony. The sketches of subtle pleasure and pain. The resentment that comes with frustration. His motion hollowed out something in me. Perhaps a hollowed out bitterness. There was a yellow river in his hair. In the palms of his hands he held something back from me. The life of his family secrets. A room filled with the music of treasure. Earth becomes with weaving. Earth resonates in that most rare personal space of touch. The wide health of touch that makes you feel extraordinary on days hellbent, and filled with winter.
He was grace. He was mercy. When I was with him, I knew what desire was. There was always going to be the possibility of silence between us in the early hours of the morning. We had nothing to talk about. Nothing to say after the dry thirst that followed the physical act of the sexual transaction. I always felt apologetic for the fatigue I felt. I don’t know what he was thinking. What he felt.
He called me ‘doll face’. Now, I don’t look like a doll. A doll wears a painted expression. Rosy cheeks that blossom. A pained smile. I have put on weight around my middle. I haven’t seen him in the past fifteen years. I don’t know what he’s doing right now. Living. All people live. Others do it extraordinarily. Others extremely ordinary. I know what you’re thinking. Why am I here? Why do I come here week after week to rehash the past, to live there as if I was part wild/part history wilderness/part object/part possession? Is it just a sham, this insane vanity that I have to talk about him repeatedly when I come here, now that I am flying solo single handedly?
Even when I was younger, during adolescence I was always drawn to the older man. The man with the accent who served me in a restaurant. Cultured. Educated. The writer. The teacher. The math teacher. The English-English teacher. The film and television production lecturer. Portuguese, British. The introvert. The man ten years older than I was in the summer I turned the lush age of twenty-two.
I thought I would be safe in the city surrounded by buildings. People who did not care for me, about me. Who would not turn their heads to look at me. To acknowledge me. Yes, I thought I was safe. The same way I feel when I come to see you every month. I feel safe here. I feel I can say anything. Know I will not be judged. I remember the electric blueness of the light. Nature was translated into pollution, climate change, global warming, buildings, banks, delis, foot traffic, cars everywhere you looked, grassy parks in the city where men played chess. Time meaning nothing. Time meaning everything.
The first day we met I looked up. Met his gaze head-on, chin up. He did not look away. I did not look away. A flicker of inquisitive excitement filled the void I felt in my heart. I knew what he was thinking. Passion. This was what I was looking for. A boyfriend. To be part of a couple. I was too young to know the difference. The difference between passion, and betrayal. Love in his hands. When he kissed me hard or soft. Gentle. Going all gentle on me.
I knew what his childhood was like without him telling me anything about it. His relationships with his siblings. Rivalry. Abandonment issues. A father addicted to drugs. Alcoholism on my side of the family. Cancer. It was the tapestry of loss that connected us. Love was the photosynthesis of an awakened loophole into place.
I’m apologetic about love now. It’s walls made of brick history. I’m sorry for loving you. The glare has shifted mysteriously. The hours tick on. The clock inside the glass cabinet minding seeds’ growth. He was magic. It’s been one those days. Long, empty. The day dulcet. Elegiacal. Summer burning the nape of my neck, my shoulders. The back of my arms in my sleeveless dress. Admiration.
That’s when it started. I think I admired him with my perfumed hair. I don’t know what he made of me. I was a girl way back then. New to the city. Johannesburg. I think about him like family. That closeness close up, That quiet intimacy that belonged to men and women who find themselves at a loss for words in museums or art galleries or the theater. You see I don’t need people. I was lost in the city. Dust, flowers of plastic rubbish washed away off slick, cement pavements.
What is the meaning of couples anyway? We weren’t a couple in the truest sense of the way. The sky a polychrome blue. His eyes awash with a blue ink. His self control powerful. The control of a man who knows what he wants. Who also knows that he is going to get what wants come hell or high water. My memory is still raw of that day. The flow of the talk was always intense. Yet we could always sit for hours in each other’s presence and not say anything. Lost in our own world. Our own thoughts.
Yes, let us talk about the men in my life. My brother’s remoteness when his girlfriend lived with us for off and on for a year. She moved in with her color television, double bed, chest of drawers, and oven but after the year she was gone again. After that my brother and I were closer than ever. Confiding in each other over the skinniness of cigarettes and lukewarm coffee.
My wiry father’s absence, and abandonment. The Johannesburg men. Powerful men with hybrids of status, and large sedans . Influential men. Men who had the life experience of women and children in their lives. I want to remember them all, and what they meant to me.
‘You’re beautiful. Good girl.’ He whispered. It was always like that.
A few years ago, maybe five, I was supervising and working with a man who was doing community service for a crime that he says he didn’t commit. We were removing ivy from an area around the tool yard of Tryon State Park south of Portland Oregon USA. Two police cars showed up and informed us that they had a coyote with a broken back that had to be killed because the injury was fatal. It had been hit by a car about a mile away on Terwilliger Boulevard which borders the park. They told us to get behind one of the buildings while the shooting took place. We heard more than one shot, making me wonder about their marksmanship.
Afterwards, I thought that I had not reacted well, but then who expects to have a coyote mercy killing interrupt one’s day? I should have either tried to send the police to contact the park ranger before the shooting or done it myself. No one wants unexplained shooting in a state park. The police had explained beforehand that there was no better place to go in the residential neighborhood surrounding the park. Shooting in someone’s yard would have been worse.
Afterwards I explained what happened to the ranger, who was not pleased. The carcass was refrigerated for the possibility of taxidermy for addition to the park’s beaver and other stuffed animals.
****************************************
Coyote sightings were more common at the time this happened. We saw one a few blocks from our house. A couple crossed our path in Tryon. We later learned that there was a coyote family in the park. Same couple and pup? We were warned not to leave out pet food for fear of feeding coyotes and pets being killed. There was at least one report of a cat killing by a coyote, which was at first feared to be some twisted ritual killing by humans. At the time, some were worried about attacks by coyotes on humans. Nothing like that happened, but we were disconcerted by the fearlessness of the coyotes that we encountered.
Other animal sightings are becoming more common. In the last few years, unverified cougar observations have happened within a few miles of where we live in residential areas and the first killing by a cougar in Oregon was recorded on a hiking trail.
