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Stones Half-Filled Easy-To-Quantify Holism Interview: Opportunity, Herniation. by Elimirunu Isatnasfol http://buyfinasteride-propecia.c... [7 words]
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Poek
Excerpts From Jury Duty, 1999 by Olef Ransom Saulles - [1,473 words]
An American Summer by Olef Ransom Saulles - [7,002 words]
Proverbs Of A Mountain Man by Olef Ransom Saulles - [736 words]
On The Water's Skin by Olef Ransom Saulles - [821 words]
My Sofa

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TITLE (EDIT)
Poek
DESCRIPTION
-
[1,307 words]
AUTHOR
Olef Ransom Saulles
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
-
[November 2004]
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL ADDRESS
illinoispayson@yahoo.com
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (19)
Americas Burning, Excerpt. (Poetry) From a longer, unfinished poem. [239 words]
An American Summer (Genres) - [7,002 words]
Being (Poetry) Poem [124 words]
Bosstwon, Massojoos-Hits. (Poetry) My first chapbook. Looking for a publisher. [1,163 words]
Daredevle (Poetry) 'they're' is intentional. I am striving for a three-dimensional quality to my writing. The rules of grammar are not always adhered to. [595 words]
Excerpts From Jury Duty, 1999 (Genres) - [1,473 words]
Happenstance At 79th And Broadway (Poetry) The Dublin House, NY. [154 words]
I Am My Own Greatest Enemy. (Poetry) - [16 words]
I Am The Depiction Of A Soul Unraveled (Poetry) - [90 words]
I Had No Idea Misery Compounded (Poetry) - [161 words]
Jeremiah (Poetry) A ballad concerning man and meaning. [378 words]
Jkpayson (Poetry) - [53 words]
Karen . . . (Poetry) - [85 words]
Laid Heavy In The Suicide Chair (Poetry) - [35 words]
My Blood Spills Out. (Poetry) - [80 words]
On The Water's Skin (Genres) - [821 words]
Poem Thread (Poetry) - [110 words]
Proverbs Of A Mountain Man (Genres) - [736 words]
Sonnet (Poetry) - [81 words]
Poek
Olef Ransom Saulles

"The incredible unknown size of our universe allows for the limitless diminution of our being" – Singhe To-K

Joseph Silver touches cold air for the first time on July 4th, born right, into the consumer family. He sits like the invisible holy man in blind solicitude. All are attracted to the infant’s magnanimity.
Walls in little Joseph’s mind begin to fall, a box collapsing outwardly, into the space of another wall also descending. Each cell ruptured, a point obscured by its end, one which engenders infinite praise.
In his youth the hard dying ritual of summer gives time, before ensuing crimes: school, work, death, and we spend it destroying our authenticity with coerced enthusiasm. So Joseph crouches along the wall of a neighbor’s house, hidden in night, the monstrous structure rising out, casting its shadow over sinking asphalt. There are six homes, all alike, standing at attention in a row, waiting to crush the liberal (not Liberal) vanguard, the forms skewered by two streetlights, like a double exposure over the illumined road.
Joseph held his weapon in hand - a formidable clod. Heavy enough for distance and soft enough for the splat, a decisive slapping sound, signifying the winner.
Three pulses along the wall, terraced onto the hill, submerging into the street, anxiously waiting to throw.
With great timing a piss yellow sedan, sweet and encroaching: Joseph times the path and lobs.
A near perfect clod hurtles through space, waiting for the impact, the slap of sticky compacted earth against the Chrysler’s rumbling epidermis, and the chase should there be one.
THUMK. A dull thud of appreciable force, screaming tires, then frantic breaths heard and chaos abounds.
Joseph turns on without fail, like the cursed alarm clock in cold mornings. His only objective: persevere. The boy lunges uphill, tearing at the earth, it is screaming. He scrambles for the flatlands.

Invariably he becomes a free radical.
How many millions out there? I have heard billions, the thought is unfathomable, the thoughts languish in tides, anonymous, discarded. Beachcombers, cut feet and bleeding, with cats spraying over vagrant piss. The water gray, churning. Women bring laundry to the shore - fight with emasculated men over brackish pools. A ruined boy persuades his lost girl to perform for him. His friends laugh in shadows.
Joseph thinks of recovery.

- I need to thrash myself. Wake up early, be active. Produce. -

His mind wanders away from the care of loved ones.

- We gathered near the entrance; the others donned masks. I remained naked and too conscious. Bursts of noise: Machine gun laughter. Shoves. Persuasion. My hand is gray and contoured like the projection of a tick at 1000x. The image is fixed; it cannot falter and noise rushes past. I lied down and felt mathematical equations; fluctuations and moments spawned in time slow me down. I wondered, ‘if there is no God, I am so alone.’-

He counts the segments of clean blinds and the idea (the idea of order) unravels with metallic crumpling. Soon he feels lonely despite the Creation being plied with order.

JOSEPH NARRATES:

In youth I despise my obscurity, dragging on cigarettes and waiting, looking from the window of my box for light. How can I be this bored? The car pulls slowly onto the drive, a predator with its crass shimmering. I am out the door and into the vehicle talking before cataloging the momentum. My friend has it all, the cracked vinyl seats and plastic paneling. Cold Chicago winters seeping through the compromised finish. I smell the emptiness, no new car warmth, it smells of void. Every detail I notice I think: Now I have seen this, now I have been here.
At a frolic I investigate the environment. Walls of fabricated plied wood paneling, a fantastic den. I want to document it all. The split-level was crowded and hazy, a large screen television with the VCR showing an AC/DC concert from 1974. I see a striking fellow lingering in the corner. He pushed his hair back, he hadn’t washed it – he didn’t give a four-letter-word (don’t be afraid Joseph), it was obvious. People were smoking here, drinking: no supervision. Nobody washed their hair. It made my friend sick, it made everybody in our neighborhood sick. My friend, coincidentally, lived on the border of this town, it sickened him most.
The rooms were awash in noise – AC/DC, laughter, conversation. I felt very warm and smooth, I felt good. We came back upstairs, following the steps into the living room. A room with painted gray walls, sparsely furnished – one couch, one coffee table. Other kids were milling about, kissing, talking, smoking. I wore my dirty blue jeans, they were softest, and my father’s old suede jacket. The girls loved it, always touching it, asking about it. That was good. My mouth dried; we went to the porch, outside before a giant fire where some elder burned his Japanese motorcycle in honor of a new Harley Davidson.
We meet a couple of girls milling about, trying to avoid the column of smoke.

"What are you guys doing?" one girl inquires.
"I’m thinking of an idea." Joseph says.
"What are you thinking?" the other girl asks.
"Aw, poop." J.’s friend moans, "girls always ask that question."
"Never mind him," Joseph adds, "I am thinking of a story. I call it, ‘Still Life of a Beer.’ Want to hear it?"
"I don’t know, sure, I guess. I’ve never heard of it."
"Of course not, it’s mine."
"Yeah? Let’s hear it then." She smiles.
"OK. This man hated beer his whole life – now he wants to try it. He just finds the idea of a cold beer desirable suddenly so he buys himself a nice domestic brand and keeps his refrigerator at its coldest. Only after the beer is ice cold, the bottles frosted, does he begin to drink them. Soon he drinks ice cold beer every night in the privacy of his own home. One night he says to his wife, while she cooks, "Here baby, try a sip. It’s ice cold – real good this way" She takes the bottle and drinks a small portion. She looks repulsed. "You don’t like it? Even ice cold?" He offers. "No! It’s disgusting." She returns. "Hhmmpph. I am beginning to think ice cold beer is a brilliant drink." He takes a long swig. She tells him it is sad that a man feels the need to drink alone."
"I don’t get it." The girl nearer him remarks, handling the lapel of Joseph’s jacket.
"There’s nothing to get, really. It is yours do to as you please with." J. answers.
"You’re strange." She responds.
"Why?" – Joseph.
"He’s not just strange. He’s a Jew. Right Jew-boy." Joseph’s friend spars.
"You are?" she asks.
"Yes." – J.
"You don’t believe in God?" the other girl enters and asks.
"Of course I do and if you discount all of eastern thought some say we even invented God or morality, whichever." – J.
"Bullcrap." J.’s friend will have none of the blasphemy.
"My pastor says Jewish people rejected Jesus." The girl countering.
"Whose Jesus? What did he request?" – J., with the hint of glibness lost.
"Jesus is God."
"Oh. Maybe I don’t believe in God after all."
Joseph lays his head on his standing palm. He sits in the kitchen of the house alone, his mind shoveled empty. A glinted light, fluorescent, plays off his lighter. He looks over the fire device. Caught in the hot chrome housing, Thailand stamped. Joseph, reaching out, sets fire to the tablecloth, and thinks of a foreign land.
That night Joseph had a dream; he was the navigator of a small crew on an epic space flight, to the ends of the universe. When at last they arrived to the edge of our great universe they were met by a protein receptor inquiring about their protein content. When he failed to present any proper identification, a mass, suddenly ubiquitous, dissolved him into a plasma compound.

 

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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2001 Olef Ransom Saulles
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
August 2001
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
3131
 

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