A Gaiman emulation.

Is all that we see or seem, but a dream within a dream?

                                             – Edgar Allen Poe, “A Dream Within a Dream” 1716

IT BEGINS, AS MANY THINGS BEGIN, WITH A DREAM.

Darkness, rain, wind, brief flashes of lightning, and the percussive bass booms of thunder, that was what Neil dreamt. He was on a mountain. Men wearing furs and rough-hewn armor were rushing past him, knocking him out of the way. They all ran, screaming war cries and rushing to congregate around a gigantic boulder, chanting, Neil thought, like football players psyching themselves up before a game. Neil muttered, “What’s so special about that boul–” a lightning bolt interrupted him by hurriedly snaking through the air, crackling as it went, and hitting the boulder in a spray of sparks. A figure stood where the bolt had hit. On the boulder stood a tall warrior wearing a bearskin around his waist and high leather boots on his feet. In his hand he held what seemed to be an iron sledgehammer with a shortened handle. He was comic-book muscular, with long reddish-gold hair, and a small beard. He was pumping his hammer rhythmically into the air and shouting in a language Neil didn’t understand; the warriors yelled back in that same foreign tongue. Then, the warrior atop the boulder threw back his head, raised his hammer, and yelled one unintelligible word at the top of his lungs. As he did, lightning struck the head of his hammer, making sparks fly, and the iron glow white hot. The glow from the hammer illuminated the warrior’s face, casting shadows from each feature. It lit up his eyes – which were staring right at Neil.

An extremely brief satirical play.

(lights come up on a well-dressed man sitting at a desk)

Executive: (pressing a button on his desk phone) Underling?

Underling: (over speakerphone) yes sir?

Executive: bring me my zoloft, hydrocodone, penicillin shake and and a pomegranate – chop chop.

Underling: yes sir.

(Executive mutters about the benefits of antioxidants as he rummages through papers on his desk while Underling brings him his food)

Executive: is it fresh?

Underling: yes sir.

Executive: thank you.

(Underling exits, Executive presses the speaker button)

                    page Miss for me, will you?

Underling: (over speakerphone) yes sir.

Executive: thank you.

(Executive begins work on the many papers on his desk, a bit into his work, Miss enters)
Miss: You called for me sir?
Executive: Yes, sit, please. (She sits) Now, before I get into this let me just say that I absolutely do not believe in any of your touchy-feely psychology-mumbo-jumbo, that being said I figured that since you're a woman you'd be the one here at Healthcorp to be less inclined to mock me.
Miss: Mock you?
Executive: Yes.
Miss: For what?
Executive: For telling you my recent dream.
Miss: Which was...?
Executive: I'm getting to that---

Miss: Alright---
Executive: (as he speaks, Miss draws a notepad from her bag) Anyways, last night I dreamt that I was the manager of a restaurant.
Miss: Interesting...
Executive: (snapping) Don't do that.
Miss: Do what?
Executive: Analyze.
Miss: Oh, yes sir.
Executive: I was the proprietor of a  restaurant that served only shit.
Miss: The food was no good?
Executive: No, it was shit, crap, human feces.
Miss: oh, how novel...
Executive: Yes, I suppose it was. Anyhow, we served all kinds of shit: shit from people of different ethnicities with different diets, Indians who ate a lot of curry, Chinese who ate a lot of fish and so on, and shit of varying consistencies, and everyone flocked to my restaurant -- it was always full. And I was rich, much as I am anyway, everyone looked up to me for providing such a necessary service. Within the dream, I soon found out that reason we were so full was that we were one of the only 4 restaurants in the country, and all of the restaurants served shit as well. People had no choice but to come our restaurants. And anyone who wanted simple, nutritious food, had to make it themselves or get it from little hippy co-ops, and nobody wants to go there. I immediately awoke feeling a distinct unease, I can't really place my finger on why. You wouldn't happen to know why, would you?
Miss: Perhaps it's because of the similarities?

Executive: similarities?
Miss: yes sir
Executive: what similarities?
Miss: the similarities between the dream and reality.
Executive: Miss, are you suggesting that I am the proprietor of a Shit restaurant?(unaware)
Miss: Well sir---

Executive: Is that what you're suggesting?
Miss: I---

Executive: Is it?

Miss: No sir, of course not.

Executive: Since you have failed to provide any insight, you may go.

Miss: Ok sir, thank you sir.

                    (Miss exits)

Executive: (pressing the speaker button) Underling?

Underling: (over speaker) Yes sir?

Executive: Fetch me the Times will you? I'll be heading to the john soon.

Underling: Yes sir.

                      - fin-

A Poe emulation.

To Grandfather

Eliezer! Such thoughts have I of thee:
Thoughts of Slavic-Jewish children's laughter
And of bitter cruelty -
Germany’s complacency
The ignorance and slaughter;
But in my mind, most I see
Your solemn, resilience after
Surviving the fiery sacrifice,
Like a healthy body stripped to skin and bone
By flame. (its flesh near to gone!)
Making you trust no one,
(You understood man's price
But, alas, steadfast, took no advice.)
A life with wife and children, yet alone
Inside a prison mind well-toll’d
With friends and family dead and cold.

Tybalt Rap

WHAT HO Y’ALL!!

SHOUT-OUT TO MY KIN IN THE BALCONY!!

Yo my name is Tybalt, the prince of cats,

              And I’m here to tell y’all where I’m at,

In regards to a story of tragedy and woe,

              About a couple of youths named Juliet and Romeo.

              Okay

Two families un-alike in dignity, in fair Verona, to set the scene,

              One, the Capulets classy, refined – two, the Montagues, crude, obscene.

The former, my crew, the Capulet clan

              Hath on many an occasion ta’en a stand

Against each villainous, beef-witted Montague clod,

              Sendin’ more of those dogs each day to God.

Now my aunt and uncle, lord and lady Capulet,

              Threw for the city a wealthy benefit,

A party if you will everyone drank and ate,

              And this party did the Montagues infiltrate.

One among this low-brow invasion crew,

              Was none other than Romeo Montague.

A weak-minded flirt, a whiny churl,

              Every week had his mind on a different girl. Anyway

             

He spotted my cousin Juliet, and began to swoon

              So he made his way to her from across the room.

They flirted, laughed, and then they kissed.

              Then Juliet had to go, so Romeo she dismissed.

But he came back around to her balcony door,

              Crooned and swooned and promised all the more,

That he loved her, so she returned his sentiment,

              And swore true love to that knavish sycophant.

When I found out, I wanted to kill that tool,

              So I challenged that Romeo punk to a duel,

A rapier-bout between that wimp and me,

              Was sure to turn out favorably.

What I hadn’t figured in was his pal Mercutio,

              A kinsmen to the king, not just some Joe shmoe.

When I challenged the Montague he stepped in

              asking for one of my nine lives with a grin.

He attacked, I engaged, I  parried his best,

              Then by accident I stabbed him in the chest.

He chuckled, exclaimed, “‘Tis not but a scratch”

              But death was on his way, I had un-done the latch

On the doorway that was Mercutio’s life,

              So accordingly I caused Romeo some strife.

He drew his sword and seething  said,

              That either his soul or mine was gonna join the dead,

And with that he thrust his ringing blade,

                And stabbed me, a hit, I could not evade.

So on and so forth, oh woe is me.

              But at least I lived life with honor see.

That Romeo git, that pile of pitch             

              will in the end see that payback’s a witch.

I’m not sure yet what demise he’ll meet

              but it sure as hell won’t be short and sweet.

Romeo, so proud, so kind, so brave.

              Is gonna get an ass-whooping from beyond the grave.

             

             

An old poem.

The City Breathes

New York is a stark mistress.

Her street lamps blink awake after a long day’s rest –  illuminating her features.

Her streets grin wickedly with the glint of a recent rain.

Her edifices tower, glaring with millions of eyes – seeing everything with a removed disinterest.

The traffic exhales smog and shouts. Ambulances and fire trucks utter cries of  urgency. Police cruisers yell with shrill authority. Buses sigh in oafish melancholy as they trundle from stop to stop. The taxi and car chorus whines an impatient fugue.

Trains intone their rumbling chant, stopping frequently to let out a strident scream, only to resume their chant with an exasperated sigh.

Manholes burp hot steam, which mingles with the traffic’s smog.

The haze lightly caresses the city, being augmented all the while by the hubbub below.

The grimy mist and chaos converge and convect.

The city breathes.