we can be like they are
William Buckler Dharma called it:
rabbits rushing to deaf falcons, grain
to the scythe, hearts to the dagger
Come on, Mary:
pound that cowbell, cry
Bring out your brain-dead
baby, take my hand
and let's slouch
Not My Circus, Not My Monkeys
Somebody is injured in
an accident every second,
according to whoever sent this postcard.
While I appreciate this deep concern for
Somebody’s health and safety,
I am not sure how or why this matter has
become my concern. This business of
being so accident-prone as to need medical
attention every one-Mississippi sounds like
Somebody's problem, not mine.
I would advise Somebody to pay more
attention to what Everybody Else is doing
(and to stay off the streets around here this
cranky Monday morning).
I have a deadline and I’m already running
late; if I hit Somebody, I’m not stopping.
Eris Loves Karaoke Night at the Tartarus Club
Ye Gods and Gorgons and Gigantes, but this dive would be
dead as the guy in Charon’s shotgun seat if I didn’t show up
at nine o’clock every Tuesday to keep things interesting.
You hear the same stuff, week upon decade upon aeon:
Briareus fifty-winking his way through I Want to Hold Your
Hand; Eos begging for that yellow ribbon ’round the old
oak tree; Thanatos always bellowing More cowbell at the DJ.
It’s enough to make me want to instigate a police action.
Not that I need much of a nudge to roll out the old golden
apple, mind you, but the mortals are doing a grand job on
their own these last couple of millennia. Gives me more time
to scatter seeds and snakes in the Garden of Ones and Zeroes.
That’s the growth market, and it’s easy work, but adolescent
angst and paranoid screeds can’t give me a hit of what I
really crave. You want the top-shelf stuff? Can’t beat the
unfiltered pain of immortals. Beats Hades out of nectar.
I like to see who’s there before I pick a song. You have to
get personal for maximum effect. And I do mean personal;
at least once a month, I tell my red-faced Dear Brother
that he’s good for absolutely nothing (and I say it again).
Mom and Dad are usually good for a laugh, especially if
they don’t come in together. He’s in a booth with the nymph
du nuit, trying to turn into a shower of something invisible,
and she’s got Argus looking under a dozen tables at once.
That’s the time to hit them with Your Cheatin’ Heart,
right when the electricity starts to fly. So what if Phaeton
takes a stray bolt in the parking lot, just when he rolls
up in his daddy’s new convertible? His bad luck, huh?
Hold up. This is going to be epic, mythical, something
right out of the Golden Age. Prometheus just came in.
I’ll snarl some Firestarter at him; five drachmas says he
doubles over, holding the place where his liver used to be.
Flights, Issue Thirteen, August 2024
Flight of the dragonfly 