Vulcan Mind
Probe
Maybe he thought
he was some
kind
of David
Byrne
clone dressed
in
ill-fitting,
mis-
matched
clothes,
too large
shoes,
voice box
cranked,
speaking in
some
high speed
variation
of all the
tongues
of Babel
endlessly
tested and
repeated
in some
unknown,
alphabetical
order
as if he
had
been subjected
to
some kind
of
horrible
reverse
brain
washing
experimentation,
negative and positive
poles reversed or
maybe
he was just the
subject
of some bad
practical
joke gone bad
warping
into some new hyper-
space where the
Top
40 Hits were
earth
classics like
Burning
Down the House
translated into
Klingon
and made vocal at
warp
speeds no
human
neurons could
accept
or process,
whatever
it was afflicting
him,
death was going
to
be a blessing
compared
to what he was
experiencing
now.
Vulcan Mind Probe
2
He looked
like
Rasputin after
he
had been
shot
several
times,
poisoned and
fished
out of a
frozen
river, his
long
scraggly
beard
and below
the
shoulders
hair
knotted and
encrusted with
all
manner of
dirt,
refuse and
matted
leaves, his
clothes
a fabric not
worn
by most men
some-
thing like
burlap
cut to size
and
stained a
weird
off color not
unlike
the scent
that
a foul odor of
human
waste, rotted
garbage
and death, his
glazed
eyes embers
from
a camp fire
beyond
caring, warmth
in
tent on
obtaining
-Drink!-,
rumpled
funny money
clutched
in his
outstretched
fist, his voice a
distant, feral
calling
out from
Siberian
steppes, frozen
wastes
no man can survive
in.
Vulcan Mind Probe
3
She looked
as
if she'd
spent
her
formative
years as a
bare
backed rider
of
pale horses
whipped to
a lathering
frenzy
those
full moon
nights of
demon
lovers,
banshee
wails &
ghost
coyote
songs,
tone poems
for
a restive soul
in perpetual
wet
heat,
summer
storms
never
far from
her
gloss
tainted
lips, blue
shaded
eyes,
hooded,
barely
contained
pale
tints of
prairie
fires
No comments:
Post a Comment