Hey, you're not here and I'm with you. We are neither here nor there, surviving the ups and downs, the ins and outs, and the ways and means. Cause and effect become our chicken and the egg--the horse and the cart. If you say yes and I say no, we will always celebrate meeting halfway. Looking both backward and forward, time and time again, we finally enjoy our ward and reward--sublimation. Take it from me, if you give it to me, it's give and take, tit for tat, two backs scratched, immeasurable measure for measure. It's unfair to expect that from hate, but it's only fair that we ask that of love.

We slither and slide and slink and slam and

Hurt ourselves then don’t understand

We pop and we jug and we dis and we dat

And we can’t understand why we jump like that

You dis me so I kill you

I dis you so you kill me

We all do dis and we all sweat flack

We black on black like yellow on black

chorus:

     at each other--it’s a fact

     on our brothers--it’s a fact

     fail our mothers--it’s a fact

     to each other--that’s that

Black on black is the darker track

We gotta be up to cover our back

We brace our back and take up the slack

To back the attack--it’s a fact.

White man freed the slaves, so what?

Put us in the autoclave, so what?

We hold our brothers back, that’s us!

Ridin’ shotgun at the back of the bus.

chorus:

     Red on black--venom lack--it’s a fact

     Yellow on black--watch your back--it’s a fact

     Black on yellow--kill a fellow--it’s a fact

     Black on black, blood-curdling howl of racial feedback

     --it’s a fact

There once was a man named Ned

Who dreamt dirty dreams in his head

Of Shakira, Selena,

Beyoncé and Gwen:

Almost...but he'd fall out of bed.

6% of people self-report they are below average, but they are way above average in self-reporting. The 94% of people self-reporting to be above average are actually below average in self-reporting. The first shall be last and the last, first. Unless, of course, you're EXACTLY average. Then, you'll have to just wait in line with the rest of 'em. Average wait time for this ride is 80 or so years, unless you can somehow get a FastPass, which is by walking into a concentrated ghetto of ethnic homogeneity, chanting anti-ethnic slogans and slurs about said ethnic residents who live in the said ethnically concentrated homogeneity. When asked, 94% of people self-report that they can do this above average, but they only say that because they feel the other 6% live in said ethnically concentrated areas. 

Only 12% of researchers say they've never fudged their results; 22% say they have. And 97% admit that they would do it if it proved they were in the 94% of those who are above average. 15% of all women are lesbians, but another 30% say that, while denying it, they still think about them all the time. 4% of women are bed wetters and 9% of these are prostitutes. 

57% of those living in trailer parks say they have real class. The other 43% are only between trailers at the time and expect to have class real soon. 87% of people report they find Charmin advertisements effective because of an unreasonable fear of inadequate toilet paper. The other 13% have no problem using a gas station rest room or a Port-o-Potty. 100% of Americans, on average, state they have never been to North Dakota, including 39% of people who are from South Dakota. 

92% of Catholic nuns prefer Coke over Pepsi, creating a severe, secret schism that has ravaged all of the orders for over 60 years. They say that Pepsi is NOT O.K. Don't even get 46% of them started.

87% of plumbers expose butt-crack when working; 86% of housewives turn away. According to skin area studies used in burn patients, the "Rule of 8s" says that 8% of you is one leg, whereas 73% of people report that they think 100% of you is asshole. 49% of people see their cups as half-full; another 49% see them as half-empty; the remaining 1% are half-full of themselves, constituting the 94% of people self-reporting they are above average. 29% of people see their wit as half-full, and another 18% see everyone else's wit as dim. 

95% of people feel that God is love; 67% of these feel that love is blind; 100% of these know that Ray Charles is blind; 36% think that Ray Charles is God. 47% of people know the difference between shit and Shinola; 53% of people have the shiniest shoes in town, but are plagued by dogs everywhere they go.

72% of alcoholics say, "Bottoms up!" 28% of them say, "Arghwewcrrrhuggh..." 100% of the vaginal lining is stratified squamous epithelium, but only 31% of vaginal linings are satisfied squamous epithelium. 82% of those who watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians have never read a book; 100% of those who have read a book have never seen Keeping Up with the Kardashians. 40% of people think O.J. is innocent and 60% think he is guilty, but 100% of his two victims are dead.

96% of the beautiful people are only beautiful on the outside; the other 4% are losing their remaining scruples more quickly than 2nd Place winners in beauty pageants. 48% of people believe strongly in Climate Change; 45% are Climate-Deniers; but 100% of the Earth will survive long after everyone and everything are extinct. 34% of people who believe in Climate Change believe people can change.

If you add up all of the %'s there are to report, it would be 9,463,965,397,348 x 10 to the 23rd power %. If you divide that by the 94% of those who feel they are above average, each of them think they should get way more than what they deserve from the remaining 6%, who are behind on their student loans. Of all the dollars and cents there are up for grabs, that comes out to 96 per measly cent. This proves there's never going to be enough to go around--less than 100%, and it's dropping fast.

Why am I so serous? Oh, I don't know, could it be the inversion of all of my mucus membranes turned toward the outside world, dripping, discharging, and weeping such that no one wants to see me, much less touch any part of me? Could it be that? Could it be the gurgling in my throat if I haven't remembered to clear it in the last few minutes? Could it be that?

Why? you ask. I'll tell you why, Mr. Oblivious-to-the-obvious. It's because--oh! You said "serious"! I thought you said "serous." That's a completely different thing, idn't it? O.K., serious...why am I sooooo serious? 

I'll tell you why. I'll tell you why I'm so serious. Maybe it's because I'm so serous. You'd be serious, too, if you were serous like me--dripping, discharging.....

My scanner is my archivist, with days, weeks, and months of taking each photo out of its sleeve and bequeathing to them 0s and 1s before they disintegrate. Albums off a shelf that contain a lifetime between two bookends.

"Mom Before Dad," photos of a baby, little girl, posing or not, happy or not, alive--life documented. Even though they're her memories, I'm with her from girlhood to pubescence to adolescent coquette. Didn't she feel my presence? I'm not just observing, I'm visiting.

"Wedding." The day I realized I was truly happy. I liked the way that felt. Human. Earlier that day, the family posed, as stiff as the old emulsion portraits from another album. Just in color, this time. Fade the color and they're like previous monochromic generations.

"Honeymoon." Acapulco poolside--casual innocence of dedicated monogamy. Quotidian sex. The gift of expressing love physically. Every honeymoon shot hints that we had been without clothing moments earlier. That smirk on my face. That smile on hers. So beautiful, nubile, and willing. Sex is a beautiful surrender. 

Unconditional love for her as she sleeps one wall away, face softened, brow unfurrowed, lips slightly north of a neutral smile. The dark airbrushes her features. There is my young beauty again. I have walked with you today through your childhood, honeymoon, births and birthdays, and real life going on in the expressions on our children's faces. So beautiful.

Loving her is seeing her as I always have: holding my hand, dancing with me, marrying me, postcoitally clothed for the honeymoon camera, bellies with the unborn, mother of the born, co-parenting in the joys of raising children right. The bookends on the shelf fall.

But I don't need the dark. She glows in the dark for me. Framed forever for viewing later. Suddenly, mortality sounds lovely.

1. I believe that all sunrises should be mandatory. (Make mornings great again.)

2. I believe that when the going gets shitty, the shitty get going.

    2a. I believe that when felons are outlawed, only outlaws will be felons.

    2b. I believe that the other side of the coin should be what you call. Trust me.

    2c. I believe that if you follow your dreams, anything is possible if you're still asleep.

         2c(1). I believe your mileage may vary.

3. I believe that if this weren't a free world, I could tell you to float in the air and you'd have to do it.

4. I believe that what is impossible can be rendered possible simply by adding half * a tube of anchovy paste. (*Season to taste.)

5. I believe commutatively that if God is love, love is blind, and Ray Charles is blind, then Ray Charles must be God.

    5a. I believe that any decent pantheon should include Stevie Wonder, Helen Keller, and Justice. And ambition. And sides.

7. I believe the number 7 comes before the number 6.

    7a. I believe that in the alphabet, R comes before N; that song is just plain wnorg.

         7a(1). Actually wrong is right.

    7b. I believe that the rotisserie comes before the egg.

    7c. I believe that all palindromes are self-recursive, making someone like Hannah a fractal.

There are only two types of people it's OK to kill in video games and movies, where it's not considered offensive:

Nazis and Zombies. 

Ever wonder why? Let's examine this suspension of sensibilities, shall we? Zombies are dead already, so killing them only impacts you--keeps you from being eaten, besides the fact that killing them is redundant. On another but similar level, Nazis have already lost their souls, so the horrible fates they suffer in video games and movies is irrelevant to the human condition. 

Zombies are dead and want to eat you alive to make you dead too. Nazis are soul-dead and want to eat your soul to make you soul-dead, too. Their thinking is purely amygdaloid. They make a big deal about us vs. them in their pseudophilosophy. The videos games and movies that kill them are just making them "them," for us. 

(I wonder how they like being "them"?)

Now, I'm not condoning harming anyone--alive, that is. Zombies are fair game. But Nazis are just soul-bereft anachronisms who should be simply ignored. Counter-demonstrating against them is announcing that they matter. They mattered...THE FIRST TIME...but they don't matter now, because they come with the 20/20 retrospective of history. And that history says that anyone who resurrects such mind sets as supremacy, the Confederacy, eugenics, segregation, and...I could go on and on for lessons learned...anyone who resurrects any mistake of historical proportions as a pretty good idea is an ass-clown.

I went to LSU with David Duke. I would listen to this charming ass-clown at Free Speech Alley every Wednesday just so I could be aware of the sugar handed out that causes mental cavities.

I have bumped into many ass-clowns in my life. Political ones, religious ones, health-fanatic ones. And yes, even Nazi ones. You can't fight them, because you'd have to get on their own turf to do that. You can't argue with doubletalk. They use phrases like, "The record clearly shows..." and "It's been proven that..." They use tangential logic. You can't fight them, I can't fight them.

As with any ass-clowns, I just ignore them and get on with my life. Why should Nazis be any different than all the other ass-clowns that cross my path? Don't counter-demonstrate against ass-clowns; don't give them press; and for God's sake, don't make them "Breaking News!" That makes you another kind of ass-clown. Don't let them deserve this attention. And don't confuse ignoring them with silence. It is a message loud and clear. It is a weapon. 

They are self-parody. And at their very essence, they are scatological--that's why they're ass-clowns and not just clowns, who are pretty creepy to begin with. It's OK to kill Zombies. It's not OK to kill anyone else.

Fibonacci gilds my way

Triangulating in;

The mainspring tightens with Hell to pay

For mortgaging Original Sin.

Half of half and halved once more,

Infinitesimally,

I shrink toward that dark offshore

Cardiovascularly.

My end will come when nothing is left,

But nothing is unstable;

So erupts anew, of rules, bereft,

My next forthcoming fable.

Ninety-degree turn at the speed of light

I'm off the number line

And dance macabre in my new flight

Of unfettered redesign.

“How is this happening?” she gasped. She had pulled me into the corner of the dimly lit room to kid ourselves into thinking this gave privacy. As it turns out, our voices didn’t really carry, the room muffled so well with heavy curtains, carpet, even tapestries.

“I don’t know,” I answered tenuously. I looked back into the room, through the darkly dressed attendees toward the coffin. “They did a pretty good job on me, didn’t they?” Her eyes widened in fright. She began shaking. “Sorry, I said.” I could understand her shock.

I walked over to the coffin. The group of mourners parted for me, silently, their disbelief declared, loud and clear. I tossed my head to look back and she had remained in her corner, like being punished. I caught four of five people hurriedly escaping the room. They made stifled crying sounds as they racewalked away. I turned back to the casket and resumed approaching it. It was all like a dream.

I kneeled down and said a Hail Mary. God knows I needed it. There I was, lying in state, cold, like marble, just a support for a suit. Is this what I had amounted to? 170 pounds of sinew, dried blood, bones, and tissue imbued with embalming fluid? I was so dead. Not even real any more. I felt my own person, patting myself down; 98.6 degrees, breathing, thinking, and even mourning.

"There are only two possibilities: yes or no," he had said. “Are you going to call it?”

His hand was ready to flip the coin. I struggled against my restraints. It’s so funny how something so insignificant can make an enemy of someone. Significant enough for him, I suppose. A coin in one hand, a revolver in the other. I didn’t even remember what I had done. He obviously had. He hated me, after all. And now he said he was undecided about whether to blow my brains out or not. He said he wanted someone named Schrödinger to help him decide, whoever that was.

“Well,” he said with a smirk, “I’m gonna take that as a yes. So I will flip this coin and you will call it. You call it right, you live; if not, well...”

“You would leave something like this up to chance?”

“There is no chance,” he replied. “When I flip this coin we’ll be saddled with a result, and you will either live or you will die.” He tossed the coin with an added flick of one finger such that it spun on a horizontal axis as it shot upward. The coin’s trajectory reached its highest point in its parabolic arc, transitioning between rising and falling, with my life literally hanging in the air.

I found it fascinating seeing who would attend my own funeral. It’s revealing how some you thought were your friends were too busy to come see you off. And then there were those you had no idea were endeared to you in some way, taking their turns to kneel right there, throwing their own Hail Mary’s, Our Father’s, or Glory Be’s into the hat.

My hat. My casket. My empty shell where my soul should be.

Of course all of this—the usual goings-on of a typical wake—had stopped in midair, so to speak, when I had shown up. When I realized I was at my own wake, I expected a stampede of mourners to rush the exits, but most stayed. And why would I not be in that stampede? Why wasn’t I unsettled by all of this? But I was being rude and unkind, so I walked back to the corner.

“I have no idea how this is possible. I know I’m also somewhere else right now, with my life at the mercy of a coin toss. A coin toss that has begun but hasn’t completed.” She didn’t understand. Her eyes began to tear. I turned to the crowd.

“Hello?” a frightened child—my own child—asked tentatively.

“Hello,” I replied. This was the first time anyone but her could actually hear me. There was a collective gasp, and the small child ran to his mother in the corner of the room and hid behind her.

“Tell us about…this,” she said aloud, pointing to me with one hand and to the body with the other. “Please!” Her voice broke. I turned away from her corner and I addressed my mourners.

“Who is Schrödinger?” I asked.

“What?” said a priest who stepped forward, willing to be spokesperson for the disbelievers as easily as he had been willing to be one for the believers before I had arrived in mid-toss.

“Who is Schrödinger?” I asked again. The priest stood perfectly still. He held a rosary he was going to use in a group prayer before I had crashed my own party.

“He was a 20th Century Austrian Physicist,” he answered.

“Is he alive? I was told he can help someone decide on something.”

“No, he dead.”

“Well, then, how can he help me?”

“He can’t by himself. Him,” and turning to my casket, added, “nor his cat. Not now.”

“Cat?”

“Just a mind exercise that says something either is or isn’t until it’s observed.”

“Ah,” I muttered to myself. “I’ve heard of that. Yes, I remember.” I searched my memory. “Yes, he can help me. I think he may have already.”

Once again I struggled against my restraints.

“So…heads or tails?” my captor challenged. “I’ll lift my hand and it will be either heads or tails. So call it. It’s your way of joining in the indecision and collapsing it.”

I was ready. I didn’t enjoy being no one in two places. My life was in the air as much as the coin had been, which now sat under his hand, ready to be called…ready to be observed.

“Heads,” I called it. He lifted his hand slowly. "No, wait!" He paused. "Make that tails."

#quantumfiction

#flashfiction