The International Writers Magazine: The Word
Did I just hear a bumper sticker?
Unsolvable, unfathomable, impenetrable.
Ouch...burning my fingers.
No don’t destroy the doobie. What are you off the rails. Here, use this tweezer.
Ahhh, better. Good shit.
I’m telling you.
You know what?
I got to cop. I am pissed, no not just angry, in a fucking rage.
At what? Who? What happened?
Does it matter?
Of course it matters. You can’t just be in a crazy kinda’ rage on g-p. Has to have a cause, has to have a target.
That’s just the kind of inflexible unyielding rigid standardized need to didactify...
Okay, yes I know there’s no such word but there should be to reveal the restricting frame of reference in which you function or rather mal-function.
Hey, don’t make me the target. I did nothing. I dig these Fig Newtons.
I’m not on your case in fact I have your back so back off.
Don’t you get it? You think you are free, unrestricted, exempt from oppressive influence where in actuality you are a total participant promulgating and activating the rules of the game. The paradigms which you have bought into determine your response to just about everything.
You are beyond weird today.
Whatever spur is up your butt has little to do with me who has no problem with who I am or functioning in this fucked up world.
Oh I hear you, yeah, sure. You believe in your precious precocious pernicious individuality.
G’wan with your alliterations!
And I’m talking the editorial general you, not you specifically unless the shoe fits but a convenient everyday you who believes how different you are from him, her, them. That’s just a word game as each of you, regardless of semantics, breathe the same polluted air, drink the same contaminated water, get your information from the identical sources of internet, TV and print buying into the fallacious presentation of differences depending upon which wicked button you push on the remote.
You running for office?
I’m talking truth to the jury. Don’t disappear on me, I’m on a slide.
Okay, I’ll play. When is my turn.
Run it while I light this puppy.
Okay, now, hear me. Not only hear, asshole, listen. You know what unifies you, using your editorial you, despite declarations? You are propelled by the ethos of the importance of being important which I grant you is a banal construct but then again trite and hackneyed does not refute the validity of your existential existence which you claim as your birthright, pedestrian stale redundant as it is may be.
I was on a slide.
Sliding-pon out-weighed. Bam! The importance of being important is your thirst ‘n thrust.
Important? Important to whom?
Matters not. A wife, husband, boss, father, mother, country, god of your choice.
The only importance of being important is to yours truly. So how about just being important to yourself?
Did I just hear a bumper sticker?
And the rest of y’all are just incidental detritus.
Incidental detritus. Bumper-sticker-two.
As it shall be. When someone commits a...
Unquestionable indubitably. In fact the principal motivation for the most heinous crime is a search for an undefined importance lost.
Click away but share sucker.
The only pure act is sex but even that has now been categorized tagging a need for definition devolving the purity into nomenclatures of gay, straight, lesbian, transgender so you can word-play a visceral expression into a semantic toxicity of labeling like the tag on your mattress. If you had the balls, and yes I am talking to women, too, you would evict such confining defilements cognizing that if your eyes are closed and someone is eating your pussy, sucking your dick, such genderosity has little to do with gender. The hand caressing a clitoris and the hand stroking a dick has no identity except as a pleasure-giver until you demystify and genderfry it into righteous ‘n wrongteous receding retreat ebbing away from the gift of the original act.
The dude aced it. Three points without even looking. Speaking of...do you remember M.J. closing his eyes and hitting free-throws?
Viewed it on best-of which I just so happened accidentally viewed it four times.
Go for it.
But then again and redundantly too many against...we got God.
God? Yes, God. Any God in particular?
The Jewish God where you are not allowed to say his name, Muslim Allah there is no god but god. Achoo.
God bless you.
That one too. Another bogus albeit ingenious creation.
Don’t quit on me now that I am threatening your spinal belief of being, no, keep the motor running.
When did this deity shit start? Not a rhetorical unless you distappear behind the herb. Come on, ride the rails with me on this one.
Deal me in. I’ll stick with this hand. Before anyone came up with even the word. No reference to a deity. In the year before they notated years. You with me?
Loud and clear...well all not that clear but I can scope through the smoke.
Okay. You’re hungry...
Side-effect self-evident and obvious said he gnawing on this goodie. Smoke always makes me yearn for the munchies.
No, I’m talking allegorically.
Go on with your bad allegorical self.
Okay. Start out with you’re Hungry, capital H, close to starving, crops deteriorating because of no rain, the hovel you live in is about to imfuckingplode...and some dude comes along and says it’s because...
Nailed it! Because we have betrayed God.
You are definitely wave length accurate. And if I never heard that particular word, what does that strange sounding word, God, mean to me?
Exfuggingzackly. The dude who invented the word also created some ritual, you know burn a pig...
Slaughter a chicken...
But don’t touch the monkeys...
Or the cows...
Do something with that torn raggedy rag...
And that piece of crooked stick can be used too...
Turn around three times and spit.
And then give the dude a few shekels since he has a connection with...say it loud and clear boys ‘n girls!
God, whatever that is, and alakazam, it starts raining.
Game, set, match.
There is always a but-then.
Some motherfucker who no matter what you’re putting down just won’t buy into the scam.
In time. ‘Til then we make up a word. Infidel.
Cool. What is an infidel?
Got it. Infidels who do not fear God.
That’s for the but-then mothers who ain’t buying into the program. Bring calamity to the infidels.
Cool. Word needs help. Infidel, yeah but make it stronger sand-paper #4 time, they who do not fear the wrath of God.
Wrath. How could I have missed it. Ka-ching!
And suppose those wrathless dudes keep on keepin’ on asked he rhetorically.
To which I’ll answer anyhow. To those remaining hold-outs, arrange some heinous method of infliction, burning alive...
Off with their heads with a dull scimitar...
No such word but I know what you’re saying.
Expulgate each of them and their family, friends, acquaintances. Masses informed in blazing rhetoric, see what happens to infidels who question. Give ‘em a name, you know, the opposing tribe who has no get-this now, God-given-right-lest-they-incur-the-wrath-of-OUR-god. Did you get it. OUR big time bold. Beat ‘em to the punch before they make up some other false fabricated deceitful god by some other name.
But then again a rose by any other name...
Would smell as sweet. Hamlet or...
Romeo and Juliet.
A rose is a rose is a rose.
Got it, Gertrude.
It’s a lock.
But what do we do, past infidelism, what do we speak to those who question with the prosaic – if your God is omnipotent and all loving where was he during the inquisition, during Auschwitz, during the tsunami that slaughtered 18,000 Japanese innocents?
Easy breezy wheezie. God, the SUPREME GOD is a mystery beyond our mortal comprehension.
Ahhh cool. Mix that in with karma...
Karmatic cop-outs. My man W.H. Auden has it down.
Lay it on me.
Only if you stop bogarting the blunt.
Go for it my man. Auden karma?
I and the public know, what all children learn, those to whom evil does, do evil in return.
What were we talking about.
I lost the thread.
Oh oh oh, I got it, yea, French arrogance covering their cowardice, with a splash of I’m-just-a-regular guy and you got it.
And for those who still don’t won’t buy in? The banal brutalities, the atrocious harsh unforgiving punishments imposed on infidels? Keep it handy.
Good connect. I’m back on board. Okay, ‘nuff said. God is the greatest device to be used by those in power...
Those lusting for power...
Those who choose not to be responsible for their next breath ascribing the inhalation as God’s will.
Speaking about inhalations...ahhh.
Don’t make like you invented that puppy.
Here you go. Now what was the issue?
What about God’s won’t?
Sorry, that’s the Devil, Satan, the fiendish freak of freakdom.
Oh yea ‘n verily, the dude aced out! God’s fallen angel enemy and we and they and them and you must always be vigilant calling for God’s mercy as the guy in red horns and tail is knocking on the felicitous door of the church seeking tithing and donations up the kazoo.
Light up another blunt.
I thought you’d never ask. You know...wait a minute, it’s not lit...ah, there you go. What was I saying.
It started with you know.
You’re a good listener. Okay, back on track, you know I used to think that everything that happens was either my fault or because of my good capabilities or it needed fixings and I had to do whatever it takes.
Everything, everyone, human behavior.
That’s what I used to think?
Heavy. And now?
Whew...good shiterooney. And now, my brother, I freedomly exude a sigh of relief relinquishing responsibility leaving me with a forlorn liberation as I must accept and settle into the fact that the human condition is insoluble.
Unsolvable, unfathomable, impenetrable.
Out of Fig Newtons.
Try these pretzels.
Ahh, yeah...I dig the salt. Can lick ‘em for days.
Chew the puppies don’t just lick.
What are you my mother?
It looks foul. Chew.
Lest I antagonize you unwittingly, I hereby am chewing and chomping pretzels galore. Inchoate.
But you don’t pronounce the c-h...sort of like a k. And soft a. Inchoate.
I got a don’t do the c-h and k for you. Cachinnate.
Cool word. Sure you’re not making this shit up?
Means laugh loudly.
Well excuse me while I cachinnate.
© Rick Edelstein January 2016
rumirick at sbcglobal.net
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