“She make me righteous, make me whole; make me mellow, down into my soul”. Van Morrison – Crazy love

She’s been calling me for better than a week now, feeling neglected, nights mostly, a siren song of wanting she croons; like chained white dogs howling to the full moon at midnight. The typer is my true mistress. She pulls me in like a magnet begging for blood and fed a drop with every key stroke she swoons; vampire satiated. 

Yet now, ensconced behind the machine, I have an antidote, a wooden stake to slay the harsh words and bring them to nirvana. I need only gaze true north to visit a new guest at my sacred space; resplendent in navy blue felt fabric with a satin back of deeper blue and gold filigree adorning the corners and side walls, ornately wood doweled with windswept tassels and a rainbow-colored lanyard. It shouts in bold white block letters, a Tibetan scroll emblazoned with a quote from the 14th Dalai Lama, a tome about the wisdom of introspection; a recent gift from my Muse Lisa.

She is a river to my sea; a piece of perfection that angels labored over, competing for god’s gold star, to see who could create the most beautiful sentient being. I’d have married her already but time and space conspired to keep us out of sync. Not a worry; a man needs only one drop of the milk of human kindness from a pure soul to sooth the savage beast. As much of the world comes at free men like a balled up fist, she gifts me with an anachronistic wish; much the same as I hope for her; that we stay as we are; and never, ever, let the bastards grind us down.

I must be the last guy without a cell phone. It’s a personal predilection owing more to the fact that everyone else has one than owing to anything else. But there’s something else more selfish at play. Some would say to be unreachable is to be lost. But it’s the concept of freedom; meaning not being able to be easily summoned, that’s more to the point. Not tethered; able to embrace spontaneity; creating the conditions for seizing the moment; the magic you make for yourself by not being afraid.

While the masses toil as hostage Romney wage slaves, living inside self-built prisons, faking the notion of what they’d be if set free from their self-imposed imprisonment, like the real prisoners in real prisons bitching about wanting to get out while all the time knowing if they did they could never make it.

It’s the multi-billion dollar odyssey of Batman and Spiderman and all the other super hero figments of vainglorious imagination that, surrendering to a suspension of disbelief for a few hours at a time, our weekend warrior’s tingle with the fascination of living through a James Thurber Walter Minty haze that keeps the keyless cuffs secured tight; the ineffectual who spend more time in heroic daydreams than paying attention to the real world, or more seriously, intentionally attempting to convince others that he or she is something that they are not.

The borderline narcissist, present company included, knows the glow elicited from the beam of our self-love, so powerfully appealing that the captives feel blessed, even momentarily, when that light turns towards them, the enslaved, the prisoners. Yet, while singing our praises, the mob must maintain the status quo, and if given the chance, they’d have our heads. The lone wolf it seems, even one with a full belly, still presents an existential threat to the sheep.


About circusinpurgatory
Nick Masesso Jr’s fictionalized short stories, poetry and prose have been published in the Starry Night Review, Elegant Thorn Review, Language and and Vagabond Press; the Battered Suitcase. His latest book “Armor of Innocence” and first book “Walking the Midway in Purgatory, a Journal” are available on-line and through bookstores.

One Response to Prisoners

  1. James Mcfarland says:

    Wow, a real mind blower. 9.7 rating.

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