This is a violent civilization; if civilization’s where I am; every channel that I stop on; got a different kind of cop on; killing them by the million for Uncle Sam. – Gun – Gil Scott-Heron

The last thing I remember was my body pulsing, exhausted from the mescal flaming in my bloodstream; my eyes burning, coiled in a fetal position as the fireplace burned down to an ember under a Midwestern aurora borealis sky. Drifting on pleasant thoughts of peaceful adventures on distant shores with dew heavy eyelids closing I tumbled into relief dreaming of tropical sands.

I came alive in pieces; on spits and sputters and coughs like an old pick-up truck engine that had seen its better days but refused to die. I disappeared several times before greeting the crack of noon; the innards of my skull filled with cotton-candy cobwebs that snow flaked in a blizzard. I shook off the anarchy and caressed my beloved espresso machine; my sixth sense catching the aroma beside those metallic smells of sulfur that the devil leaves behind announcing the start of a really shitty day coming right at me that followed in my vapor trail like a bad omen.

I’m not talking about the slow rolling accumulating giant shit sandwich we’ve all had to take a big bite out of for the past five years or so while we watched our accumulated wealth disappear or the everyday mundane bullshit that sometimes piles up so high you need wings just to stay above it; the kind that hits you all at once on one day and makes you kind of long for a twirl in the Octagon with Beelzebub himself. But rather a tsunami surfers dream of waves captured in death-defying rides inside the safety of the sacred tube of myth, while the chaos crashes all around them just inches from being swallowed to their destruction.

In Oakland when I lived alone I’d switch on CNN first thing to see who died of note; not to keep abreast of current events since the news just repeats itself like some forgotten dream; but to discover which unfortunate wretch, that I’ve managed to outlive, bought it. I embrace the news like I do other forms of art; books, movies and such, with a particular predilection for those stories depicting lives worse than mine; this giving me an upbeat contemplation to start my day and live my life.

I abandoned this habit on the morning I watched those jet liners crash into the twin towers like some special effects 1970’s towering inferno disaster movie. Like then, the terror I saw this morning in the eyes of the hysterical parents that fell like rain tearing a hole in the flesh of their chests that rested just above their bleeding hearts could only be real. It seems a maniac came in without a warning in the hours just after morning; came-a blasting through the windows and the walls; and when the smoke it did clear; somebody cried out he ain’t here; killed him and twenty children; that’s all.

Even before I heard *the story; every time the crash of the cell door slammed shut so would my eyes; like the last act of a desperate man; to close off the world, to deny reality, to hope against hope that this was all a dream. I used to say, when faced with an unconscionable atrocity, that if they had a video of a truckload of dead babies being unloaded with a pitchfork on Mother’s day; they show it to us. Now that ugly aphorism has become true and all I could do, as if captured again alone in a cell, was close my eyes and hope for sleep.

The bloviating rednecks will argue that the second amendment gives them the right to bear arms; but it sites a “well-regulated” militia. Forget that militias went extinct at the same time as buggy whips and anyone loony enough to join a militia in 2013 you wouldn’t want protecting you; where’s the well regulated part when any self-absorbed lunatic loser has the right to a weapon that massacres at will dozens at a time. What about the rights of the majority of us who don’t want to get shot and don’t want to carry around a death machine with us 24/7 for protection? Who do we see about that? #Guns # Dead Kids # Bear Arms #oldnews

*the story – You arrest three guys for the same murder. In the morning the guy who’s asleep is your man. If you know you’re caught you get some rest.



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 Culture.net 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.

3 Responses to Tsunami

  1. James Mcfarland says:

    9.7 quake, resulting from a tsunami, shuttering inside a closet, shivering from Plato Reality. Whoa, blown away.

  2. Reblogged this on Nick Masesso, Jr..

  3. Wow, 4 years passed so fast.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: