Wednesday, August 10, 2016


Bugler's Dream blares over spacious sites of green seas and the Jesus statue who lowers His arms for the first time. He got tired.

Costas with the opening narration: there is a dream *music continues*. everyone has one. but not everyone has the skill. or the money for that matter. they trained for this one moment. their families went lacking. all for this one moment in time. your entire existence is summed up in a couple of minutes. *music gathers* don't fuck it up. he is the most decorated Olympian of all time. ancient Greco-Roman wrestlers wrestled lions, he takes on opponents who bark at him like a dog. there are red spots all over his body cos he's a vampire. and tonight, *music swells* we bid a fond farewell to Michael Phelps. the funeral will be broadcast late-night tonight with Ryan Seacrest, hope you can join us. stay up late every night, what's a job? here at the Games of the 81st Olympiad.


Madchen is slumped over in her rocking chair. the ladies are all in a circle, the four of them forming a square. one of Carmen's cats quietly does her knitting to close the circle and is considered the fourth woman. she has already knitted herself a cap with two triangular ear-holes.

Madchen: ladies, hold my hands. i am strong but i sense you are not. i will pluck my son from the remaining seized ground if i have to. i can sense him, i know his location.

Pinguis: before we start, i'm Herlina now. it's more regal. don't give up his location, that will lose us the war.

Carmen: pretty. you come up with that?

Herlina: no, the mistress. she has big plans.

Carmen: i'm getting Higger Tor? Dark Peak? Stanage Edge?

Madchen: get off your childhood and focus on another person. it's harder than it seems. yes i'm getting those, too, but i know my son, that's my trump card. those were locations he DM'd me about scrolling through his nature insta he found cool. and with cool names. DM is the new postcard. that's his cover for the enemy. he's actually somewhere in warmer waters. by that i mean tropical, not loving.

Herlina: i'm sure he's fine. the doc is there.

Madchen: as is that witch. he's dead but i can't bring myself to say it. there is so much unpacking to do. i can't wait to blame, that's how the air gets cleared.

the trio of forest maidens up in their woodsy cathedral do not disturb the primeval foliage, especially the magic bark, instead opting to break apart their chairs and throwing the sharp pieces into the center cauldron fire. Madchen especially finds this quite therapeutic as evidenced by her bloody palms.


Bump is in Bump Tower where they just replaced the glass. he is getting a scolding to as he turns his chairman chair around away from the oil-painting portrait of his father to face the city skyline. he is being talked down to by Codrus who communicates through Bump's hair.

Codrus: i'm worried. about you. you're unstable. you're liable to fly off the handle any moment. that's why plans never work, they take too long in the planning.

Bump: i am irritable. look at my hair! it's swimming in the rage of the Stones! i can't keep up the act. i don't care about the polls, i just want to play. do you know how hard it is to keep my lines straight? i never thought i'd get this far when i got in. i do not want this. i quit. it's not fun anymore. get another dude. or dudette.

Codrus: it's too late. i love when it gets late, the sky darkens and people begin to realize there is nothing more that can be done. it's that inertia of inevitability, it tastes so good in the air. come on, this is easy, you're on the winning side, whatever they say, they're part of the old rigged system, you are the future where anything goes!

Bump: i pray for your guidance and moral support, boss. the closer i get to my goal, my common sense will give way to a circling in on the center. focusing just means fucking it. the narrower the laser gets, the less light emits through.

Codrus: you're the teflon Don.

Bump: yeahs but i never had to fight for something so hard before. and i've never really lost before. like really lost, embarrassingly lost. and why did you stop the army at the gate of the White House? we were right there!

Codrus: i call it the Cream House. silly boy, you know the first stage of any plan is the casing. and we have the winning case. compromise now, conquer later. the key is getting your foot in the door, you know that well. patience, my man. time flies when you're having fun.

while this conversation is going on at the top of Bump Tower, below, on the ground floor of this building, Bump Tower, there's another conversation brewing. Lieu is at the foot armed with a backpack full of large suction cups fashioned to specification. tryna make his hands his feet. he takes out his new phone but even after all the updates it still sticks.

Lieu: goddammit. i didn't get your coordinates, buddy, please retype. i at least got to hear your voice before it froze, which is the most important thing.

Hartwin: it's good that it sticks at the most inopportune times and is hard to navigate. it's like life.

Lieu: oh shut up!


Lysander: how's he doing?

Harfi: fine. which means not fine.

Lysander: sexy bikini! i mean Lieu.

Hartwin: he's fine. thanks for asking. how are you holding up?

Lysander: oh you know.........................hey you locals got any good food around here!

an old woman sunbathing topless and a calypsoist soloist playing a dark tune ignore him.

Hartwin: i'm good. full of coffee and cookie butter. feelin' fine.

Lysander: *shouting to the shore* i won't touch your foreign chocolate unless it's couverture! got any deli olives?

Harfi: WE'RE NOT IN A DELI YOU OLD FOOL. we're outside. you're missing your mom, bud?

Hartwin: i guess i'm old enough now that i can vocalize such feelings and feel ashamed. but i am. i do. i want my mommy. Lysander is our deadbeat dad. which is better than nothing. but please, sir, let my body float at the head of the line, when you do the backstroke at night you spit on my face with each of your surface ups for air.

Lysander: you know longer?

Hartwin: what?

Lysander: hum a few bars and i'll let you know...........i mean that was my line to you, or your line to me, and then i was gonna surprise you guys with these chocolate bars i stole from a kid on the street. go ahead, they're couverture! need to keep your blood sugar up and all that. inject your insulin, this is an emergency. don't worry, captive crew, i've got this. we'll while away the humid hours with some H2O and heavenly hymns. think of your mother, my boy, and how you'll love her even after. how you're longer than your life...

at night, the treading and trending trio have not eaten, have not had their fill, and are full of hanger. but they're so tired they inevitably fall fast floating asleep and your body doesn't register anymore that you missed a meal. Lysander keeps one eye open.

Lysander: hush little babies/ don't say a word/ papa gonna sing you a diamond pearl/ and if i don't sing it well cos i can't/ always remember it sounds better wet.



Juan Martin del Potro, giving his all with those wrist-powered flat forehands/backhands and that world-famous Argentinian guile, plays a classic match against world no. 1 Djokovic, who is sputtering lately after a dominant deux years. no less than five of delpo's shots hit the net and dribble over to Djokovic's side for the point. even match point was like this. afterwards, the 1 before Djokovic's name turns to an ! on the scoreboard. both men embrace at center court and cry.

gender-unknown non-denominational tan reporter: you got stuck in an elevator? is that why you're crying?

del Potro: i thought i'd never get back to how i was. it's good to be me.

reporter: anything to say to the people in this stadium and those watching all around the world?

Djokovic: yes. fuck you. fuck you all. you got those bounces cos you got home court advantage. it's not fair.

del Potro: it wasn't luck, my friend. did you ever consider i got those bounces after years of many sidelining wrist surgeries?

Djokovic: don't cheer others' failures. there's a word for that when you enjoy it too much. starts with s. sin.

del Potro: they weren't cheering against you, mi amigo, they were cheering for you. you're always the joker but this time the joke was on you. they were applauding you showing some humanity with those tears of yours shed. cheers are for the sad clown, jeers are for jokers.

del Potro goes on to win the Olympic tournament. Bump hangs the gold medal around delpo's neck. the gold medal shines so brightly with its branches of Stones electricity rays it blots out the South American sun. but Juan Martin still basks.


Costas: we interrupt this action to bring you action. we are nearing the end of the women's road race. the leader is in a ditch we hope she's okay. Presidential hopeful Mickey Bump shot a biker with the starting gun at the starting line but in his defense, he hates guns and is not good with holding guns and gun talk and would rather leave that sort of thing to others. and the biker shot was a drug cheat, so. Murican Mara Abbott has feet to go and she wins! USA! USA! USA! see? people are taking my lead. the lead car with the Murican coach is egging her on to the finish, slapping his palm on the side of the cardoor, driving dangerously close to Mara..............and he swerves and crashes into Mara! NO! Mara finishes fourth after a gaggle of three wand their way past poor Mara. we've got Mara mic'd up, we figured she's a sweetheart, so. here you go, the audio:

Mara Abbott: what the fuck, coach?!! you murdered my dream!!! you will get me drinking again!!!

Costas: heehee, and with that we'll end tonight's coverage. there's a Copacabana coolatta with my name on it. see ya, suckers.


Carmen: try again tomorrow, dearies. there's always tomorrow. we mustn't do anything rash. mustn't fuck up the plan. i'm tired sitting down, which is strange.

Carmen's female cat is busying keeping to herself stirring the pot. she licks the tea in the cauldron, pours out four evenly-matched bone teacups with her paws, and adds the finishing touch, a sprig of holy basil for luck, before serving.

Carmen: hot and smokewood, just like i like it. y'know i wasn't sure my cats would come back to me. they are my cats after all. they did. but on their own time. i haven't told Lysander this but i rip out pages in my cat diary. he doesn't know everything. Lysander says it's good to keep secrets. i remember one day that left an overall impression on my life and theirs. i had just lost my brother and his two cats for eternity and was devastated. i didn't know where to start over but i had to leave that pile of rubble. i got two more cats at the rail station cos cats cure everything and they quickly took over my cottage. as in they were trying to kick me out. but i waited. to see. and hoped. and ever so slowly these strange slinky animals roaming the sills became my family. they sloughed off their sheltered lives and truly became of me. they started to look like me, act like me, speak like me. they took on my heritage, past history, and changing crone face. and hopes. they became my dream. they weaved themselves into my story. they took on the characteristic of this house, my home. they moved in lockstep with all of the nooks and crannies and holes and secret passageways of our space together. they were mine and i was theirs.

Carmen's Australian accent wavers in and out as she takes a drag off her yellow cigarette.

Madchen: secrets in this room, huh? what are your cats' names?

Carmen: Poppy the female cat. the boy is called Milla.

Poppy sits up from her stool, sits on Carmen's lap, and gives Carmen a big wet sloppy kiss on the lips.

Poppy: i was the one who taught you Wicca, you old fool! dearie i'm your best bitch! uh, best witch.


Jules said...

Those mad hatters. Those crazy knitty clackers. Knit one, pearl one drop one, make one and give it some ears baby! That’s right, spin me a yarn you wooly bully!

Inertia of Inevitability - Next new band name. I still want to play the Triangle but this time in a wooly hat with ears.

Holy basil, this is black comedy, political Olympia! *)

the late phoenix said...

we must make beautiful music together, mah dahlin...

Sam The Sham I Am

that was Basil Fawlty's actual middle name on his birth certificate, Holy.