content warnings
reference to drug use
[1291 words]
In my worry chamber birds fly east and west but never north and south, as some humans of the frailest forms would have had it long ago, when the questions relevant today in the sea of fallen stars did not exist yet. So many questions about babies, hollering to the animals that never take part in the rituals of the unjust! Indeed, the mechanics and the home renovators know it: the way things work in times of the deepest sorrow. But in my chamber, the forces now fill it with gold air, surrounding me and giving me the strength to say who I am. No, the curtains have not been drawn yet, because the actors have died accidental deaths in the traffic of street lights that stopped working on behalf of unread blogs. Nevertheless, she visits me again, as she does this time of day, when the sun hides itself behind the clouds in dust and relief. She tells me that I am Emperor of the lost talismans of thrift shops, but that is all too much for me, though, in this time – yes, I say time again – this time of immense danger to all the species including dreamers like myself and my friend Sometimes.
So often it happens this way in my chamber: one thing stops itself before it starts, and directions to the fire escape are buried in a stack of papers, though some tell me to use a phone or some complicated system that I no longer retain the clarity to endure, the tinted glass and buzzing lights just too overwhelming. Yes, this time of danger that everyone sees, when upside down marshmallows burn in the bonfires of the righteous, and the camping gear of community groups gets so properly put in place that one is almost given the power to believe again in the hologram of drifters and in the ordinary folks attempting right action through this maze of diagrams and charts that no one with any sensitivity cares to examine.
From this blurring circle, The Needle Man finds me:
“This is your daily dosage, to be given once a day for four years. This needle here will be inserted into your lowest organs, and the needle is named: Terror. This comes about per an Executive Order, and you are on the list. However, I will need to get back to you with more info once I talk to the heads of the committees that now govern the cosmos and also the dictatorship that no one calls as such.”
But the terror felt pleasant, like taking a cooling bath after being too hot from rising blood pressure. This bath gave me rest and then the motivation to promote my services despite their waning appeal to caterpillars and mosquitoes, which really are just a metaphor for the currents of the economy. This terror turned into a woman, finally, telling me to remain calm, that it was no big deal, just a cascade of trumpets that swoon like funeral brides at the gates of blood.
Every day, from then on, I received the needle from The Needle Man, and sometimes the terror kept me motivated for days to swim in the wild glaze of youth-returning and the world being a playground with infinite instruments, easy to play and play for all those who awaited me in the plaza, watching my show and spectacle, placing dollars in the tip jar, listening acutely to my words: “Yes, this is a dangerous time.”
My performance was cut short, though, by a car full of villains. The ugly swan itself flew into their truck, not knowing the situation showed dire signs of church tower bells ringing for the dead. Having already run over my equipment, one of the villains spoke to me:
“You hustle well, the pathetic man that you are. But we would like to give you this cigar in honor of the big dance tomorrow for the dictator.”
I lit it up, while they swerved, losing the swan and their sanity, as their car raced across moving streets covered with printer paper and cigarette butts, and a catastrophe was on its way in this hour of descent and greed. In my chamber that night I was not alone; a woman had followed me home, insisting she had something to give me.
“Here you go, you little worm that shakes the flowers of the hills with premonitions. This crystal dolphin is my last treasure, and I’m giving it to you for the exchange of your contact list.”
I didn’t speak back, because the room was now covered with the fog of oceans, and ships were passing along my ceiling, attached somehow to the future, when all things would be stripped of authenticity and gold would replace currency everywhere in the USA. The Needle Man approached, interrupting, and promptly he destroyed this masquerade.
“Here is your next needle. It is called: Tension of the Anxious.”
And he proceeded to administer it, this time in the back of my neck, and henceforth, I stiffened in recklessness. As I stood up over my desk, I decided to leave my chamber in search of The Holy Grail, which was really what any broken heart desires for healing. It could not be otherwise, the birds of paradise told me. In fact, they told me months ago. When one of them sighed:
“You of all people should know this. See the mystery in the ordinary or be faced with the fates of the mind-numbing boringness of coffee filters and lacquered mirrors. This, our friend, is the time to make serious business out of the construction of your moans and withdrawals.”
But that was before. Now, I raced down the streets, walking as if to almost run but losing my balance the way boats sink when they’re weighted down with wooden furniture and recycled wet clothes. The cobblestone streets came quickly, and a flickering light of a youth hostel appeared, with neon signs that no longer worked, but three people outside the door were smoking spliffs.
“Here you go,” one man said passing the spliff to me.
“I’m honored,” I replied, taking two hits.
“Well now inside you go. You have a need for a change of setting, because the nightmares of previous weeks glaze you like blackened sunflowers and broken rocks.”
I sat in the bar with the others, downstairs, after paying for a bed. But throughout this hostel strange forms appeared, sometimes perceptible only with bifocals, sometimes only without the sense of hearing that distracts the other senses the way tourists distract residents in cities I have yet to visit. The forms were now apparent, and only some saw them, only because of their pre-occupied good cheer and new friendships. One form was an open tomb of a living woman, who had risen from the dead accidentally, and she needed the comfort of cushions and clean towels.
“May I stay here?” she asked. “I just woke up. Forgive me. I need some coffee before I talk anymore.”
Another form was a young boy, wearing a cap of blue feathers, which made his arteries sing and his hands reach for legal records.
“Forgive me, sir. But I need the Imagistic Readings I hear that you can give.”
“I read you as a diamond. Do not worry.” I replied.
But the anxious need to stand up, walk around, pace in circles – oh! It was all too much. I raced away down the streets again, which now were still, with nothing in sight but a wounded dove that was shot down by those aforementioned villains beset on destroying the faithful. I took the broken dove in my hand and kissed it, and ever since, The Needle Man has not returned.
Clint Sabom has previously published poetry in The Tulane Review, The Eclectic Muse, The Stray Branch, and a short digital comic with Dabel Brothers Productions.
