I am modern. And educated. And reasonable. And I believe in Jesus Christ, son of the living God. When they tell me He was born of a virgin, I say, well, it's unusual, of course, but in the arms of God, anything is possible... When they tell me that a bright new star appeared in the eastern sky, shining over His manger, I say, well, I know it's not customary to improvise stars like that, but remember, we set up searchlights now, just to open a used-car lot, and after all, this is the Son of God, isn't it?... They tell me He cast out demons, and I say, well, you have to understand the peculiar idiom of a given historical time... They tell me His voice could calm a tempest, and I reflect on all the unexplained phenomena of our physical world... They tell me His touch cured blindness, made the lame walk, the lepers clean, and brought corpses back to life - and I'm reminded of the psychic component of so much modern medicine... They tell me He fed five thousand with five loaves and two fishes, that He walked on the surface of the sea, that He rose from the dead - and I relish the poetic truth of those venerable symbols.

In the backward villages of Asia, the gods have as many limbs as spiders, and take on monstrous forms as quickly as a cloud. The natives, shrouded in their age-old ignorance and superstition, believe the most bizarre tales about them, despite the best efforts of our enlightened missionaries.

In the backyard rain slams the earth, in the puddles leaves swim, a bird with red plumage rests on the tree it has a high pitched cry, does this rain bother it like it bothers me?

This is the rain of love, where is my love then? Long distance drowns voices, the telephone line's static is a troublesome fly on the cake of this day, dripping green and vitamin rich.

Time evansences most emotions, do you love me/love me not? And then do you love taking walks when it rains? Are you well? How is your love life? And do you listen to the sound of thunder?

Rain has no questions, it's still and falls incessantly, implacable roughness of it's thin fingers that flip flop on the bridge of my nose startle me, just as when you squeezed me first.

2002:03:30 21:00 Atlanta

20:35 2002-03-24

And finally night, the blessed darkness, the time for the orges to come out and roam. Night sounds fill the trees and thankfully there is almost no moon to cast it's second hand light upon him. It's cool but not chilly. Besides the little fire makes it almost warm. He eats some dry bread and lets silence, deep silence that comes within these woods to take positions within his senses of speech and sound. The small conversation for the camp had died down, ocassionally the dog lets out a low growl. That apart there is only the sound of a thousand unseen animals, insects and ghosts if one belives in them.

And if he closes his eyes and stares out at the dim outline of the trail, a tunnel through brush and trees on either side he could see her again. He sniffs the wind like on old Injun. Injun he is though of brown skin. He smells the sweat and cigarette smoke of that dance club in Boston. He gets an invite from a friend of a friend. How many months ago was that or it is years now? He doesn't have a watch with him now to determine that detail now, when he hikes he recokns the day the old fashioned way, by the length of the shadows.

It was the opening of a dot com, specializing in the ethnic demographic, Aloo.com, Kaddu.com or something like that. He didn't care, all he knew he was getting a space, an urban forest of strange lights and the bodies of strangers to get lost in, to vanish in.

He floated in, stood in the line with his license out for scrutiny. The gatekeepers of this Hades, The FireBelly surmised him smoothly and let him in. A harmless Injun dork, dressed for the part.He doesn't remeber when he had graduated from Walmart to Bannana Republic. Those clothes were just another layer of disguise, the artifical chrysalis that a fiery butterfly is sent back into. To fit to adjust and perhaps to survive.

He goes in and runs into Gu, Raaa-gu. He met him through a cousin of his. He gets a T Shirt by a woman clad in black off shoulder lace thang. Aloo.com it says, where the Aloos are fresh and the lambs are yet to slaugthered. He would use it later to wipe his sweat. Potatoes, balls, bullets all line up like old can can dancers, with long legs, the whores of Las Vegas. He sits in the sofa, slouches and watches the strobe lights revolve and flash.

Flash photography in the strobe alley, click, the shock wave behind the bullet, click, the tip entering the king's head now, click. Now the last bit to remain, holding the head to the body, cleanly shears off and falls to the ground and smoulders. The friction between steel of the bullet and the wood pulp of the playing card had caused the fire to start and now it smoulders. End of the sequence of high speed photography. Let's move on to other things, the splash of milk drops their ejaculations.

Two girls get into the middle of the floor, one is the T Shirt girl, in a black lace number, maroon lipstick, the black flamenco dancer and another in a dressed torn at various place, over her navel, pierced and glittering, and her smooth shoulder glinting in the light macaroon. Hips slowly sway to a hip hop number. It speaks of niggers and the dark heart of love over the gunfire in the the ghettos. This is just a remixed version, anger overlaid with heavy bass becomes something to dance to, something to hang and chill out to. The booties shaking back and forth, sexual to anger, empty of emotion. What the fuck, shake it shake it nigger translates to rotations of the pelvis.

They are all at the egde of the middle, boys, thugs, hotties, fatties, skinnies sipping tropical birds in fluted glasses, waiting for the others to move in, the loneliness of the dance floor, the number of two was too naked to be just half naked. The Aloo chicha periodically yelling words to chill and boogie. His eyes, the eyes of the dispossed, of far away countries, of old jungle cats roaming in the Terai, the subtropical jungles below the pristine pure white peaks.

He moves to the middle, looks at the strobe lights, jumps in light steps, moves his feet, his hands, spasms of pain, the music is loud, one can't hear the beat of one's own heart here. The markings of the hunt, the rituals before the kill.The floor begins to fill and sweat begins to drip and coat his glasses. And all around him, the hunt has begin, in cages, on the stage in the hearts. Only here everyone is a hunter.

Smooth eyes surmise him, his fire, his now wet button down, his private agony. His dances for her, he dances the old dance in the purity of the sound, of Verdi and of Moby Feat. The body moves up, he can feel a sudden heat of the skin. And now a hand clashing against his, twisting snakes, the huge skirts of sufi deverishes twirling, Sayoonee, the calligraphy of the body of grief. She she she shhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeee sheeeeeeit.

Hips gyrating before him, the netheral symbols of breasts, closer and closer, the leather skirt riding up, a crashing meteor coming towards him, a wasted planet.Now the flesh is enjoined in flesh, in slow circles, no uncertainity, hands move into position, this is not music, this is despair, this the rage of the voiceless, this the revenge of the dark, the slow stench of excitation. Move move motherfuckers, words noise echoes, where are you? where did you go? And why am I here like this sliding down the slope?

Love love love her tonight, a beat of 4-3-5, interlayed. And finally face the face. Black eyes, not hostile but not definately human. Slight breasts and a long nose above thin lips. Smile, fake it till you make it. Now gyrate, see how easy it is. The name hollered, P...., you just know it begins with P. Now drink a cocktail and come back to the now full dance floor. Watch you reflected a hundredfold. Move shut up and move. Fuck fuck the lights fuck you. Soffocate, now you are under the sea, a deep shade of blue, the old man is fishing above you, it's Cuba and the battle is going on above you. Tuna and the old man battle. You know the old man will loose and you are not heroic, fall, let go let go damnnit. Make hay as the strobe lights flash.

Now drunk, stagger out, feel hands going for the penis, now hard, pulsing, sweat, the taste of ciggarettes on the skin and alcohol. Open the car door, push her in, go down above her. Pull her skirt up as your zipper comes undone, you don't kiss, that's what lovers do and you don't love, all you do is desire the blanket blankness, the blitz, the moans.And now you fall, you swoop, in the Terai the tiger roars, you roar of pain, of music that is bursting in your heart and you roar for the touch of her skin, her skin. And the vanish vanish into the night as it slowly begins to rain.

An owl flutters in the trees and he remebers that night, this night, which night, the fucking night, the nigger night, when Aloos were fresh and the fucking was for free. And he notes he has to walk another 20 miles tomorrow, 20 on thousand he had already walked to forget, to forget.