Hero Unwilling

With an eye on redemption, in a world where pork futures run parallel to mental progressions experienced by maidens nearing their last of six months in Hell.  In a time when latent discovery is encapsulated by sheaths of gelatinous gluttony and greed, there stands a man, a hero. 

The equator yields on, concerned solely with its pre-programmed rationale.  The hero is but a fixture in this centrality.  He asks to live but the life of a mere mortal boy, to go unnoticed when he slinks through a farmer’s market, head down, bill folded over to conceal the eyes.  Yet attention finds his shadow, ensnaring him when all he wanted was isolation, two plums, a banana and a pear. 

Drawn in to frays, by lawmen, heretics and scoundrels alike.  He refutes their pleas, pleading he’s not the man for which they need.  Yet, despite a yearning for quiet and the affinity toward isolated and internal mingling alone, he always finds himself standing in the center of melee’s and apocalypse alike, seemingly appearing the moment after that first pause, that first sigh.

Forks of tune spill tongues of proxy.  The iconic status, built by peers, all of whom he cares not for, is splattered everywhere.   His likeness decorates posters, billboards, advertisements, apparel and more.  His tales spur mismanaged timelines told by childhood idolaters, in homes, train platforms, parks, playgrounds, fetes and fairs.  Some offer his name in prayer.  Some bleed their stories, of personal turmoil and deadliest of fears, seeking answers and advice, but mainly its intervention for which they hope he’ll care enough to spare.  Men, young, grown and old, wish to be him, live his days, see the world through his rueful eyes.  Governments seek his genes, hoping to construct clones, while women offer their every thing, just praying to be held.

But there are the detractors.  The moguls of industry, the captains of piracy wish he’d fade from view, cease interfering with the things they do.  Those perpetrators of injustices, those villains amongst, all likely wish his heart stop beating, to awake to find their plots successful, to find this hero dead.   Then there are the drunks, with their nighttime courage and inflated sense of musculature, inebriated to the hilt, watching him for hours, from barroom windows and speakeasy doors, as he enjoys an evening breeze comfortably positioned on his porch.  With each sip of whisky, with every subsequent ounce of beer, their courage grows much stronger, soon, without failure; someone will cross the road and approach his door, to challenge his manhood and honor then and there.  He ignores them at first, continuing whatever chapter presently engages his reading stare.  Yet they never stop their pursuit, they harass and badger, intent to gain some privileged opinions through their fearless dares.  At which point however, the hero, without a word spoken, gets up from his chair, turns toward the door and goes in there, never once acknowledging the drunkard hell-bent for dramatic fisticuffs and flare.  He lets them get away, for he cares not to kill, not for need, most certainly not for opportunities sake.  He allows the men their arm-raising moments.  He gives them their story, how the great hero backed down from their stare.  The tales he hears change daily.  Some tell it like it actually went down; some apologize at a later time, for acting idiotic and thank him for not engaging.  Yet most of the hearsay that ensues involves “our big hero can’t defend himself, gets humiliated by some drunken fink.”  The media plays these songs, with fervor and frenzy.  The hero only hopes they’ll move the story on without him, forgetting he was ever there.

Ionic retrograde

Formulaically splayed

Con-man in a gorilla suit

March of hands in branded pursuit

A carrier with message to tell

A sword duel that goes to well

A carnival, a masquerade

The carnivorous, the curmudgeon too

Shellac vanguard’s embossed view

Lowbrow Tsetse traps

Bounded deities and murky thugs

Radioactive backbeats

Confetti bombs and Uzi-slugs

Picayune dealers plane

Abolition gains it’s range

Hovers down from starlight nape

Coveting apolstry in single stance

Cheyenne eclipse atop Montanan sky

Looking forward for a day to die

When will the flood swallow?

When will the swallow flood?

Sawmills in perspiration

Gloved storks deliver amazement

To a town of monarch flies

Bulging with disease in side

Catastrophe, now that, I know is a job for me

Strains begin to overtake

High-low games often played

By sharks and snots, bystanders and routinely placed passersby

Slowly Freudian stigmas slicker the floor

Soon perforations split

And so the effort amounts to this

Climbing trellis in pursuit

Up the vines and down a chimney

Chasing vermin fast and slippy

Covering flesh in blackened soot

Revealing there’s still a chapter left

In this irritating mystery

Alcatraz armored round

Moat to cross I soon found

Invasive, or so they say

But really, what other attitude could be expected

Spheres collected with gargoyles should have stood

Dripping wet clothes to skin

Alga mask from cheek to chin

Into the penitentiary I slunk

No need to break a window

For the door ajar gained me entry

Sliding down fireman’s pole I saw

An entity in black slide fast and far

Past the iron sentry and the middlemen a gambling

Across the room stands the sundry

Where some at play with dollars spread

Showing what illegitimacy begets

So I stood there momentarily

In contemplation, without company

I sat alone and rued the whirr, the drone

Yet I knew I’d be back to peace

As soon as this assembly drowned

And with that I adjusted my neck

Firmly in stance I gained the attention of

The iron-man, the sentry guarding this place from man

No challenge to me though

As one quick shove transferred him into

The pit the fireman’s pole takes him to

Arms blazing every which way now

Shielding up around my frame

With each deflection

Another fell

Their fate designed

By their own spell

And to the front I easily made

Where stood the mastermind of this melee

I walked slowly towards his desk

When he pulled two girls near him there

Threatening to kill them both

Letting them live if I go

I told him I was not afraid of what evil he might make

For his soul would be the spoiler

And his actions would be judged sooner than later

Pistols ranged with both hands

Blondie’s temple and Auburns cheek

They were scared; they were weak

I didn’t care what came next

I didn’t hesitate

I shot a blast of hell into him

Eviscerating his flesh to dust,

His guns fell to the floor in clumps of rust

The girls, naked and in tears

Ran their forms out the room and down the stairs

Mission completed,

So home I would go

Shoebox variety

Quizmaster groping

Pin-ups still addressed

Each question they answered to their best

Content to keep the sum amassed

The youngest of the day

Decided to take the money

The surprised look upon the Gamesman’s face

Tells me this part was not rehearsed

Oh, how the nuances make the worth

With nothing left to do

The sphinx’s riddle must be replaced

Leaving only dollar signs to stutter the set drapes

Spinner

Caster of molds

Burst upon

A forge of old

Cameraman and microphone

Taping the sounds of ghouls

Haunted castle without remorse

Cold walls and dampened songs

Told about the history

Of the families that once enchanted these

Barley malt

Stirring wheat

Butter fried

Battered fish

An arena filled with pots and pans

Animated

Dirty little rhymes

Up late

Cartoons awful

Ridged nostrils oozing vile

Cassiopeia

Gemini

Sagittarius

Bow

In the stars

I’ve often known

Perhaps the quiet

Takes some adjusting to

Sigh-

Door awakes

Glass I drop and it brakes

Commissioner stands

With blood on hand

But of course, it seems to be that

Isolations through.

 This piece is a bit experimental.  I preplanned that I wouldn't have any plans.  I said I would write until I got done.  I wouldn't even read it until after I finished, and post it regardless of what I thought.  Anyhow it's got a bunch of things going on in here, quick spurts, extended prose, character sketching, responsibility vs wanting.  I find it interesting that a free write session stayed aligned throughout,for the most part anyway.