HOST: a short story

I was stirred awake by sounds before unheard. Gonging flinching rhythmic pounding aching switching soothing—all in one, one in all—is the only way I can describe them. Individually, they were distinct as could be—polar, in fact, related in no way—but they came together and melded into one liquid fluid flowing floating form that roused me from the depths of sleep to unprecedented tranquility. If I could find one relative word to describe this euphoric orum, I’d call it “music”. But how far it was from what we call “music”!

Continue reading “HOST: a short story”

Sudden Death

Great Gluttonous Death who spares not beast or man,

Indeed my time is one so much delayed;

For can it be that ‘pon this earth I span

The endless breadths, and yet shall be betrayed?

And yet I say, “What makes a man so sure

That his demise is not a breath away?

What guarantees that if he wakes, so pure,

That thus he has been given all the day?

For as for those who’ve met their sudden end,

Did they greet dawn and know no night would come?

Had not they plans and dreams and years to spend,

Then swiftly did they dirt and bones become?”

And so I wake, and ask myself this day:

“Will my day meet its night, or night its day?”



Here’s to the starving multitudes—

Those fed with hunger, clothed with icy winds and stifling heat,

Slapped with shattered hopes and disparaged dreams,

Kicked with the scorn of an end so distantly near;

Here’s to disasters, calamities, catastrophes, deaths,

Rapes, plague, disease, dismantled homes,

Endless tears, oppressive grief, and miracles;

To polluted consciences, passive gods,

Confounded morals, dead virtues,

Outdated scriptures, and the will to believe;

Here’s to the strain of a thousand burdens,

To endless work, fruitless labors, sardonic struggles,

Aimless jobs, and a child’s laughter.

Here’s to a cruel, criminal, crude, and crumbling world

So filled with hope.



The rain is coming. Giant clouds amass

Above his head, which from them finds no shield.

He stands exposed, enclosed by endless grass

With nothing near to cloak him from their yield.

He runs the lengths and widths of God’s terrain

To find a cave or den in which to hide.

He gasps for air; he’s searched the land in vain

While ‘gainst his head some chilling drops collide.

He builds a shelter out of sticks and stones

And lies beneath it, aching for some shade.

Yet shabby twigs and leaves could not postpone

The waters of the sky, to soon cascade.

The rain has come and he’ll be soaked, it seems.

He does the only thing he can: he screams.