in which desideratus chapf reaches ecstatical heights, upon which his fellow man intervenes

by dschapman

i’m finally feeling like a rolling hill again… and can a hill roll alone, they might ask, and phooey, i might say, spitting in their faces and laying down my wages on the table in a blind bet against. i’m not talking about daisy cakes any more, any bartlett pears and petticoats, but something more against, something more sensible; bosc pears on the hardwood, dead ravens, long and open roads and only my one pair of boots. all those pretty shoes i used to wear, on my pretty feet, with my intact tonsils and my fat cheery wisdom teeth telling fibs in the back of my grin, and all those happy singing friends, who would drive for unimaginable miles through the worldwide of water valley mississippi, in and around those fibrous grains of rough and red, where the dirty between the trees is like sand in our toes and the sky we dive right into. dressed up right and nimble, and stunting off my roundabout a cushion as i laugh away my come-uppance. but… those days are long gone. i see now that the deeds of men, lesser men though they may be, still have consequences, and must be repented for, and i have never said a hail mary. i’m in too deep now; i can only struggle on, barechested, barefooted, hauling my cross down interstate fifty-five ab infinitum until the lines along the road rise up into the stars and into loving, open arms.

in the middle of his ecstasy, a friend gave him a ring. moments later it was all over. he lay mortally wounded on the side of the street, bleeding, and laying in his blood. and from someone so close, so trusted, even the loving ones are cruel and bring the ecstasy to an end in a matter of minutes. rude, vulgar bastards… leave me be.